SolAris

Chrollo is no longer as he once was.

Your gaze lingers on him as he flips through a book a few feet away from you. The others left for their mission, and you’re going to be left alone with him until they get back. You don’t often see him anymore, careful to keep away unless he specifically asks you to show up for a mission, but every time you do, it always ends the same—with you upset and lost, unsure of what you’re doing and what’s become of the people you loved. 

You’ve known he’s been gone for a very long time, but still, when the two of you are alone, you can’t help yourself from looking for the boy you once knew. The one who would bring fresh flowers to the graves at the church, and translated movies for the other children in Meteor City, performing them himself when they no longer could watch them. You think you get glimpses of him when he doesn’t think anyone is around. When the others have all left for missions, and he thinks he’s alone in base, but he’s always quick to school his expression when he realizes that you stayed back. 

You’ve known Chrollo Lucilfer for as long as you can remember. One of your first clear memories is of him helping you to your feet after you were tripped by one of the rowdy boys at church. Your knees were bleeding, and you were desperately trying not to cry—you only had one dress that was suitable for church, and it was ripped and bloody, totally ruined. You would never be able to wear it again, and the matron had explicitly told you to take good care of it or she would never let you have first pick from the clothes recovered at the dumping grounds ever again.

Chrollo had made it all right. He did that a lot back then. He helped people. He went out of his way to make sure everyone around him was okay. He had no idea who you were, but he took you to the back of the church anyway and spent three hours helping you wash out the blood from your dress and hand-sewing the rips to make it all good as new. You didn’t talk much and were nervous being around a boy you had never met, but Chrollo was quick to fill the silence, telling you about how he had learned to stitch up his clothes and wash out dirt and grime because he was constantly at odds with other kids in the junkyard city and had no way of getting any others if these were to be ruined.

Bandages were both a commodity and a necessity in Meteor City; those who got injured were prone to infection and death if open wounds came into contact with the many toxins and bacteria found in the dumping grounds. Still, he gave you the last of his and smiled at you, telling you not to worry about it because he was sure he’d find others, and you needed it more than he did in that moment. 

It was just who he was. Kind. Giving. Bright. He had given you hope back then. Father Lisores had said it too: he believed that Chrollo could bring a better world to Meteor City because he was so full of light and kindness and spirit. That was why you turned a blind eye to his plans after Sarasa’s death, even when Sheila begged you to come with her and told you that Chrollo and the others were turning into the people that you all hated so much. It was why you followed him when he created the Phantom Troupe, even if you were unsure of its direction and what Chrollo was becoming.

“What are you thinking?” he asks quietly when your staring becomes too obvious. 

He doesn’t lift his gaze from his book, but you can tell he’s stopped reading because his eyes are no longer flitting from line to line. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to talk to you in the past few years. Usually, you’ll pretend you didn’t hear him, and he won’t press again, taking your silence as the rejection that it was, but this time, you find yourself hesitating.

“Do you remember how we first met?” you question, tracing patterns with your shoe against the dusty floors of the abandoned building the Troupe has claimed as a base for its most recent mission. You notice the way his eyes widen slightly when he realizes you’ve decided to answer him this time, but he’s quick to hide it.

“Of course,” he murmurs. He flips to the next page of his book even though you know very well he hasn’t read the last. You almost roll your eyes, but refrain. “One of the most defining moments of my life.”

You let out a sharp puff of air that’s too scornful to be considered a laugh, turning your head away. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m not,” he replies so seriously that it makes your throat swell. You can’t bear to lift your gaze to look at him, so you keep it trained on the ground instead. “Our first meeting changed a lot for me.”

“I think about it a lot,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “When we were kids. Everything was so…. different.”

You want to say easier, but the word doesn’t feel right on your tongue. There was nothing easy about growing up in Meteor City, even compared to what your life has become. Death was too imminent a threat when you were far too young, and you became well acquainted with loss and mourning before the first smile ever reached your lips. 

It was not easier, but it was different.

“You were so scared back then,” he muses, and your gaze flickers up to see the faint smile teasing at the corner of his lips. “You latched onto me after we met. Hid behind me when the other kids would badger you for the trinkets you collected. Made me shoo them all away for you.”

You find yourself snorting despite yourself, and you lift your hand to your lips to hide your smile. “I did not latch onto you. And I was not scared.”

You did and were. You remember it vividly. You hated confrontation with the other kids, and Chrollo was quick to try to protect the people around him, even at the cost of himself, so you hung around him in hopes of him intervening when they came to try to get you to give up the things you collected from the junkyard. You’re sure that he knew what you were doing, but he still stepped in on your behalf every time. Even if it usually ended with him being pummeled by someone bigger and stronger than him—at least until Sheila and Sarasa started stepping in.

“You definitely did,” he disagrees. “In fact, you clung to the back of my shirt so much that you ripped holes in it.”

“Liar,” you accuse, but you’re smiling.

“Not at all,” he says, and his eyes are glittering in a way that’s achingly familiar as he finally looks up at you. His expression is soft, and his lips are curved up, but he looks so sad that it makes your chest hurt. “Do you remember how you would sneak into my room at the orphanage?”

“The matrons would get so mad at me,” you agree. 

You never liked sleeping alone—not back then, and not now. You’re distant with Chrollo now, but Pakunoda often shares a room with you because she knows about your frequent night terrors and anxiety being alone, and when she can’t, Machi or Kortopi will. They all know how you feel about being alone, so they’re careful to make sure that you’re not. Although they don’t like anyone pointing that out because they hate being seen as soft, even by their friends, so they’ll often mask their decision with a complaint about how the others are being annoying, so they’re going to relax with you instead.

“I had to smooth-talk you out of trouble every time,” he adds. “Otherwise, you would’ve been stuck scrubbing the floors for weeks.”

“I felt safe with you,” you say quietly after a moment of silence. Chrollo pauses at your words, lips pressing together as he looks back down at his book. “You were so bright, Chrollo. Everyone gravitated toward you.”

He doesn’t respond for a while. You don’t really expect him to. A strange expression crosses his face as he stares at the pages he isn’t reading, and you let out a soft breath as you look to the side, out the open window to the night sky. The others are all out completing their assigned mission—a grand heist against one of the elder Kakin princes that will certainly end in mass death and tragedy. You try not to think about it. Your role isn’t involved with carrying out Chrollo’s schemes; you only stick around for the aftermath to make sure everyone is okay, and then you go back to Meteor City with Kortopi until Chrollo calls you back to him for another mission. 

Sometimes it’s hard to push out of mind that the more you save your friends, the more you condemn others.

How much blood is on your hands? How many lives could’ve been saved if you prioritized the greater good instead of the people you can’t stop chasing? Every time you pull one of your friends from the edge, you drag countless others to it. 

“You don’t anymore?” he asks, an odd tone to his voice as he pointedly keeps his gaze averted from you.

“Hm?” you hum with a frown, glancing back over to him. 

“You don’t feel safe with me anymore?” he elaborates, gaze shifting back up to you. You can’t hold his gaze for long; you haven’t been able to in years, and you hate how his expression drops when he realizes that. His lips part like he wants to say something, but then he presses them together again like he’s decided against it.

“I don’t feel unsafe with you,” you answer, and when he’s visibly displeased by your response, you sigh and admit, “I hardly know who you are anymore, Chrollo.”

Chrollo doesn’t answer, but he does frown and turn his head to the side. His lips curve down into a frown, and that unreadable look in his eyes returns. For a second, you can almost imagine that the two of you are back in Meteor City, back when you were young, after Sarasa’s death. He disappeared in the days between finding her body and the funeral, but you found him after hours of searching on the far side of the city, sitting by himself as he stared off into the distance. He had that same look in his eyes then as he does now; you wonder what he’s thinking about.

You’re about to say something else to break the silence when the door to the makeshift base crashes open and draws your attention away. Uvogin bursts into the room, expression twisted and breathing heavily. You rise to your feet, gaze trained on him as you wait for him to speak. Uvogin looks between you and Chrollo briefly before he focuses on you.

“We need you on the field. Kortopi got injured; Machi is using her threads to keep him stable, but they keep unwinding because of whatever ability is affecting him. She can’t keep it up for much longer.”

You glance back at Chrollo, whose brows furrow at Uvogin’s words, but he frowns and says, “Go.”

---------

Kortopi is the youngest member of the Phantom Troupe. He’s not a founding member, only because he was six at the time of its founding, but he’s hung around you all for as long as you can remember. When he was three, his older sister would take him to the shows that the Troupe put on for the children of Meteor City, and when she was killed by infection after being wounded by a stray dog less than a year later, it was you who took him under your wing. You were only twelve yourself, but you promised his sister that you would protect him, and you were adamant on keeping that promise no matter the cost.

For years, he watched the Phantom Troupe from the sidelines, and you realized that you had your job cut out for you. He idolized Chrollo; you can’t really blame him for that, everyone idolized Chrollo, but he spent all of his time desperately trying to master nen so that he could convince Chrollo to let him become a spider. You were against it from the beginning. That was back when you and Chrollo were still close, so you had no issue arguing with him when he told Kortopi that once he mastered a nen ability, he would have a spot with them. He dismissed you every time you tried to bring it up, and he told you that you were being too stubborn and this was the best course of action, and it led to the two of you being on frigid, but not quite hostile terms. 

Kortopi was fifteen when Chrollo finally deemed his mastery enough to join, and you were livid over it. Chrollo dismissed you yet again when you raised your concerns, and he reminded you that you, he, Pakunoda, and Machi were all younger when you joined the Troupe. But it was different, you insisted, Kortopi’s sister had been someone you cared deeply about, and she begged you to protect Kortopi for her when she was on her deathbed. Not only that, but Chrollo promised to help you. You’ve raised him since he was four years old—you didn’t want this life for him, you don’t even want it for yourself. 

It was your first major argument with him, and it was the first rift that led to the ruin of your friendship. The day Chrollo let Kortopi into the Phantom Troupe was the day you realized he’d changed beyond recognition, and it was the day you stopped clinging to your past with him.

“He’ll be okay?” Uvogin asks gruffly, kneeling behind you. 

The rest of the members assigned to this mission are sitting around you, waiting to hear that everything is fine. Or, most of them were—Uvogin, Machi, Nobunaga, and Pakunoda were with you. The other most recent addition to the Troupe is nowhere to be found, naturally. Unease claws at your chest. Chrollo’s decision to let Hisoka Morow into the Phantom Troupe was another that you were very displeased with, but because the two of you have hardly talked in the past two years, you didn’t say anything.

Not that it would matter. Chrollo doesn’t care to take your opinion into account. He made that very much clear when he dismissed you and allowed Kortopi into the Troupe.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, smoothing out the boy’s messy hair. He’s still so young—only seventeen—but he looks even younger with his breath so shallow and his eyes slid shut. Resentment towards Chrollo bubbles in your chest again, but you push it away as you shut your eyes and shake your head. Now isn’t the time for that. “Could you carry him back to base, Uvo?”

“Yup,” the man agrees, shifting closer to you to scoop the small boy up into his arms. His brows furrow in concern as he looks down at you. “You alright getting back?”

“I’ll walk with her,” Pakunoda offers, and Uvogin nods before taking off with Nobunaga. Machi hesitates, casting you a long look before she follows after the two of them. “Are you okay?”

“I told him this would happen,” you say tightly. You don’t need to say who the ‘him’ is—Pakunoda knows better than anyone. She’s been caught between the two of you since the day the tension began seven years ago. “I told him, Paku. If I had been a second later, Machi’s nen would’ve been exhausted and Kortopi would’ve bled out.”

“I know,” Pakunoda replies quietly as you two make your way down the street back in the direction of base. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

“How did it happen?” you ask sharply, gaze cutting to the side to look at her. For a second, you feel so angry that it makes you sick because it shouldn’t have happened. Pakunoda instantly gives you a concerned look, making you realize that your rage is seeping into your aura. Instantly, you push it away and clear your throat. “It was a simple mission. You and Kortopi go in for the information and the artifacts while the others pose as other attendees to keep an eye on the two of you in case things go wrong. Except it wasn’t supposed to go wrong. How did it go wrong?”

Pakunoda pauses and then says honestly, “I’m not sure. It was very sudden; everything was fine one moment, and then all hell broke loose. The only reason I wasn’t hit alongside Kortopi was that I reacted faster.”

Your expression twists immediately. “The clown?” you ask, voice low.

“No,” Pakunoda disagrees, shaking her head. When you give her a suspicious look, she continues, “Hisoka seemed just as caught off guard as the rest of us. I think it was the nen ability of the Second Prince or one of her subordinates. They didn’t seem to recognize us, but when it came closer to the time of the heist, it was like they were able to sense when our intentions became more hostile.”

“I don’t like it,” is all you say in response. “We need to make sure all of the cameras around that building are wiped. The last thing we need is one of the Kakin Princes coming down on Meteor City in retaliation for our actions here.”

“That’s if they figure out we’re from there,” Pakunoda replies, but there’s an uncomfortable expression on her face like she knew the risk was there, but didn’t expect it to actually become a possibility.

“Once they figure out there are no official records of our existence, it’ll be quite easy for them to realize where we must come from,” you say dryly, shaking your head. “I don’t know what he’s thinking, Paku. He must realize that operations like this put the city more at risk than anything else. There’s only so long fear tactics will work in preventing intervention. Eventually, they’re going to decide the risks outweigh the benefits of making a statement against us by targeting the city.”

“Then the city will strike back,” Pakunoda replies. “You know the law of retribution. They’re not defenseless. They’ve handled things this way long before we started doing what we’re doing.”

You rub your face in frustration. “The elders retaliate. They deter people from wronging the city by making sure it doesn’t go without consequence. We aren’t retaliating, Paku. We’re instigating. And we’re instigating powerful people, not some knock-off mafia. We’re talking about the Kakin Military and the princes’ personal armies. The elders can retaliate against mafias stealing our kids and other cities for wrongful persecution, but what the hell do you expect them to do when another nation’s military comes down on them?”

Pakunoda says your name with a sigh. This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to have this conversation with one of them, and it always goes the same every time. They’ve changed in the same way Chrollo has, and you don’t know why you haven’t yet, but Pakunoda at least will hear you out. So she’s unfortunately stuck listening to you vent out your frustrations.

“I’m serious,” you continue, stopping in your tracks and folding your arms over your chest. “How far have we deviated from our original goals, Paku? What we’re doing—it’s mindless killing, mindless thieving. This isn’t preventing what happened to Sarasa from ever happening again; we’ve become worse than the people we united against, and we’re not even protecting Meteor City anymore. Do you really think that people are so scared of us that they won’t ever step foot in the city? Because that’s not how the world works, Paku. I know you know that, and I don’t know why we’re all pretending otherwise. Even if they’re scared of us, and they can’t track us down and kill us, they will go to the defenseless and send us a message through them eventually. What we’re doing is not only delaying the inevitable, but each mission of ours is making the inevitable retaliation exponentially worse.”

Pakunoda doesn’t like it when Sarasa is brought up. Her breath gets all shaky, and her voice gets wobbly, so you immediately regret it when you see how the woman cringes and looks away. You immediately avert your gaze to the ground, guilty. 

“What do you want me to say?” she asks you quietly.

“I don’t know.” Your voice breaks over the words, and you squeeze your eyes shut to fight the tears. Pakunoda squeezes your forearm gently. “I don’t like what we’ve become, Paku. And I know that Chrollo said this was the direction we would be taking from the beginning, but—I just—it’s just different knowing versus it actually happening. No matter what he could’ve said back then, I never would’ve expected this is where we would be eleven years later.”

The two of you continue down in the direction of your temporary base in silence. You had a bad feeling the moment Chrollo messaged you to tell you there was another mission you were needed for, and even though you know Kortopi is going to be okay, you can’t help but fear for the day he won’t be. That all of them won’t be. Because that’s what has become inevitable now—the only thing left guaranteed is death. For the residents of Meteor City, it has always been a risk that has weighed more heavily than most, but because of who you guys are and what you all have done, it’s going to come sooner rather than later. It’s only a matter of time before you can’t save them… or yourself. 

“It’s not easy on him either, you know?” Pakunoda says softly, and you exhale sharply, looking away. “Don’t be like that. You, of all people, should understand.”

You don’t understand.

That’s what you want to say, at least.

But every time you close your eyes, all you can see is the haunted expression on his face as he looked into the sack that contained Sarasa’s body. The burden he decided to carry on his own when he read whatever was on that note and refused to share it with anyone else, because whatever it said was too horrific for him to bear letting anyone else know. The lack of light in his eyes when he declared to the rest of you what he would do after three years’ time had passed. 

You don’t want to understand.

You can’t let yourself believe that the boy he used to be still exists somewhere deep inside of him. Not because you don’t desperately wish to have that boy back, but because the memory of him is too tainted, stained in the blood he’s spilt since casting aside his old self. That sweet boy couldn’t possibly still be here with you. You can’t imagine that the boy who taught you how to read and spent hours scouring the junkyard for the last swan you needed for your collection of bird figures is the very same man who shamelessly broke his promise to you when he allowed Kortopi to join the Troupe, even as you begged him not to. That the same hands that patched up your knees when you fell and stroked your hair when you struggled to fall asleep had butchered women and children for the sake of rare eyes.

 It can’t be—he can’t be. 

“He misses you a lot,” Pakunoda continues. You want to scream at her to shut up, but your throat is too clogged. You hate this. You hate this. “Whenever he calls meetings that aren’t mandatory, he always waits for you, even though he knows you’re not going to come. He hides it well, but he’s disappointed every time.”

“Stop, Paku,” you finally force out. “That’s enough.”

She adds, “You should talk to him. Kortopi feels guilty, too, you know? He feels like it’s his fault you guys don’t talk anymore.”

“Stop, Paku,” you repeat.

Pakunoda sighs, but she doesn’t push anymore. 

She’s wrong, you tell yourself. You’ll stay long enough for the debrief in the morning, and then you’re gone again. Back to Meteor City to help the people whom you swore to help all of those years ago. Chrollo will be far from mind.

---------

The base is eerily quiet when you get back. You didn’t go in with Pakunoda right away; you decided to sit on the bench outside the building until nightfall. You didn’t want to risk running into Chrollo, and you figured that by now, he would have headed to the room he claimed. 

Uvogin and Nobunaga were passed out drunk in the front lobby when you came in, and Machi was napping at Kortopi’s bedside, checking up on him when the exhaustion of using her nen so much finally caught up to her. Pakunoda was reading a book in the lobby area, keeping an eye on who comes and goes. She gave you a long look when you first entered the building, but you pointedly ignored it.

Now, you’re going up to claim a room of your own. Chrollo, at least, had enough sense to pick a building that used to be a hotel, so there were countless rooms, even if most of them were rather dilapidated. You think maybe you’ll go to the top floor; the walk up the stairs will give you some time to think and—

“Oh, hey,” an unfortunately familiar voice says from behind you. “We haven’t had the chance to talk yet.”

You stiffen immediately, glancing over your shoulder to where the red-headed jester called Hisoka is leaning against the wall, flicking one of his cards around. His lips are curled up into an unreadable smile as he eyes you, and it makes your skin crawl. You don’t know what was going through Chrollo’s head when he decided to let the man into the Troupe; everything about him rubs you the wrong way. You know you’re not the only one, too—Feitan and Franklin don’t like him either, and though Pakunoda won’t say it out loud, you know she’s wary of the Troupe’s newest member.

“Yeah,” you agree, voice cool. “That was intentional, clown.”

Hisoka’s eyes widen at your words, a giggle escaping his lips. “Oh my, the kitten has claws,” he coos, taking a step closer to you. “From the way everyone spoke about you, I figured you were as docile as a lamb.”

He reaches out to tug at a stray strand of your hair, and you instinctively move to shift away, but freeze when a cold, heavy energy slithers across the back of your neck and rests over your shoulders. “Now, now, I only want to talk.”

Is this… his Ren?

You can’t move. Your legs are tense like you want to run, but your feet are rooted to the ground. Your throat is so tight that you can’t even push a noise from your lips, much less a call for one of the others. You’ve felt plenty of people's Ren before, but never like this. Most people’s aura bursts outward in an unshaped rush of strength, heavy and hot, a show of force that’s easy enough to brace against. Hisoka’s slides over your skin, cold and insidious, curling around your body like smoke as it chokes you; his bloodlust made tangible, he’s letting you know, with perfect control, just how easily he could kill you if he wanted. 

“How cute,” he teases, and then his Ren disappears like it was never there at all.

You instantly dart away from him, breath ragged and gaze accusing as you lift your hand to your rapidly beating heart. With some space between the two of you, you hiss, “You—”

“Relax,” he drawls, tilting his head to the side as he smiles at you lazily. “I was only teasing. I’ve been excited to meet you, you see. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

That’s… ominous, you think, too rattled to have any other coherent thought. You doubt that the others have told Hisoka much about you, so he’s probably been lurking around eavesdropping, which means you have no idea what he might’ve heard or gathered from them. 

You don’t reply to him, but he’s studying you carefully like he’s trying to figure something out. You want to leave, but your body just isn’t cooperating with you, still thrown off by his oppressive Ren. After what feels like an eternity, he lets out an airy sigh, eyes sliding shut as he tilts his head back.

“Never mind,” he sings, waving his hand flippantly and turning to leave. “It would be too… boring to do it this way. I’ll just go about it the hard way.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” you demand, unnerved, but Hisoka doesn’t respond, disappearing around the corner. You breathe out to yourself, “What the fuck just happened?”

You lean back against the wall, trying to get some control over your heart, but no matter how hard you try, your fingers won’t stop trembling. What was that? What did he mean by ‘go about it the hard way’? What just happened?

You’re not sure, but you have a feeling it’s bad news.

-----

You find yourself standing outside the room that Chrollo claimed for himself. You don’t even really remember how you got here; once you finally got yourself moving after that encounter with Hisoka, your feet brought you here on their own. 

After all these years, it’s still Chrollo you seek out in your times of distress.

You sigh, head hanging forward just a bit before you push open the door to his room. Your breath catches when you see him lounging back in his bed, reading a book. He’s wearing a loose, long-sleeved white shirt, the laces in the front are mostly undone, and his hair is hanging around his face, free from the slickback he usually styles it in. He looks so at ease that it makes your heart ache.

“What is it?” he asks coolly before he even looks up, probably expecting Pakunoda or Machi. “I—”

His gaze flickers up, and his expression immediately shifts. His lips part, and his eyes widen ever so slightly. He shuts his book quickly and pushes himself up into a sitting position, gaze roving over you like he doesn’t even fully believe that you’re there.

“Oh,” he says, voice soft like he’s worried that if he’s too loud or sudden, it might scare you away. Something in his face changes when you don’t respond right away, his brows knit together, and his lips flatten. He senses something is wrong instantly—he still knows you better than anyone after so much time apart. He rises to his feet and makes his way over to you, voice more serious as he asks, “What happened? Are you okay?”

He lifts his hand as if to cup the side of your face, but he hesitates just before he touches you, like he isn’t sure if he should. You let your eyes slide shut as you close the distance, leaning into his palm and letting out a shaky breath. 

Immediately, he lifts his other hand to hold your face gently between his palms, brushing his fingers across your cheekbones as his eyes trace over you, trying to figure out what you aren’t saying. His touch is so familiar, so warm, it’s hard to remember all of the things you were convincing yourself of earlier when the hands that cradle you feel the same as the ones that once patched up your injuries and stroked your hair to help you fall asleep.

He touches you with bloodstained hands, you remind yourself. Women, children—how many people have suffered under the same hands that hold you so carefully?

“Tell me what happened,” he says, voice firm, gray eyes sharp as he waits for you to answer him.

When you don’t again, he sighs and steps closer, his hand sliding from the side of your face to the back of your head as he pulls you into him. You take in a sharp, wet breath when he holds you in his arms, ear pressed to his chest. His heart beats steadily, thrumming in your ear, the same rhythm you were so intimately acquainted with years ago.

“I don’t know what happened,” you finally answer as you sink into his arms, drowning in the familiar beat of his heart. “I don’t…”

“Did something happen on the way back?” he asks you, and you let out a shaky breath as he traces patterns on your back. “While you were sitting outside?”

Of course, he knew you were out there, you think. You wonder if he picked one of the rooms looking over the front of the building specifically so he could keep an eye on you while you were sitting out by the old, dry fountain. You open your eyes and focus on the window seat on the far side of the room, where the cushions are shifted around as if someone had recently been sitting there.

“No,” you say after a moment. “It was in here. Hisoka—he…”

You trail off, unsure how to describe what took place between the two of you, but just having the name is clearly enough for Chrollo, who stiffens. Something dark crosses his expression, and in an instant, you’re reminded of the fact that he has changed, but he doesn’t give you much time to linger on the thought when he asks, voice low, “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” you say again, shaking your head. “It was just—”

You grimace, hand flying to your abdomen as ghost pains shoot through your body. Chrollo immediately steadies you, brows furrowing as he looks down at where you’re holding, as if searching for a wound that you don’t have.

“It’s just the after effects,” you tell him before he can get the wrong idea. “From healing Kortopi.”

Chrollo frowns, but he leads you over to the bed so that you can lay down. You think that you should leave; you didn’t even intend on coming here, you were planning on just finding a bed to ride out the worst of the pain and then disappearing after the debrief in the morning. You don’t want to reconcile with Chrollo; you’re fine with how things are. You’re fine with the distance between the two of you. You’re fine being alone. He’s not who he once was, and you want nothing to do with who he has become.

Still, you put up no resistance when he lays you down on the mattress and fluffs the pillow behind your head so that you can rest comfortably. You don’t pull your hand back when he sits on the bed next to you and entwines his fingers with yours over your stomach. You can’t bring yourself to look away when his gaze meets yours. His eyes are too dark, too unreadable; there’s not even a hint of the light that once used to fill them.

“What happened with Hisoka?” he finally presses, breaking the silence that had drawn on for too long between you two. He lifts his hand to brush your hair out of your face, but this time you do turn your face away, if only slightly. Chrollo pauses, hand freezing midair, and then he lets it drop back down to his lap.

“Nothing,” you say quietly. “It was just weird. Everything is with him, though.”

Chrollo doesn’t look convinced, but you turn your face to the side, looking away from him to the peeling wallpaper on the far side of the room. You don’t know what you’re doing here; you don’t know why you stepped into his room. You should’ve just went on your way and found yourself a room like you were planning to; you don’t like being around the others when you’re facing the consequences of using your nen ability, even if it does mean spending the night alone. They worry about you too much; whenever they’re reminded of the fact that you take on the pain meant for them, they become averse to letting you heal them.

“Is there another room on this floor?” you ask him, hating how hoarse your voice sounds.

“You don’t have to do that,” he frowns. “You can stay here.”

You look at him from the corner of your eye, watching as his lips press together tightly and his throat bobs. For a second, he almost looks hurt, but then his face smooths out again as he forces his lips up into a small smile.

“Right,” he agrees softly, pulling his other hand back from where it had been holding yours. There shouldn’t be a pit in your stomach over it. This is what you want—distance. You and Chrollo Lucilfer are better off strangers than anything else. You’re not friends anymore, and you’re certainly not… “I can find a different room. Stay here and rest.”

You sigh. “Chrollo.”

“It’ll be a few hours before it passes, right?” he presses. He’s concerned, you can see it in his eyes. For a second, they’re familiar again—the same ones that would hover over you when you got yourself hurt searching for trinkets in the junkyard. “You shouldn’t move around too much. I can find a different room.”

“Stop,” you say, shaking your head. “I can move to another room, Chrollo. It’s fine, it’s hardly begun yet; it’ll just be periodic waves for the next hour until it really hits—you know that. I just—”

“Stay.” You can tell he’s aiming for it to come out as an order, but it lands more desperate than he would like. He immediately averts his gaze and then repeats more quietly, “Just stay.”

You pause and then tell him, “On one condition—I want you to answer something for me.”

Chrollo exhales, eyes unsure and shoulders tense for a second too long before he finally nods, signaling for you to ask your question.

“Why?” you breathe out, and before he can press, you continue, “What are we doing, Chrollo? Don’t give me that whole becoming villains for the rest of the world to fear spiel, because you and I both know you’re full of shit. We’re not protecting Meteor City by doing all of this, so why? Tell me why.”

Chrollo looks away, expression eerily blank. He says coolly, “The kidnappings have all but stopped—”

You push yourself into a sitting position so suddenly that when a wave of pain hits you at the same time, it nearly blinds you, but you ignore it, hand darting out to grab Chrollo’s wrist. His gaze shifts back toward you, heavy and conflicted. There’s so much you want to say—seven years of rage, eleven of confusion. You feel like you were the only one trapped in time back then; you followed them because they were your friends, because you loved them, loved him, but you’re still stuck in the past. No matter how hard you race to catch up with them, you can’t. 

And you understood it back then. You did. You understood the anger over Sarasa, the desperation to make sure it never happened to another child from Meteor City. When Sheila begged you not to get wrapped up in this, you refused her because you agreed with them. Sarasa’s killers couldn’t go unpunished, and when Chrollo finally got his hands on them, you were right there in the background watching them get what they deserved. But at some point, things changed, it was no longer about protection or even revenge, and they all kept moving forward, while you were left behind. 

“The Second Prince and her followers are not innocents,” Chrollo tells you, voice cold, like he knows exactly where your thoughts are turning. “They—”

“I’m not talking about the Second Prince,” you interrupt loudly. “Although that’s a whole other can of worms, Chrollo. How long are these tactics going to prevent retaliation on Meteor City? You know better than anyone that they’re not sustainable, and eventually, the need for revenge will outweigh fear. We’re prime examples of it. But that’s besides the point. You know what I’m talking about. You know—”

“Would you like to leave?” he asks you quietly.

“What?” you ask him, voice stunted in surprise. When his question processes, you scoff bitterly, “Don’t act like that’s an option, Chrollo. The spider is branded on me, there’s no leaving.”

“I can help you get set up somewhere,” he continues, trying to keep his voice light and polite, but you can hear the hollowness in it. “Yorknew City? Or Swardani, maybe? Anywhere you want, I can make it happen. I know what we’re doing now isn’t what you anticipated agreeing to back then. You can leave, if you’d like.”

He means it. You can tell because it’s visibly paining him to offer you this. He’s trying to hide it, but the corners of his lips are tight and he’s purposely looked away from you so you can’t see his eyes. 

Should you accept it? A new life? Is that really what you want? You’ll never see them again, probably. Pakunoda and Kortopi will come visit you, but the rest? They’ll take your decision as a betrayal, and you suppose it would be one. And Chrollo would never come, because he knows it’s him specifically you would be trying to leave behind. 

Do you want to leave him behind? Or do you just want to understand so that you can finally catch up with the rest of them? You don’t even know what you’re angry about anymore—is it them changing, or is it you not changing along with them? Is it the atrocities they’ve committed that upset you, or is it the fact that you’ve been on the outside of your friendship with them for years? That you’ve been so lost, when they all seem to understand what’s going on? Both? Neither? You don’t know anymore, and it scares you. You’re so confused that you almost want to cry. You’ve never handled change well; you just want things to go back to how they once were. 

“I want you to answer my question,” you finally force yourself to say, rejecting the offer. If Chrollo is relieved, he’s careful not to show it, but he does finally look at you again. “Tell me why we’re doing all of this. Tell me why—”

… why I’m the only one who seems to care enough to want to know why. You don’t finish that one. You think maybe you might know the answer. It’s the same reason why Sheila left before things even began. It’s why she asked you to come with her—she somehow had seen how things would turn out, long before anyone else did, and she knew you would eventually be left behind in the same way she already felt she was. Their rage and thirst for vengeance has twisted them into something unrecognizable; they no longer see the difference between becoming ‘villains’ to protect Meteor City and burning down the world because they like watching it burn.

Maybe that’s just your answer then, you realize on your own, gaze lowering. Even Pakunoda said it before: what do you want me to say? Like she didn’t know how to answer your questions, not that she didn’t want to.

They don’t know—he doesn’t know.

There is no answer to your question, because he doesn’t understand anything either, and you’re sure that bothers him more than anyone else. No wonder he’s always been so evasive about it.

Chrollo seems to recognize that you’ve come to the answer yourself, letting out a heavy breath as he looks out the window to the night sky. His lips curve up into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Would you like to reconsider my offer, then?” 

“No,” you say with a wry smile. “How could I possibly go live a normal life after everything we’ve done, Chrollo?”

He raises his eyebrows slightly and then tells you, “You’ve hardly taken part in our missions.”

“We both know I’m not innocent. I’ve healed each of you countless times over the years,” you respond, shaking your head. You think maybe you’re worse than the rest of them—they’ve all accepted that they’re monsters, even if they don’t understand how they became that way. You’ve been trapped in the delusion that you’re somehow above them all, moralistic as if you’re not the primary facilitator of their atrocities. “Every life taken after is on my hands as much as theirs. There’s been more blood spilt that can be attributed to me than any one of you individually. You’ve condemned me alongside you, Chrollo. There’s no world where I can leave the Troupe and live a normal life. I’ll burn in the same hell that you and all of the others will.”

“I suppose I have,” he says softly. And then adds, “We were never destined for a normal life.”

“We didn’t have to be destined for this one.”

He doesn’t reply, though you didn’t really expect him to. You take the silence to press another burning question onto him. “I don’t care that I’m part of all of this, Chrollo. All I wanted was an answer. But how… how could you let Kortopi be dragged into it with us? After what you promised me?”

He sighs like he doesn’t want to have this conversation with you, and it reignites the rage in you. “Chrollo.”

“I thought I was keeping my promise to you,” he finally says, voice tight, but he still doesn’t look at you. “I thought it would be easier having him closer to us than constantly leaving him behind in Meteor City while we left for missions. I was—”

Wrong. He doesn’t finish saying it out loud though, eyes sliding shut as he lets out another heavy sigh. Your jaw tightens as you whisper, “I begged you. I begged you, Chrollo, and you dismissed me like I didn’t matter at all.”

“I know,” he replies, voice quiet like he’s ashamed to say it out loud. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You let out something caught between a scoff and shaky breath, shaking your head and looking away. You don’t say anything else. After what feels like an eternity, he rises to his feet and tells you, “I’ll go find a different room.”

Before you can think to stop yourself, you grab his hand to stop him from going. His skin is warm against yours, and your fingers slot between his as perfectly as they did years before the two of you became so distant. Chrollo pauses, gaze flickering down to your joined hands, lips parted but not saying anything.

“Stay,” you say quietly before you can talk yourself out of it.

Chrollo doesn’t respond for a moment, like he’s considering what to say. You didn’t anticipate that maybe he would reject you after everything, and you find yourself hesitating, gaze shifting to the side, but when you move to pull your hand back, his grip becomes firmer.

“Are you sure?” he finally asks you, which he really shouldn’t have, because you aren’t sure.

“No,” you say honestly. His expression doesn’t drop, but his lips do tighten, like he was bracing himself for this answer, but no amount of bracing can actually prepare him for rejection from you. “Stay anyway, though.”

He exhales heavily. He hesitates, and you don’t know if it’s for your sake or his. If he doesn’t want to take advantage of your momentary weakness when he knows you otherwise would be rejecting him, or if he wants to protect himself because he knows your emotions are fickle and fleeting, and the resentment you hold for him will eventually rear its ugly head again, leaving him wounded after he had allowed his guard to drop for you.

You’re unfair to him, you think to yourself. You’re all he’s ever wanted—he would wait years and years and years for you, he would subject himself to all of your rage and hatred, if it meant one day he could have you again. You know that. You always have. For a second, it’s not him standing there, but the boy who would track you down into the Uga Forest and scold you for hours for going there on your own with everything going on. Who would pretend he wasn’t almost on the verge of crying when his voice got all pitched as he told you that he was searching for hours and he was scared that the worst had happened. Who would instantly give in when you told him, ‘I just wanted to see the flowers,’ and made you promise to at least wait for him to come with you next time.

He’s unfair to you, you argue. He dragged you down this path with him; he condemned you alongside him. He’s made you an accessory to crimes so horrific that the devil himself would blanche at the sight of them.

You willingly went along with him. You willingly heal them. 

He knew you would follow him down any path. That you would never leave them when they needed you, regardless of what they’d done. 

“Okay,” he finally says, grip tightening on your hand before he sinks into the bed with you, laying on his side so that he can look at you.

Neither of you say anything for a bit, but for the first time in years, the silence isn’t awkward, both of you are comfortable basking in each other’s presence after so long apart. He lets go of your hand to slide his hand up your arm to rest on your face, cradling you so gently that your heart skips a beat.

“What have you been reading?” you ask him, glancing behind him to the book he placed on his nightstand, trying to pretend that your heart isn’t actively trying to claw its way out of your chest. 

“Hm?” he replies, so absorbed in studying your face that he doesn’t immediately process what you asked. When he does, he blinks and says, “Oh.”

He removes his hand from your face to reach behind him to grab the book, and you immediately regret asking the question because you miss the warmth of his touch as soon as it’s gone. He shows you the book, but the title is in a language that you can’t read, so you just raise your eyebrows at him.

“A history book on the Kakin Empire,” he explains.

You find yourself snorting despite yourself. “Wow, you haven’t—”

—changed a bit. You almost say it, but you cut yourself off before you can, smile dropping immediately. He seems to understand what you were about to say, because the amusement that had flickered in his eyes instantly dissipates. 

“It’s interesting,” he tells you. You think he’s trying to be playful, but the comment comes out more petulant than anything, like he’s offended by your reaction. “I like learning.”

“I know,” you say, smiling a little again. “You’re so lame.”

“I distinctly remember you being very appreciative over how lame I was when Father Lisores quizzed us on history and you couldn’t answer any question so I had to save us from chores,” he mutters, putting the book back on his nightstand, but you can hear the smile in his voice, even as he side eyes you.

“Yes, my savior with boundless knowledge of the most useless facts known to mankind,” you reply dryly. 

Chrollo doesn’t immediately quip back or turn back toward you, so you shift up onto your elbow, tilting your head to the side as you try to see what he’s doing over his shoulder. He frowns at you when he catches you trying to peek and immediately hides whatever is in his hands before turning to face you again.

“I got you something,” he says softly. “I… found it a while ago, but I didn’t know when to give it to you.”

Because of how you were avoiding him, you realize, barely withholding a grimace as you glance away for a moment. Your curiosity gets the best of you, because you look back at him and ask, “What is it?”

He hesitates for a second before unfurling his hand, revealing a small, familiar figure sitting inside of it.

When you don’t immediately say anything, he says, “It’s—”

“The swan,” you breathe out, swallowing thickly as you carefully take it from him. It’s in less than pristine condition, the white paint of the feathers have darkened with time, even though it’s clear that Chrollo had tried his best to clean it up before giving it to you, but it’s undoubtedly the last figure in the bird collection you tried so hard to complete when you were a kid. You let out an airy laugh, smiling as you turn it in your hand. “Where did you find it? How did you remember after all this time?”

“At a market in Yorknew City,” he says, a soft expression on his face as he watches how you marvel over the figure. “The collection was apparently really popular two decades ago, the swan was a limited edition, only a couple hundred of them were made… Or, he could’ve just been saying that to get more money out of me.”

He didn’t answer your second question, but you still smile as you look up at him, asking doubtfully, “You paid for it?”

His smile is teasing as he says, “I thought you would appreciate it more if I did.”

You don’t know why that makes your chest ache, but it does. Your smile drops, and Chrollo pauses like he doesn’t expect that reaction from you. You let out a shaky breath; there are a thousand things you want to say to him, but you can’t push a single word out. 

I’ve missed you so much.

Why did you wait all these years for me?

I still love you.

He understands. He always does, especially when it comes to you. The concern in his face softens, and he reaches out to brush his fingers against your cheek before he shifts forward, pulling you closer to him. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, arms wrapping tight around him, nails digging into his white shirt. You take in a shuddered breath, inhaling the familiar scent of him that you’ve deprived yourself of for too long. You’re sure that he can feel the tears suddenly stinging your eyes wet against his skin, but he doesn’t make any mention of it. Instead, he lifts his hand to cradle the back of your head, his other arm coming around your waist to hold you close to him.

“You know, when you told me that your favorite bird was a swan, I made it my mission to find you that figure if it was the last thing I did,” he says, absently tracing patterns along your back to soothe you. “Paku helped me convince Sarasa and Sheila to convince the others to scour the junkyard for it for your birthday. We spent three days out there looking while Father Lisores had you helping him clean out the basement of the church.

You let out a watery laugh against him. “I always wondered why I was the only one forced to help him with that,” you accuse. “I was so mad.”

He lets out a puff of air laced with amusement. “I know. You didn’t talk to me for a week. Still snuck into my room to sleep though.”

“Shut up,” you complain, resting your head on his shoulder and letting out a heavy sigh, sinking into his arms. For the first time in too long, you feel at home. You admit quietly, “I missed you.”

He hums, tilting his face down to brush his lips against the top of your head. “I never had a favorite animal, but I researched swans after you told me they were yours. They became mine too.”

You smile. “They’re my favorite because I think they’re pretty, Chrollo,” you tell him quietly. “Not because I did any research on them. I could barely even read.”

“I suppose they are,” he agrees, “but I only started to appreciate them after I learned more about them. Did you know that once swans choose a mate, they’ll never find another? When one dies, the other doesn’t seek out another partner. It either keeps moving, half of a creature pretending to be whole, or dies in its grief.”

His hand stills on your back for a moment before continuing its lazy pattern. “People call it loyalty, but I think it’s something else. They don’t stay together out of duty—they stay because they can’t do otherwise. Because for them, there is only ever one.”

His voice has gone low, thoughtful in a way that’s far too pointed to be a casual discussion of swans. Your throat feels all clogged, and the tears you managed to push away fight their way back into your eyes. “Even if the world tears at them, even if they’re hurt or angry, even if staying together drags them into dark waters, they don’t let go,” he continues quietly. “And if they lose their other half, they’ll just keep gliding on that same path until it kills them.”

“Is that supposed to be sweet?” you murmur into his neck, trying to force some levity into your voice. “It sounds awfully tragic to me.”

He hums softly, almost amused. “I’m not sure. I think I admire it because it’s rare. Most creatures replace what they lose. They forget. Swans don’t.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, and his expression is calm as ever, but his eyes are sharp, searching yours like he’s weighing whether or not you understand what he’s saying. How could you not?

“Do you think it’s a strength,” you ask quietly, “or a weakness?”

Chrollo’s mouth curves up into that small, unreadable smile that you know too well. “Both,” he says, “but either way, it’s beautiful. I started to understand them when you chose to become a spider when we were fourteen, even though I could tell you were unsure, but I only really understood it for myself after you decided to distance yourself a few years ago.”

You don’t know how to reply to that, so instead, you lean forward, lifting your hands to hold his face between your palms before you press your lips against his. His lips are soft against yours, a bit chapped, but they taste the same as they did the last time you kissed him—familiar, like home. 

For the first time in years, you feel whole again. 

Chrollo’s breath hitches, barely audible, before he responds in kind, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head while the other holds your waist, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you softly at first, almost shyly—hesitant, as if he’s testing whether this is actually happening, whether you’re really here with him, really kissing him, really allowing things to go back to normal between the two of you. His lips brush yours once, twice, and when you don’t pull away, Chrollo exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

His fingers slide into your hair carefully, his other hand sliding down to your hip so that he can shift you onto your back. He presses you down against the mattress, hovering over you, and he kisses you again. The second kiss is deeper, more certain. It’s unhurried at first, but each passing second chips away at the restraint he’s been clinging to for years.

You part for just a moment, gasping for air, and his gaze meets yours, pupils blown wide and unguarded in a way that makes your heart ache. His fingers trace over your face almost reverently as you struggle to catch your breath, and then, like he can’t bear for his lips to leave you for so long, he leans down again, kissing your cheek, the underside of your jaw, down your neck—long, lingering kisses that make your head all dizzy.

“Oh,” you gasp, lashes fluttering shut. He places a kiss on the hollow of your throat, and then on your collarbone, and then his mouth is on yours again, harder this time, as if he’s finally given himself permission to let go.

Your hands fist his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you, his hips slot between your thighs and his warmth seeps into your bones. The kiss turns hungry, the years of separation bleeding into every movement, every brush of lips and teeth. You feel him smile against your mouth when you let out a small, helpless sound against him. 

“We shouldn’t,” he breathes out, lips brushing yours as he forces the words out. Even as he speaks them, his grip on you tightens. “Any minute now—”

You kiss him again, and he lets out a ragged breath into your mouth, unable to stop himself from giving in again. His lips slide messily against yours, tongue sweeping across your lower lip and hands sliding down your body, pulling you impossibly closer. And then—

The next noise you let out is closer to pain than pleasure, and Chrollo recognizes it immediately, pulling away to let his eyes rove over you in concern. He won’t find any physical injuries and he knows that, but he still can’t stop himself from searching. After a few moments, the pain subsides—you still have some time before you’re thrown into the worst of it, but not long enough. He realizes this too, sighing softly as he brings his hands back up to your face, cradling it carefully between his palms.

“I never meant to ruin you,” he whispers, thumb running along your cheekbone and fingers absently carding through your hair as his gaze searches yours. “You were the one thing I always wanted to…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence; he doesn’t need to. Your lips curl up into a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you say, “I know.”

“After the debrief…” he starts to say, voice inquisitive, but he doesn’t ask the question. You think maybe he doesn’t want to speak it out loud, because he knows there’s a chance that things will go back to as they have been the past seven years, even after everything that happened tonight.

“I’m going back to Meteor City,” you tell him, watching how disappointment flashes across his face before he gives you a too-soft, too-polite smile.

“Right,” he agrees. “Of course.”

“Will you come with me?” you finish quietly. Chrollo inhales sharply as your words process, and you reach out to entwine your fingers with his. “Father Lisores has been asking for you. I don’t know how to explain to him that you’ve been avoiding the hamlet for my sake.”

“Oh,” he breathes out. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

“Childbirth.”

“Oh! Well- that’s just…”. You look away, overstimulated by his intense gaze. “So … sad.” You laugh again. “Sorry!” You snort, “it’s hard to care for Emily in this moment- this is a stupid play!” You admit, dramatically throwing your hands in the air as your body throws itself back onto the ground.

The ceiling has more personality than Emily Webb does!

“I’ve read it sober, I’ve read it high, I’ve read it drunk; and I still can’t find a way to care for any of these damn characters- a classic Sahartan play my ass…” you roll your eyes. “What, you meet the denizens of the town in the first act, then we have a random wedding for the second, and now I’m dead? You can’t even grow attached to Emily or anyone else-“

“You’re not supposed to be attached to the characters, it’s about the message that ordinary life is precious-“

“Oh shut up! Don’t you have a massacre to orchestrate in the morning?!” You stick your tongue out at him. He scoffs, but entertains you nonetheless.

“It’s a heist and that has nothing to do with Our Town.”

“You’re such a hypocrite!”

“I never claimed to be a virtuous man! Dammit- let’s switch plays.” He groans, lying next to your limp body on the cold floor. You feel his hand slip into yours, giving it a subtle squeeze. “Is it that difficult to find a message in something so simple…” kuroro grumbles. You both stare at the ceiling still, you a tad too dizzy and him a tad too frustrated.

“It’s a play about Sahertans from the 1950s doing a bunch of nothing until they die, so what? Ordinary life is taken for granted by the living- how… tragic!” Sarcasm laces itself within your words. “It’s not saying anything profound and I hate the nothing characters and their nothing town.”

You lay in silence for a few moments before he speaks again.

“Is that how you felt growing up?”

.

.

.

“I’m too drunk to have this conversation.” You whine, turning over on your left side to look at him. Chrollo closes his eyes and let out a deep breath, but he didn’t turn to face you.

He’s upset, clearly.

“My childhood was different from yours.”

“Obviously.”

“Roro, it was boring!”

“I sometimes wish I had boring.” He admits, finally turning to face you. He avoids eye contact, opting to look at the floor instead. “To have both parents around, maybe a sister to argue with on our walks to school in the morning. There’s food on the table once my father picks me up from baseball practice too. And my mother would scold me for stealing a sweet from the fridge at night.”

Silence follows, until it doesn’t.

“That wasn’t the case at all, and we can’t fix that.” You sigh, extending your right hand to his face. His eyes close once more. You open your mouth to speak but he cuts you off before you have the chance.

“Would I understand myself then? Would I be more virtuous? Happy? What could I have achieved then? I was a bright child, you know. I didn’t have the right resources, I wasn’t born into that.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Silence ensues once more, but only for a moment.

“I didn’t have any grandparents around, or a sister. And my mom wouldn’t let me go outside or out with friends at all. You know, other people… um-“ for fucks sake! You didn’t mean to make him upset. “Outside of Meteor City suffer too. My parents experienced that too. Mother was almost kidnapped, and that uh- trauma stuck with her. A lot of stuff like that happened where they were from. I couldn’t do shit most of the time, and both of my parents were too tired to do anything by the time I got home.” You internally cringe, there’s a reason why you never spoke of your childhood. “I was lonely! I sat in my room and used my imagination to entertain myself everyday. I didn’t even make anything of myself! I dropped out of college before I could get my degree. Boring and safe doesn’t always lead to better outcomes.”

.

..

…

“Do you love me because I give you a sense of excitement you’ve never had?”

“Do you love me because I give you a sense of boringness you’ve never had?”

…”touché.”

You feel his muscles rise under your hand, he’s smiling now. All of this because of Our Town, god dammit, you hate this play. Unfortunately, he doesn’t.

You let go of his face and sit up.

“What was my line again?” You grumble, looking around Kuroro’s living room for the script he made (and highlighted) for you. Chrollo beams, and stands up with a few fumbles. He walks towards the black couch and grabs your papers, reading over them.

“But mother Gibbs, how can I ever forget that life? It’s all I know, it’s all I had.” He quotes, the melancholy dripping from his voice with ease.

The Third Division’s most recent mission was a grand success, with minimal injuries and zero casualties; hence, the celebration.

You weren’t supposed to drink too much, but you let Furuhashi and Kafka drag you into a drinking game, and it was all over for you.

It truly was a mistake. Your body was already beaten and bruised for the week due to the Vice Captain’s ruthless training routine, and now your head was 100% gonna be pounding through your skull from the amount of shots you’ve had tonight.

Luckily, you managed to slip away from the party after Reno was forced into a layback shot and all attention was on him. You stumbled out of the restaurant, shivering from the cold air of the night. Your vision was starting to blur at the edges, and you were nearly toppling over when you heard a familiar voice come from behind you.

“Drink too much, officer?” Hoshina murmured, catching you by the shoulders just before you fell—and god, you could hear his smirk even before you saw it.

You turned your head and made a clumsy salute, “Vice Captain.” You murmured, trying not to slur your words too much. Hoshina simply chuckled behind you, letting go of your shoulders to shove his hands into his pockets, “At ease.” He looked you up and down as you turned to face him, “How much have ya had to drink, [Name]?”

“Uhh…6 shots?”

“In a row?”

“No…I took sips of beer in between.”

“So even more alcohol?”

“…yes.”

Hoshina sighed and shook his head, “Well, it’s a good thing there’s no training tomorrow.” He shrugged, “I’d be surprised if ya even manage to get up.”

Alcohol loosened up your tongue, as the next words you blurted out were, “Oh, thank god. I hate training.”

Hoshina’s eyebrows shot up at that comment, and you froze as you processed what you had just said to the Vice Captain, the man who makes the training regime and handles the workout sessions. The mirth in his eyes made your stomach churn.

“Is that so, Officer [Name]?” He grinned, tilting his head to the side. “Please, elaborate on why ya despise my regime so much.”

You were supposed to stop there, apologize and maybe grovel at his feet for forgiveness, but you had already dug your own grave anyway…and the liquid courage thrumming through your body was clearly clouding your judgement.

“Well…it is a tough regime, Vice Captain. And early in the morning too.” You tried to reason, and you immediately regretted it when Hoshina started leaning in closer.

“I used to train like that when I was a rookie. Ya gotta have what it takes to be a Defense Officer.” He raised an eyebrow, “Can’t take it?”

You bristled, a little insulted by his last comment. The words slipped out of you before you could stop them, “You think you can still do our training without breaking a sweat? You don’t exactly train with us.”

Hoshina blinked, clearly taken aback by your bold statement. You thought you were done for, already thinking of back-up accommodation and career plans if worst comes to worst and you’d ticked Hoshina off enough to kick you out of the Force.

But then, miraculously, astonishingly, all he did was laugh. He was bent over in laughter, clutching his stomach and almost tearing up. You stood there, completely bewildered by this reaction. Was it really funny that you had basically insulted his physical capabilities?

“Ah, haha! That’s a good one, darlin’.” He chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye as he straightened up, “I train just fine, thank you. I keep in shape.” He shrugged, stretching his arms behind him.

Your eyes trailed over his body shamelessly, and as he stretched—even through his uniform jacket—you could see the swell of his biceps and the definition of his torso. You bit your lips, trying desperately to get a hold of yourself and your filter.

Hoshina simply smirked, raising an eyebrow, “Cat got yer tongue, darlin’?” He chuckled, tilting his head to the side, “Ya weren’t exactly holding back with yer statements earlier.” He murmured.

Something in his words, his tone, his look; it sparked something within you. Something that threw rationality completely out the window.

“You didn’t train this morning with us, Vice Captain.” You raised an eyebrow, your arms crossed across your chest.

“You’re right, I didn’t.”

“How about tonight?”

“I-“

“Carrying me all the way to the dorms would count as training.”

Hoshina’s eyes widened, speechless for the first time in this entire interaction. He stared at you in disbelief for a few minutes before his signature smirk splayed across his face. “Oh? That is an interesting honor, m’dear.” He chuckled lowly, sending shivers down your spine as he stepped in closer.

“Alright. I’ll humor you.”

You didn’t have time to react before he bent down and scooped you up, throwing you over his head and lifting you like a sack of potatoes across his shoulders. “Hold on tight, darlin’.”

You yelped, grabbing onto his shirt and collar. “Oh my god! Vice Captain!”

“Ha! Ya wanted this, dear. Don’t complain now.” Hoshina grinned, lips splitting into a cheshire cat-like smile. All you could do was slump against his shoulders, since it was clear he wasn’t letting you go anytime soon.

When you finally reached the dorm buildings, Hoshina set you down on your feet and smirked down at you, his hand lingering on your hips. “Off you go, m’dear.” He patted your hips lightly, “Thanks for the workout.”

Just as you were about to whip out another snarky comment, he leaned in and whispered in your ear, “Get ready for training tomorrow, darlin’. Because I’m definitely doin’ that again.” He murmured, his breath warm against the lobe of your ear, involuntarily sending shivers down your spine.

He pulled away, the spots where his hands were burning like he had lit a fire on them. “Yer the perfect weight f’me, [Name].” He said casually, as if those words didn’t almost send you into cardiac arrest.

Hoshina walked away before you could even begin to utter a word, leaving you speechless, confused, and flustered beyond belief.