Chapter Text
“You know, if we keep meeting like this–”
“We won’t.”
The blare of gunfire echoed off the walls, tinging bullet casings dropping by his feet. The burn of the recoil snaked through his arm, fangs of the Macabre digging into his shoulder. She had always been his favorite in his arsonal.
The men around him, bodies clad in undercover swat gear and black op jeans, scattered after the rabbits—runners. Kurapika stood in the center of it all, watching, weapon drawn and waiting.
The smoke cleared with the last of the gunfire, and he was definitely re-thanking Melody for the soundless wacoms fitted to his ears. The dull clatter of footsteps faded into the background as his vision squared on the man in front of him.
“Well then, darling. Shall we go again?”
Kurapika’s lips twitched into that same irrepressible scowl, the one the man never seemed to get tired of. A tenth generation mafia handler, a man at the cash receiving end of Yorkshire’s drug empire, and Kurapikas long time target—Kuroro was a different man. Dark eyes too large for this world, tongue to crass for his work, and hands too cold to be warm with blood, the man was never phased when they met. Though worlds apart, Kurapika couldn’t resist the temptation to speak every time they met on the field.
As head of his own department, his agency never disclosed membership to just anyone. Having a mole on the inside was something that had never happened before. Then again, much about this was unusual.
“I am not interested in tussling, Kuroro.” He lowered his weapon, silver eyes unblinking.
The man's head tilted, a crooked grin cocking his mouth. “Really now? Ten dozen officers in black and blue and three dead men say otherwise.”
Kurapika huffed. “Dead men don't report back.”
“I wasn’t talking about your men.”
Kurapika paused for a moment as moonlight slipped between cracks in the clouds. Iron shadows cast upon the leader's weary face, black locks fading into the allies behind them. Kurapika nodded softly.
“I know.”
Kuroro seemed to relax at the behest of his sentiment, as though accepting the olive branch neither of them had pozzed. Accepting the peace, even with the poison tipped thorns and honey drunk beladonas that grew from the roots of a severed olive branch. If Kurapika was the stork to deliver it, his feathers would be black. And if Kuroro was the arc, he would have long since sunken.
Good thing they both were neither, and this wasn't a story.
“You have my condolences for your casualties. It was my responsibility the inside job ended with a shoot out. My men were trained better—they were supposed to have been.”
Kuroro shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Shall was a gifted man. He would rather have died than failed his mission.”
“Your workers are ardent.” Kurapika frowned, thumbing the unhinged safety of his gun. “But it does not change the charges against you or my orders.”
“Nor mine.” Kuroro leaned forward when he smiled, and for whatever reason it was, Kurapika felt more vulnerable there than he had in a long time. His mouth opened at the absurdity of it all—Kuroro, the man at the top of the mafioto food chain, did not take orders from anyone but himself. Kurapika should know this well, by now.
Boots landed on the ground. Two people, heavy feet and a set much lighter. Kurapika hit the ground, the gravity of a figure crashing into the shadows of where he just stood. The man cried out as Kurapika slit his leg. Crouched low to the ground, he left his knife in the man's ankle and jumped back to his feet.
The woman—he thought it was a woman—was tall and built. Her hits were precise when they landed, skillfully blocked by aching arms. He was going to have bruises in the morning, assuming he lived that long.
She spit something nasty as his boot hit her jaw. Tall though she was, Kurapika was flexible. He pivoted, sprinting after the fleeting shadow of the dark haired man. Blue lights and sirens flashed behind him, his attackers scrambling after him but disappearing down separate alleyways.
Kurapikas chest burned as the bricks blurred past. It had been a while since he had run like this in the field. It was different from training, the added adrenaline making him faster, more agile. Where before he may have slid and bounced from dirty wall to wall, his pivots now were quick and small, actions made of tight little breaths and straining muscles.
The prodigy coat tail in front of him waved in the wind. And then it stopped. Kurapika was going too fast. His boots dragged on the ground, shredded leaves and wet pavement sliding under his weight. He crashed into open arms, head knocking against a bony shoulder. He heard the man grunt, felt him squeeze. Kurapika gasped for breath, realizing there was none in his lungs.
Before he got the chance to breathe, he was shoved roughly away. Loose limbed, he slammed painfully back into brick and pole, the pipeline of whatever outback restaurant echoing loudly all the way up. Kurapika cursed asthmatically, struggling to push himself away. Wait…
“What the fuck?”
Kuroro laughed breathlessly, the corners of his mouth lining a grin wide enough to see his teeth.
“You’re a wonder, Firefly. So professional—real bitchy when you get going though, huh?” He chuckled, annoyingly close. Kurapika could feel his breath rush against the flushed sweat of his skin. Metal cuffs bit into his wrists from around the pole when he struggled, bared teeth snapping at the happy man.
“Fuck off, Lucifer.”
He whistled, hands held up in surrender as he took half a step back. Kurapika tried to force his breathing to even, the fading pulse of adrenaline leaving him a dull ache that followed his spine to the sharp bones of his body that always reminded him he needed to eat more than just coffee.
Kuroro still wore that ear splitting grin. Frustration bubbled beneath the surface of Kurapikas resolve. Had this all been for nothing? Did he just get fucking juked?
“Hey, I’ve never had someone fall for me like that before.”
Kurapika growled, gritting his teeth. “You tripped me, fucking bastard.”
“You know the name calling?” Kuroro leaned into his space. “Super sexy.”
Kurapika jerked, the cuffs slamming a sound against the pole. “Did I ask?”
“Touche.” The man replied, tilting back to look into his eyes. “I never thought tonight would go quite like this, but gotta say,” His eyes roamed. “I am not complaining.”
Kurapika felt his soul slump inside of him. “Good gods, Kuroro. After damn near six months you think your sleazy come–on’s would have improved?”
“What's there to improve?”
Kurapika groaned, out loud this time. Kuroro just seemed amused. The adrenaline high had faded now, and the bite of his bruises made him wince when he moved. Kuroro had gone still, black eyes staring through him. Some things never changed, he supposed. The way he always seemed to read him, see through him. Kurapika swallowed thickly.
Something about this was different though. Something about tonight.
He wet his lips to speak.
Flashing red lights met blue halos on the horizon. Kurapika shot a glance to his left, heart nearly rocketing out of his chest.
Kuroro made a displeased sound. “It seems our date has been cut short, Firefly.” Cool fingers tugged firmly at his chin. Kuroro kissed him. Kurapika froze.
Ice trickled down his spine, a cold gripping fear that seized the breath in his lungs. Yet, it wasn't for the reasons he thought. It wasn't because the man ordered to kill him, the man he was ordered to kill was kissing the ever living fuck out of him—but that the man he was destined to die with was kissing the ever living fuck out of him—and it was good. So, so good.
His lips tasted like cherry cola, like the aftertaste of an off brand mouthwash. He smelled like… christmas, somehow grated like ginger and sweet like sugar. The wind bitten sheen of his skin was not lost to Kurapikas senses, as the man's full hand came to cup his jaw, tilt his head. Like a spell, his mouth fell open. Convinced this isn't reality, the man's tongue was in his mouth. Kurapika made a sound, something like a mouse, like a dog—like a fucking whimper —and what the fuck?
When Kuroro pulled away Kurapika was panting, his mind spinning and his heart hammering. The rattle of the cuffs hit the ground when he blinked, empty hands itching to hold something—something…
That annoying, charming, fucking grin was the last thing his weary eyes saw before flashing lights blinded him, and his heavy cheek was reunited the pavement.