Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: hunter x hunter
Relationship: kurapika/leorio
Tags: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Near Death Experiences, Blood and Injury, Suicide Attempt, Depression, Timeline What Timeline, Suicidal Thoughts
Wordcount: 805 / 763 on AO3
Notes: for lee! it's late but it's here, finally.

Summary:
Leorio receives a call in the middle of the night. He knows it's Kurapika. He knows it's not a social call.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

It’s 4.48 when Leorio’s cell phone starts to ring.

He mumbles Kurapika’s name in the receiver, tongue clumsy with sleep, already knowing that only one person might be calling at that hour, because of course. Of course.

On the other side, Kurapika exhales heavily. A crackle, a flicker of sound like a whine or a moan. When he does speak, his voice is tight and carefully controlled. Hello Leorio. “Apologies, I assume you were asleep. I shouldn’t have called”. Rambling, by Kurapika standards. Leorio is already feeling more awake, despite his brain screaming in exhaustion.

When asked what’s wrong, Kurapika interrupts himself with a raspy groan that speaks of inappropriate, unlikely needs to Leorio’s dream-addled soul; and then it speaks of poorly concealed suffering. The warmth dissipates. Alarm rises.

“Sorry I’m afraid I only called you for your medical expertise.”

“It’s never just a social call with you.”

Polite jokes to cover the spikes of ice in his stomach.

More meandering silence, more meandering apologies, rambling. Leorio is scared out of his mind, but he keeps his voice soft as he reassures Kurapika that he wasn’t wrong to call him, thoughts twisting themselves in knots as he tries to figure out a way to coax Kurapika into telling him what’s wrong, really, Kurapika, just tell me.

Then Kurapika laughs, mutters to himself something, because he never asked that question, did he?

“How much blood is too much blood?”

*

Sharp blades don’t really hurt. He lost track of time. The repetition was soothing, soothing, soothing in its own way. Hotel rooms are kept too warm, these days. What about the environment? How do you get blood out of fabric? Cold water. Hydrogen peroxide. Specialized enzyme-based laundry detergents. Chemicals. What about the environment? The carpet is ruined. Kurapika never really cared about doing his own clean-up. He doesn’t care about these clothes, anyway. He doesn’t care much about anything, these days.

Is he scared? He can’t quite tell. Leorio sounds tense in that way he has when he’s trying to keep from yelling at him. Kurapika is a bad person— sometimes he will try to bait him into losing control, when he hears that edge in his voice. Even now, he’s tempted, but Leorio is starting to ask pointed questions, so he doesn’t. Distantly, he knows he’s in trouble.

He called Leorio because of the blood. Stupid, in hindsight— he took care of his own cuts and wounds all the time, he doesn’t need Leorio to hold his hand. He doesn’t need Leorio’s voice asking him if he’s cold, if he’s feeling nauseous at all. He’s applying pressure on the cuts. He’s not scared. Is he scared?

The handle on his door rattles, and Kurapika scolds Leorio in the receiver. He should have not come. He looks around, and he feels embarrassed. His room is a mess. His gun is disassembled on the bed, his suitcase looks like it’s spilling dirty laundry guts all over the floor where he dug through it looking for his scalpels. Drugs, cigarettes, gambling. Scalpels. To each his vice.

He blinks when Leorio kneels next to him. His back hurts, why did he sit on the floor? There’s a perfectly good bed right there. Kurapika’s heart jumps in his throat when Leorio brushes his hair away from his face, gently, gently. The sweaty strands cling to his skin. He shivers, doesn’t lean his cheek against Leorio’s palm. But he’s warm, he’s warm, and Kurapika is so cold. He shivers. His cell phone gets pulled out of his hand, gently, gently. A smear of blood on the screen.

Leorio is worried, Leorio is warm, Leorio is touching him. There’s help on the way, and a strip of fabric around his arm, and a number scribbled on his skin, and a clean length of fabric pressed on his wrist.

Is he dying? He’s not scared. Leorio keeps looking at his face. He’s not wearing his lenses, his eyes feel strangely bare without them, these days. He doesn’t get much use out of them, these days. He doesn’t care much about anything, these days. But even then, he wasn’t—

He was not trying to— he was not trying— he wasn’t. He tells Leorio. The work is never done, and Kurapika is the only one getting the work done, he wasn’t. Drugs, cigarettes, gambling. Scalpels. To each his vice. To feel.

Leorio keeps looking at his face and oh— he feels. Shame. Doom.

Is he dying? He’s not dying. Leorio’s voice cracks, and Kurapika smiles.

He feels so mean. He feels. He feels.