Lucilfer (ChrolloxReader)

Chapter 76

Kurapika was attentive and kindly distant in the advancing days which proceeded the night of the incident. He hardly came closer to me than what was necessary, and he kept a strangely contented attitude—on the outside, at least. Every so often, I would catch a glimpse of solemn agony in his trying gaze, or notice that it was sometimes harder than other times for him to maintain even a small smile, and it reminded me of his true emotions regarding me, what he never spoke, what he surely, at this point, refused to speak. I could almost believe things had gone back to normal, or as normal as they could be, if I, myself, repressed that memory, that sensation of being unsafe, taken advantage of by a friend. But those little cracks in his facade always reminded me, though I wished and longed to forget.

Oddly enough, I did forgive him. But the trust I'd built with him was damaged, to put things lightly, and days dragged more excruciatingly than ever before because of it. I didn't talk to him as much, or spend much time wondering in a melancholy way about his past—mostly, I just waited for time to keep going as it should, but it seemed to be forcing me to relive every beautiful moment I'd spent with the one I missed the most in repeating sequences. I'd begun to enter a suspended, empty state of mind, but at least things weren't as turbulent as before, if I stayed in that state of mind, if nothing else changed between me and Kurapika, if he could keep things from changing.

I found myself relieved at the end of every day that passed in which things remained civil and platonic between us, when there was nothing I could attribute to his torrential emotions. And I also found myself relieved that he hadn't spoken of leaving again, that it didn't seem to be one of his main concerns, though I was only naively biding my time until I was told he would. But I couldn't find it in myself to bring it up, to try anything else to convince him to stay, perhaps stupidly hoping this would blow over, that he wouldn't truly consider leaving.

But I could sense the indecision in him, the strain in his demeanor whenever he was around me, be it minuscule or sometimes hardly even noticeable. There were some days where we only conversed in the mornings, when he would offer to make me coffee or breakfast, an expectant plea in his eyes and a forced smile on his dismal lips. I hated that there was nothing I could do to change the air between us, though I knew it wasn't my fault—he hadn't brought up the incident since the day after it happened, and I felt as though it had merely been covered with shabby acts of service and his promise to leave me be. None of this helped my ultimate endeavor to keep him in York New.

I knew he regretted it; I knew he honestly wished it hadn't happened in the circumstances with which it did. But there was a deeper part of me who also knew he wanted something similar to come about, an occurrence with my consent involved, a mutual sort of occurrence. I wished that deeper part of me would disappear. I didn't want Kurapika to feel for me what he already did, what I prayed he wouldn't admit before my time to reunite with my lover came, what even I wouldn't admit within my own mind.

I'd practiced Feeler Inversion only once since that incident, and to my surprise, it was just as successful as it had been before, though it included an even higher mental strain than usual. But I attributed this with my own reluctance to show Chrollo the specific feelings which had arisen at the hazy, shifting memory of Kurapika kissing me so unexpectedly. I knew he would ask me about those emotions, since the emotions, themselves, gave no clear picture of what they were attached to, but as intuitive and brilliant as he was, I was sure he would guess. I didn't want to have to tell him with words; I only wanted to bury my head in his chest and forget it ever happened, to feel his strong arms around me and to hear his velvety voice in my ears, soothing my fears of his anger.

I often daydreamed about the expression on his breathtaking face when he would be shown everything I've ever felt towards him, everything I've ever felt towards our love and the security it provided me with. His belief in "what is" and "what isn't" often allowed him a sense of knowledge, but it never provided anything concrete for him, only promising him that his life would continue on in the way it was supposed to, dedicated to his obscure ideology of purpose and fate. But this would change everything about that faith, and provide him evidence to base that faith in, something he'd never completely possessed in the past.