Lucilfer (ChrolloxReader)

Chapter 83

Things had gone well for the remainder of the day. Kurapika and I had spent only around an hour at that coffee shop, talking back and forth of easy topics, though I was the one who contributed the most to our conversation. I hadn't found a problem with it, however—I knew he was trying, and for the right reasons this time; he was trying to keep things platonic and smooth between us, for my peace of mind. I felt selfish for subconsciously requiring such a feat from him, but it was what kept me the most comfortable, at least, despite how obviously painful it was for him. And although I'd decided not to tell him I would be leaving soon, not until the day I would leave, I knew that he could sense my stay with him was slowly dwindling, fizzling out to its end.

Perhaps such was what had begun to cause his gradual reversion into something more quietly attentive, more friendly and simple, more like how he'd been when we'd first met—fraught with a devastating maturity too wise glimmering within the depths of his weighty irises, yet cool and level-headed, nearly deceitfully so. I knew that it was only logical for him to start planning his next attempt at attacking Chrollo, though that knowledge certainly ruffled my relief, but of course, it also added to why he'd become so overwhelmed by melancholia. In his perspective, I would leave, and he would return to the one steadiness he could always depend upon, something that drained him of feeling and emotions apart from rage, but something that would never abandon him, something he could cling to.

His revenge.

That was only his perception, however. The reality was scattered with heartbreak too excruciating to soothe, and death too final to revive.

But these were issues I was already fully aware of. My demeanor hadn't changed by knowing this, though it did contribute a bluer undertone than I would've liked to admit. On the outside, on the surface, our day had been effortless together—after coffee, we drove back to the apartment, and I laughed, only in wistful, tired ways, about his frustration with city traffic. When we'd arrived, I curled up on the couch with the Edgar Allan Poe book I'd been reading to finish up the last few short stories I had left while he departed to his room to make a few phone calls. Apparently, he'd been ignoring Leorio for quite some time, and felt the need to at least send him a voice message letting him know everything was alright.

It did add a mild nervousness to my stomach when he'd told me he would be on the phone with a few members of a group called The Zodiacs at the head of the Hunter Association. He'd stayed in his room after that for several hours—I wondered if, at this point, he had restarted his search for Chrollo, or other members of the Troupe. But there was hardly a greater tension in his energy, or anything to allude to the fact that he had done so. Still, I wondered, yet it didn't dampen the peace of the day, perhaps because I knew he wouldn't leave York New as long as I stayed with him.

But I couldn't shake away the sensation that something had gone awry. It was a subtle sensation, flitting back and forth in the back of my mind, but it persisted to a worrisome extent. My stomach had felt weak with trembling anxiety ever since we'd entered the coffee shop that morning, but I didn't know how to possibly identify that feeling in the correct way, to find a specific source for it. Materially, nothing was wrong, nothing more than usual.

Because of this, the clock seemed to tick faster. I would find myself analyzing the strange anxiety to an almost unconscious extent, unaware of how much time was passing while I zoned out over the pages of the book I'd told myself I would finish. It was a foreboding feeling, but I couldn't legibly read whatever warning I was being sent.

Maybe it's just because Chrollo hasn't texted me.

A few hours flew by, and then a few more, and before I could glance up at the clock again or even realize I was hungry, it was nearly eight in the evening. I could hear Kurapika in the kitchen making something—he'd asked me if I wanted anything, and I hardly remembered what I'd told him.