Chapter 3

Kuroro's office is tucked away on the uppermost floor of the art history building, a space where the scent of freshly brewed coffee permeates the air and only the soft rustle of paper can be heard. Once, Shalnark placed a tarantula on his desk without his knowledge, effectively shattering the quiet and calm atmosphere he always made an effort to preserve. Some students thoroughly freaked, but there had been no rumors about any eccentric pets, no considerable impact to his reputation, since Shalnark apologized in a department-wide email.

Kuroro arrives to his office two hours earlier to ensure that his space is free of clutter. His desk has been cleared, save for his laptop and a few accessories. A bobblehead and a small plush of Sanrio characters—endearing gifts from Machi from last year—are displayed at the edge of the desk, right where his coffee mug is. All textbooks and novels line his bookshelf neatly, arranged by their subject matter, stacked against each other as if his office were a library.

He doesn't know when Kurapika will come by, after all.

With a mug of steaming coffee cradled in one hand, Kuroro browses through his class roster. Even from this distance, all twenty names blur dangerously on his laptop screen, shifting before his eyes. He slides his reading glasses back on—the pair of black-framed ones that sit low on his nose bridge. His students tend to wonder if they're non-prescription glasses worn for aesthetic purposes, but that could not be farther from the truth.

Just as he opens up Kurapika's student profile, two knocks resound at the door.

Kuroro fumbles, nearly spilling coffee over his laptop. It's not as if he's been caught stalking one of his students on social media, like they way they do when it comes to him—having the audacity to do so even during his own class—so he wonders why his body has gone tight with tension.

"Come in."

As the door eases open, Kurapika peers into his office. His gaze meets Kuroro's first, then falls upon the clock on the adjacent wall. He has arrived exactly on the hour, when Kuroro usually holds office hours. "Is this a good time for you?"

"Please come in," Kuroro answers, setting down his mug on the desk. "Do you want coffee?"

Kurapika shakes his head. "I just had breakfast. Thank you, though."

He slides into the chair in front of Kuroro's desk, dropping his backpack on the floor. He glances up at Kuroro, smiling gently but seemingly anxious in his seat, and Kuroro can feel an echo in the quickening pace of his own heart.

"So, Kurapika," Kuroro says, returning a warm smile. The photo on the student profile pulled up on his laptop screen mirrors the person sitting in front of him. He may already know the answers—sometimes he feels as if he knows everything—but he asks anyway. "Why don't you start by telling me about yourself and why you're taking the class?"

"Yes, I'm currently a third-year student. I'm from this small province called Lukso, so I'm not too sure if you've heard of it," Kurapika says, making a gesture with his fingers to emphasize the scale of his homeland.

Kuroro's smile nearly falters.

"I'm interested in art law and cultural property recovery, and plan on pursuing a career in these fields. Your seminar's one of the few classes that discusses criminology in the art history department, so I'm most interested in exploring the motivations behind art theft and the repatriation of cultural objects to their origins."

Kurapika could be dedicating himself to anything, everything, when things are so different—but even now, parallels still remain. Kuroro can't help but internalize the last part as an accusation.

"You're very well-respected too. Not only is your research impressive, but I've also read that your work helped authorities recover artwork that was missing for decades?" Kurapika's expression brightens, as if he has been waiting to tell Kuroro this, looking at Kuroro as if he means something to him. "Your impact in the field is just—very inspiring to me, so I'm looking forward to learning from you."

"Thank you." Kuroro's response is too terse for what Kurapika would have expected. "I'm happy that you're looking forward to the semester."

"Yes," Kurapika murmurs, averting his gaze to the bobblehead on his desk, watching it move from side to side with the dapple of sunlight from the windows. It's difficult to ignore how a blush stains his cheeks, spreading all the way to his ears.

Somehow, his sincerity hurts him.

"You wanted to discuss your project?"

Kurapika clears his throat, not looking at him quite yet. After retrieving a folder from his backpack, he sets down a stack of stapled packets on his desk.

"For the first project, I'm thinking of exploring the controversies revolving around the return of Kuruta cultural items—human remains, records, sacred artifacts—to descendants of the clan. Why museums sometimes fail to comply, when these objects were unlawfully procured from their lands. There are ethical issues with the collection and display of these objects, even if researchers are interested in learning more about the clan."

"The Kuruta clan," Kuroro repeats.

At the faint recognition in his tone, Kurapika sits up straighter. "Are you familiar with them?"

I murdered them all except for one.

"I know of them," Kuroro says, because what he knows is a memory of another life. He wants to say more, wants to be selfish, but he can't anymore. He's lived his life wanting impossible things, and he has one right here in front of him. He shouldn't be allowed to have more than this. "Your topic for this project is a personal one, right?"

Kurapika nods fiercely.

"I can see how meaningful this would be for you," Kuroro says, his gaze softer. "Institutions have a responsibility to repatriate objects sacred to these cultures. But this brings up another issue—oftentimes, descendants of these clans are burdened with having to demonstrate proof of their cultural relationships, even when they may not be well-documented." Kurapika nods again. "I would be interested in seeing what kind of sources you'll draw upon for this project."

He spends nearly two hours reviewing the materials that Kurapika brought with him, providing him with feedback and carefully listening to his ideas. Kurapika's dedication is something that he never imagined seeing again, something that he thought was lost within the confines of his memories, but—

He needs to remember that his student is a stranger.

The Kurapika he knows did not smile like this.

The Kurapika he knows lost everything—except, if he dares to think it, him.

A sudden downpour of rain settles over campus, drumming against the glass windows of his office. From where he stands, Kuroro looks over the quadrangle, watching the trees waver beneath the onslaught.

"I forgot to bring my umbrella." Kurapika joins him in front of the windows, and a deep sigh escapes him. "My apartment's a bit far from here too."

Kuroro gestures to the black umbrella leaning upright against the side of his desk. "You can borrow mine."

A moment of consideration passes before his answer comes. "You only have one. It wouldn't be right if you'd have to walk in the rain." With a thoughtful frown, Kurapika turns his attention to the phone in his hands. "The weather app says that it's going to look like this all day."

Kuroro takes care not to favor one student over another. His schedule is free of any meetings this afternoon, so stepping out of the office for a short while wouldn't hurt his productivity. Before he realizes what he says, he's already suggested, "I'll walk you back to your apartment?"

Kurapika looks just as surprised as he is, with widened eyes and parted lips from a loss of words. Panic flares in Kuroro's chest. He can feel the moment that he makes a mistake, when Kurapika visibly hesitates to answer.

"Only if you want me to," Kuroro adds, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, if—" Kurapika's voice falls into a murmur. "If it isn't too much trouble."

The umbrella doesn't help much.

Rainfall comes from all sides, throttling them both with wind and rainwater. Kuroro keeps his grip tight around the plastic handle, but even that is not enough when the umbrella flips inside out against the strength of merciless winds.

In theory, there should be something romantic about this. If this were a scene in one of the dramas that Machi tends to watch, Kuroro would be promenading across campus with Kurapika, sharing an umbrella beneath the gentle patter of rain. This, however, is not a romance drama.

After adjusting the umbrella again, Kuroro holds it above their heads, attempting to keep Kurapika dry as if he isn't already completely drenched. Kurapika, still recovering from the assault of heavy rain, pushes his bangs away from his eyes, the weight of rainwater slicking his hair down. His hip is pressed against Kuroro's own, when the umbrella isn't expansive enough for them to walk comfortably together beneath it. The contact is dangerous for Kuroro's heart.

"Do you want to wait at the library?" Kuroro asks, his words engulfed by the wind.

"What?"

Kuroro shakes his head, water falling from his bangs. His dress shirt is soaked to the point that he can see his bare skin from beneath the fabric, and his socks are uncomfortably wet from stepping into a puddle earlier. Kurapika could not possibly be better off than him.

"Nothing," he says.

Nothing, a part of his mind repeats, when there are many things he should say to Kurapika, things that he would have said if Kurapika did not die and leave him with nothing. There are other things he wants, some things beyond spoken words, like knowing the warmth of Kurapika's palm against his, the steady pulse within his wrist, the yearning that comes with letting go but having a place to return to.

They stop right before the crosswalk, waiting for the walk signal to appear. There's no one else around on campus, and from what Kuroro can see in the periphery of his vision, Kurapika stares at him when Kuroro's attention isn't directed towards him.

Without looking at Kurapika, he says, "I asked if you wanted to wait at the library or a coffee shop."

Kurapika startles. "Ah, my apartment's about five minutes away. Am I troubling you?"

Kuroro turns to glance at him, a soft smile on his lips. "Not at all."

They cross the street over to the northern part of campus, away from department buildings and closer to a street full of independent shops and restaurants. Just as Kurapika mentioned, they arrive after a brisk walk. His apartment has the convenience of staying on campus while having the freedom of an off-campus lifestyle.

Kurapika slides his key card to enter the lobby, but holds the door open. "Do you want to come in?" At Kuroro's silence, he corrects himself. "What I mean is, we have study rooms that you can use—"

"I'll be fine," Kuroro assures him, holding the umbrella firmly above himself. "Make sure that you don't catch a cold."

Inclining his head, Kurapika gives his thanks and bids him goodbye.

There isn't anyone to greet Kuroro back at the apartment when he lives on his own, despite Shalnark's insistence for him to move in with him and Uvogin. He doesn't plan to change his mind anytime soon, valuing his time alone too much.

His neck is irritated from the dampness of his button-down shirt, and he does not delay in divesting himself of the shirt, letting it fall in a pile on the floor. His socks squelch within his shoes as he moves. Both shoes come off next, and he sets them aside in the hallway when he really should be throwing them out.

He steps into the shower before doing anything else, staying there a while and letting the temperature of the water scald his skin. A strange sort of emptiness rings in his chest where something should be, and he cannot think—can only focus on the white tiles of his shower walls, tracing the smallest of grooves and marks.

Beneath dark skies, when he first encountered Kurapika in Yorknew, rainwater had plastered to his skin, soaked through his clothes, too.

A familiar ache throbs at his temple. He pushes the thought away for another time.

For the rest of the day, he works from his bed and in the comfort of his pajamas. He throws himself into his work, lets his strict routine carry him away.

Sleep comes easier tonight, claiming him the moment he closes his eyes.

Kurapika does not look aroused; rather, he looks like he's in pain.

Kuroro has him pressed against the wall, hitched up on the marble countertop of the bathroom, and he's standing between Kurapika's legs. Kurapika's fever burns from aphrodisiac, and the coolness of Kuroro's hand against his cheek does nothing to help. Even the stream of cold water from the shower could not douse the burning ache that has overtaken him.

Kuroro slides his hand beneath his chin, tilting his head upward. When Kurapika looks up through heavy lashes, dazed, it is as though he cannot see anything beyond the curve of Kuroro's lips, the slant of Kuroro's jawline. His irises have shifted into a vibrant scarlet shade, as bright as the flush staining his complexion.

At the sight, heat floods Kuroro's body.

Kuroro's thumb presses against the softness of his lips, parting them. The taste of wine lingers on Kuroro's tongue, from their first kiss, though he's unable to discern the exact substance Tserriednich placed into Kurapika's drink.

What he does know, however, is that under his touch, Kurapika is honest.

Kurapika leans forward to meet his lips in another kiss, rougher this time, expecting more from Kuroro than what he gives, pushing until Kuroro gives him what he wants. The sound that Kurapika makes is something that he has never heard before, breathy and keening. A distinctive want is heady on his tongue, within his insistent mouth.

Kuroro's hand moves down his throat, splays his fingers over his bare chest, where his shirt is unbuttoned in its entirety. His heart beats erratically beneath Kuroro's palm, demanding.

Kurapika breaks the kiss to catch his breath, and his next exhale trembles as it leaves his lungs. "Kuroro." He murmurs his name as if he knows nothing else. "Please."

"I would have liked to take you under different circumstances," Kuroro answers, nipping at the skin as his neck, ensuring that the paleness of his skin is replaced by proprietary marks blooming beneath Kuroro's mouth. A hand finds the back of Kuroro's head, curling into his black hair, and pulls. Kuroro looks up. "Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes," comes his answer, full of certainty, and Kuroro can't deny him.

Kurapika's zipper comes down with a hissing sound, and Kuroro pulls them down along with his undergarments, discarding them on the tiled floor. Intimacy of this nature should only belong in a furtive daydream, perhaps on his bed instead of his bathroom, because he would have never expected Kurapika to be so willing to have him.

"Hurry up," Kurapika groans.

Kuroro intends to do so. He slides a hand beneath Kurapika's knee and lifts his leg higher. With a packet of lubricant, he slicks his fingers and prepares Kurapika slowly, pressing into his deepest parts, listening to the senseless, unbearable sounds that tear from his throat. Kurapika arches against him with the fullness of three fingers, and he seems unable to see straight, unable to form coherent words as Kuroro continues stretching him.

Then, his fingers are gone from Kurapika. Metal clinks as he undoes his belt buckle, and he does not make an effort to unclothe himself. Kuroro keeps his hands on Kurapika's hips, encouraging him to wrap his legs around his waist, as he guides his length into him.

Kurapika gasps at the newfound stretch, his hands trembling as they press into Kuroro's shoulders. Kuroro marks a pause to allow him to adjust, but his ankles dig into his back, and he takes him in one slow, impossibly deep motion.

His hold is firm on Kurapika's hips as he starts moving with hard, fast thrusts, pushing into the same place again and again to hear Kurapika gasp and groan. It's hot and tight inside him, and Kurapika shudders with the sensation of being filled by him.

"Kuroro," Kurapika says again, and it comes out more like a whine.

"I'm here," Kuroro murmurs, pulling back to push inside again, deeper this time, "inside you. I'm not going anywhere."

Kurapika's breath catches in quiet sobs every time he thrusts inside, rocks into him with reckless abandon.

Kuroro's eyes are falling shut, but he needs to keep them open; otherwise, he will not be able to see him—

Kurapika, who has made a lover out of a sworn enemy, a warmth out of cold detachment, a maelstrom out of an eternal calm, and a wrecked mess out of Kuroro's soul.

He meets Kuroro's eyes, but he's far gone, melting against Kuroro as he presses deep into him over and over again. He isn't able to last very long, and with a particularly harsh thrust is all it takes for him to fall apart, shaking with an intensity never felt before, tightening around Kuroro as he comes. Kuroro's name falls from his lips again, caught in the throes of pleasure.

Kuroro spreads Kurapika's legs wider, pulling his hips at a higher angle. He lets Kuroro thrust into him through the aftermath of orgasm, and Kuroro holds out as long as he is able to because he does not want the feeling to end. But it has to.

His teeth find Kurapika's neck, and he bites down as he comes deep inside, pulsing against his sensitive heat, receiving a sharp hiss in response. He doesn't pull out yet, just revels in the feeling of being inside Kurapika.

Kurapika wants him to stay where he is too.

Kuroro wakes up with a tightness in his chest that reminds him too much of loss and longing. Everything is in its place in his bedroom—the sound of the minute hand incrementing from the clock on the wall, the stark outline of his bookshelf in the darkness, the shadows of the picture frames on his bedside desk—but something feels wrong.

His heart cannot calm down.

The memory returns too soon, bringing with it a sense of shame and arousal. His pants feel tight, but he bites down on his pillow, willing himself not to act upon his urges, because it feels too much like violating Kurapika's privacy just by thinking of him like this.

He is not yours, Kuroro reminds himself.

When he closes his eyes, the Kurapika he sees is only a memory. He needs to acknowledge his, but it's difficult when his student looks like him, speaks like him. It's almost masochistic to avoid giving in, when his body is aching for something that he knows exactly what to give it, but he's not going to betray Kurapika's memory.

He's not going to give in.

He's better than this.

He's better than this, but he wonders if it is even possible to be envious of himself.

Notes: Long time no update. I was happy to see that some people were still interested in reading this work. Thanks so much for your patience!

In a future chapter, I would really like to see Kuroro run into Kurapika at a college party.. Feel free to let me know what you think so far—I'd love to know.

Please leave a comment! You can always reach out to me on Twitter (seiyunablog) or Tumblr (seiyuna) if you want to talk.