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and you got me like, oh

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Kurapika’s head is spinning from his 52-hours long sleepless marathon. He rubs his red-rimmed swollen eyes for the second time in one minute, they’re irritated and naked, oxygen to them right now like hydrogen peroxide on an open wound. He just wants to close them and fall into heavy dreamless sleep, the one that feels like a little death, body frozen in one position, too exhausted to breathe.

 

Instead, he finishes his umpteenth red bull and seriously considers doing coke.

 

“Motherfucker,” he mutters on an exhale and forces his gaze onto the papers in front of him.

 

Something’s wrong with the information. Something’s not clicking, too many blind spots for decent reports, too many questionable facts. Kurapika has been trying to crack the case for weeks now, and his sleep-deprived pathetic self is the result. The hints are impossible to connects, he has a rotten feeling in his gut that there’s too many information, as if to purposely distract him. His boss told him to drop it and entertain himself with something else, but Kurapika wouldn’t have been his stubborn bitch self if he obeyed. Before it’s an order and not a request, he’s going to continue.

 

He shudders and stands up abruptly, crossing the distance between his desk and the door in three sharp steps. Walking towards his Boss’ office, Kurapika ignores Melody’s gentle look, concerned and disapproving, as well as the sky, blue and vivid, not a cloud in sight. This is so fucking frustrating. He wants desperately to shout at her to mind her own fucking business, but years of working on his anger issues don’t let him. He still slips time after time, but he knows better than hurting people who care for him.

 

Even if it’s the only thing on his mind now, just because he’s a bitter piece of shit.

 

File in one hand, Kurapika knocks on the door and rubs his eyes quickly again. His stomach is tight, he hasn’t eaten much, and all those cups of coffee, tea and energy drinks surely don’t improve the situation. He wants to throw up, but first, he has questions to ask.

 

“Boss?” he asks impatiently and rolls his eyes, pushing the door handle down. Mr Zenji is a piece of trash, obviously, but Kurapika’s never been the one to tolerate his shit, especially when his nervous system is ugly and exposed like this. “Pardon my intrusion, but—“

 

Motherfucking Jesus Christ.

 

Four pairs of eyes land on him immediately as he breaks the door open; only two of them familiar. Kurapika’s gaze runs from one person to another, quickly analyzing the situation, but on the inside he panics like a bastard, because the only way to explain Kuroro, an angry-looking blonde woman, a small man hidden behind long locks of silvery hair and his boss, currently bleeding from his wrist and captured in said woman’s tight grip, is to blame it on barely convincing hallucinations.

 

“Kurapika,” Kuroro drawls, calm like a King Cobra, not surprised to see him at all. “Close the door, darling.”

 

Zenji’s muffled moan of protest is cut by the small man’s punch in the stomach. Kurapika blinks, ignoring the pet name, and decides that it’s all not, in fact, a hallucination.

 

“Give me one reason to,” he spits through his clenched teeth, blaming himself for not having his gun.

 

“Danchou—“

 

Kuroro dismisses the woman with a slight wave of his hand, not even looking at her, choosing to stare at Kurapika with his big tender fucking eyes, not one wrinkle of worry on his pale face. He’s sprawled in Zenji’s huge leather chair like he owns the place, knees spread wide apart, arms laying on chair handles, bent lazily in the wrists. His white shirt with rolled up sleeves is unbuttoned all the way to his chest and tucked casually into slim black pants, and Kurapika wants to beat the shit out of him right fucking now.

 

“Your boss has been involved with us for two years now, giving you wrong clues and leading into wrong conclusions for money,” he says, unblinking. “What’s happening now is only due to his, ah, slight miscalculation,” he smiles charmingly and looks at Zenji like one would look at a puppy right before requesting to pet it. Not even a hint of his ruthless, cold-blooded nature on the man’s young pretty face. “Kurapika, please close the door. We wouldn’t want to get anyone else involved, would we.”

 

Kurapika grits his teeth, hating to obey, but the danger he’d put his coworkers into is too heavy to try it and, of course, his burning curiosity leave him no choice. He takes a step forward and closes the door with a soft click.

 

Kuroro has this dicey ability to pull all the rightest strings to make people do what he wants them to. Puppeteer.

 

“Explain,” Kurapika orders, not second-thinking the consequences of his audacity. He’s too exhausted to act carefully, he’d break the man’s neck with his bare hands if it wasn’t for his minions.

 

But the only difference of Kuroro’s is in his eyes, a twitch so small it goes in extreme contrast with the grin taking over his lips. It’s an especially morbid one, excruciatingly fiery and...docile at the same time. Viciously so.

 

Zenji tries to break free again, but this time the woman brings him to his knees with a savage punch to the back of them. He screams again, still holding his right wrist with his other hand, and Kurapika realizes this is an execution. His hand is halfway amputated.

 

Kuroro stands up and Kurapika instinctively takes a step back when the man starts walking towards him.

 

“Unfortunately, I cant,” he says, stopping too close to Kurapika and reaching out to take the files in his hand. He inspects critically what Kurapika believes to be the state of his face, stopping on the eyes and bags under them. He presses his lips together slightly and frowns in disapproval.

 

Just what the fuck.

 

“What, there’s honour in mafia business?” Kurapika gnaws, to scared to accept that he’d believe him more than he would ever believe Zenji.

 

“More than you think,” Kuroro nods, his thumb gently tracing the skin of Kurapika’s hand. He doesn’t know if it really tingles there in or it’s just his frazzled imagination. “He’s not worth it, Kurapika,” he says quietly, eyes sad, like a requiem. “Believe me, if it wasn’t for our sources your whole department would be in flames right now, along with many others.”

 

“Why not submit him to the authorities?” he almost whispers, finally letting go of the papers.

 

Kuroro chuckles and looks down, and Kurapika won’t ever admit that the tug in his belly is of disappointment.

 

“You’re forgetting the essential,” he says, eyes quickly running down the reports, disinterested. He closes the file quickly and puts it back in Kurapika’s hand, looking up again. “We are the authorities.”

 

There’s a vile noise behind Kuroro’s back, and Kurapika jerks his head only for his chin to be captured between the man’s thumb and index finger. Kurapika’s eyes widen, whole body frozen and heart thumping like a motherfucker against his ribs.

 

“I’m sorry, Kurapika, but it’s for the best.”

 

That’s it. He’s gonna murder him. Snap his neck, Crack his ribs, shoot him with a gun — whatever. Kurapika’s going to lose his life to the beast in disguise so divine it’s hardly believable.

 

He presses his lips together tight and fights an urge to close his eyes, tired brown irises boring daringly into the tender darkness of the other man’s grey eyes.

 

Something heavy hits Kurapika on the back of his head just a moment before his body goes limp in Kuroro’s arms.