Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kuroro has had enough of people pursuing vendettas against him.

He doesn’t startle when the gunshot tears through the passageway, the bullet slamming into the wall instead of the back of his skull. He doesn’t falter when he turns to meet the eyes of his assailant, full of vengeance for a familiar cause, one where he never wanted to see Kuroro dead so much. If it were Hisoka who greeted him, his throat would have been crushed in the name of retribution, his head decapitated, his body swallowed by gore.

But it’s his own face that stares back at him—not exact, but familiar enough for his impeccable calm to waver. Even his companions recognize this, because they suspend their movements in anticipation of further direction.

“Should we kill him?”

Nobunaga waits for his cue, but Kuroro has no response. The edge of his blade presses beneath the young man’s chin, digging against the flesh of his throat and promising the spill of blood. Machi’s Nen threads bind his arms behind his back, shimmering with the overhead light of the hallway. Both of his Spiders force him to his knees on the floor, awaiting Kuroro’s judgment.

“Kill me,” the man sneers, “and you’ll lose every chance of getting off this boat alive.”

His arrogance is trying, but Kuroro can tell that his voice holds no pretense of bravado. There’s something underneath it all—an underlying threat and an implication of knowledge that no one else possesses.

Kuroro lowers himself on one knee in front of him, picking up the gun on the floor and turning over the cool metal in his hands. He looks up, and unsuppressed fury burns through the man’s eyes. It’s the kind of rage that tells Kuroro his world has shattered and he’s the only one left—and he will stop at nothing until he burns down the rest of the world for those responsible.

It's nothing like how Kuroro buries his sentiments deep within him, his eyes conveying nothing to those who appraise him. 

“Only one bullet, though it’s a shame you missed,” Kuroro says, his voice lacking the edge of provocation. It was no ordinary bullet, but a Nen-infused one, judging by its profound impact on the wall. “Are you that eager to die here?”

Confronting Kuroro like this is a choice; therefore, dying by his hand is a choice. But the man doesn’t struggle against the threads binding him and remains entirely composed in his presence.

“I’m not the one dying today,” comes his answer, his voice filled with a conviction that borders on recklessness. 

So Kuroro presses the mouth of the gun against his forehead, between his brows. 

He doesn’t lower his gaze. He doesn’t even blink.

It’s as though he dares Kuroro to pull the trigger, but there’s no satisfaction in this. Not when Kuroro has yet to catch up with Hisoka and destroy him as much as he’s capable of. His interest lies elsewhere—in the hatred in the man’s eyes, the black hair parting over his forehead, the indignance coiled tight in his frame, the inexplicable part of Kuroro’s soul that recognizes this man as some part of himself.

The man’s face is honest—honest in a way that Kuroro never remembers being. His skin is pale, but poverty has never marked this face, sickness has never weakened this flesh. His eyes are bright, but not naive. Kuroro’s forefinger lingers on the trigger, but no violence pulls at his hands—so he lowers the gun.

Machi speaks up after regarding them both. “He looks... familiar.”

“An impersonator?” Nobunaga asks, casting a dubious glance towards Kuroro for confirmation. “Or a long lost brother?”

Kuroro has heard of followers and fanatics of the Genei Ryodan rising in the underworld in recent years. Some even claim to be members, bearing imitations of their tattoos. But one thing is for certain—he knows nothing of a family aside from his Spiders.

“A son,” the man snaps. “Your Danchou here is a shitty excuse for a father.”

Kuroro is twenty-eight. If he has to guess, the man looks ten years younger than him and far too old to be his illegitimate child—and yet, he doesn’t look like a stranger either.

Nobunaga says under his breath, “Crazy.”

Kuroro agrees with him, neither his face nor voice betraying much.

“Do I look crazy to you?”

“Yes,” Machi answers for them all.

The man bites his lip, as if to keep from retorting.

“Two years ago, on the night of September 2nd, you lose Uvogin to the chain user and never find his body. On September 5th, Pakunoda breaks the conditions of the chain and loses her life as well.” Nobunaga’s expression hardens, his blade both a threat and a promise, but he continues speaking his unpleasant truths. “Only two months ago are Shalnark and Kortopi killed, and you replace Uvogin with Illumi Zoldyck for the purpose of finding their murderer on this boat. Am I wrong?”

A stunned silence falls around them.

After a moment, Kuroro raises his hand to signal his Spiders to release him. They share a look, flickering with something like confusion and disbelief, but Kuroro is more than enough to handle him. There’s also three of them present and if there’s any further threat from the man, he has yet to show it.

With a sweep of his blade, Nobunaga sheathes his weapon. Following him, Machi's Nen threads fall loose from the man's body.

“What’s your name?” Kuroro asks.

“Sol,” he answers, although Kuroro never expected him to.

His name is sol like the sun, like the promise of something brighter.

And it makes absolutely no sense. There should be no reason an outsider would know of the Spiders' history or why he should resemble Kuroro so much but if Kuroro's going to entertain his delusions, then he's going to see it all the way through.

“Who’s your mother?”

He makes a sound in his throat, suddenly too tight for words. “I don't have a mother.”

Kuroro feels an eyebrow arch. He watches as the resentment in his eyes shifts into something world-weary, eclipsing all of the anger he held towards Kuroro earlier.

“Dad—Kurapika—dies because of you,” Sol reveals, voice worn with the depths of loss and grief and love, “and I’m here to make sure that never happens again.”

Chapter Text

Kuroro’s head is reeling from the revelation. 

It feels as though something has shifted several degrees on his axis. He focuses on the man before him who calls him father and names Kurapika as his partner with absolute truth and certainty—when Kuroro can’t reconcile the two together.

Sol certainly resembles him, although his black hair is parted to the side rather than the center. Whereas his own eyes appear dark and unreadable, there’s something warmer tinged in Sol’s eyes that he can’t identify. The shape is larger, sharper at the edges, lending a delicate aspect to his features. Beyond the volatility in his temperament, the image of Kurapika refuses to abate.

Machi and Nobunaga mirror each other with equal dubiousness. If Kuroro wasn’t in more control of himself, surely he would react the same.

Nobunaga takes a step forward. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard. Danchou doesn’t have any kids, let alone one that’s as old as you. Even if he did, he’d never end up with the chain bastard—”

Sol's eyes narrow sharply. “You’ll be proven wrong within the next year, when you’re all throwing a baby shower because your Danchou is starting a family. You two, especially, put in more effort than anyone else!"

The visual is too absurd for him to conceptualize. Before Nobunaga can dispute his claims, Machi speaks up. “You talk as if you know us.”

“I do,” Sol affirms, as if that isn't clear from his knowledge of the Spiders' past. There are those in the world who can obtain any information they desire—the Ryodan, especially under torture—but as unthinkable as it seems, Kuroro has an increasing suspicion that he knows more about them than what any Hunter could.

“Because I’m your father,” Kuroro eventually says, deceptively even, when the words feel too unfamiliar on his tongue. “And the chain user is your dad.”

“That’s what I said.”

A myriad of thoughts pass through Kuroro’s mind, too much for him to focus on only one, not least being that his alleged son clearly despises him. 

“Prove it.”

Kuroro seizes him by the throat, raising him from the floor with one hand and slamming him against the wall. A harsh sound tears from him. A wave of oppressive Nen surges in the narrow space between them, all of the bridled anger without any release following the months of loss after loss.

There are no chains this time to imprison his Nen. Sol doesn’t meet his eyes and Kuroro’s fingers wrap around tighter, wrenching another choked gasp from him. Trembling hands come to grasp at Kuroro’s own, nails digging crescents over the sun tattoo imprinted on the back of his hand, and the absence of strength disappoints him.

Why doesn’t he fight back?

Kuroro watches as he struggles to breathe, his eyes flickering between fog and fever, and when he lifts his gaze, that iridescent shade of scarlet blazes to the surface. The same eyes that revealed themselves to the world—ensnared Kuroro with power from a fabled bloodline—and paid the ultimate price. 

Kuroro’s throat constricts as if he’s the one being restricted.

Vindictive rage bleeds into Sol’s features, when only one man in this world has ever looked at him the way he does. But whereas Kurapika silences his grief, furious tears gather in his son’s eyes. He contradicts himself entirely—one moment he wants him dead and the next he looks at Kuroro with so much disappointment as if Kuroro is the one betraying him.

Something twists inside him, forcing his grip to ease. 

Sol falls at his feet, seized by a coughing fit.

“What—” Sol takes a breath and chokes on air. He massages his throat, voice roughened from Kuroro’s assault. “What the hell are you doing!?”

“Confirming my suspicions,” Kuroro says, maintaining a carefully composed demeanor. “You’re a Kuruta.”

“And you’re a sociopath.”

Kuroro disregards the insult, drawn to the bruise blossoming around his throat. An unpleasant sensation settles in his stomach from having harmed him. “All of them are dead except for one.”

“Because you massacred them,” Sol accuses.

Kuroro’s gaze turns cold. “Depending on what your next words are, you might join them.” Something comparable to hurt flashes across Sol’s features and the swiftness of which his expression falls brings Kuroro pause. He faces Kuroro with steadfast conviction with a gun at his head and yet, he wavers at the mention of a massacre. “Explain yourself.”

“I—” Sol pauses, his tone losing its defiant edge as his gaze averts to the floor. When he raises his head to meet disbelieving stares of his Spiders, the scarlet in his eyes recedes to an unassuming color that Kuroro can’t quite grasp, reminding him of ashes from burning funeral pyres. “I’m not from this time. I came here from over twenty years in the future.” 

Kuroro has seen the unbelievable, when his Bandit’s Secret encompasses so much of what can be considered as such. But the ability to manipulate time isn’t something that he has encountered and he can't say with unquestionable certainty that he believes it to be possible.

He places the improbabilities of time travel aside for now. “Why would you come back now?”

“One year from now, my sister will be born,” Sol reveals, making Kuroro’s throat feel impossibly tight again. “Which means that you and Dad would have gotten together around this time. I wanted to ensure that never happens, even if it meant killing you too.”

“Your sister,” Kuroro repeats, because there is not one but two of them.

Sol reaches for his back pocket, keeping them on guard. All he pulls out is a leather wallet and he slides it across the floor. 

Kuroro picks it up, then stills as if someone struck him. 

The first thing he sees inside the wallet is an old photo of a family, well-preserved inside the transparent sleeve. It takes only one glance to recognize the man in the center. Kurapika doesn’t look too different than he remembers, slightly more mature perhaps, but there’s a confident smile instead of a perpetual scowl, fond affection where there once was raging hatred, and a wedding band where the cold steel of chains used to be. He cradles an infant with black hair in his arms, plump with full cheeks, and Kuroro unmistakably knows that was Sol when he was younger. 

Standing beside him is a young girl bearing Kurapika’s likeness, with eyes as strikingly red as his clan’s legacy. Her hair color doesn’t resemble either of theirs, but perhaps there’s an explanation for that. 

The last person in the photo couldn’t be anyone else but himself. Kuroro looks unchanged with his hair falling over the exposed cross on his forehead, but the unfathomable warmth in his gaze tells him that something has changed. He has never seen himself look so gentle.

It’s all too saccharine sweet, as though he’s looking at himself play dress-up with the lone survivor of his carnage. Kuroro knew devotion when he saw it, especially when Kurapika’s cause was devoted to Kuroro himself. He could appreciate his power, his potential. He would have gone to great lengths to have Kurapika as his Spider, even when the memories of Uvogin and Pakunoda still haunt him. But this—this revelation that he would have a son, a daughter, hits him as hard as the impact of Kurapika’s fist in the backseat of the car. 

Despite the aspects of the future presenting themselves to him, reconciling this image of himself as a father and husband, as humane as anyone else, is nearly impossible. It makes him feel something—complicated.

Machi is peering over his shoulder when she says, “That’s a nice baby.” Her gaze flicks from the photo to Sol, who stares at them in tentative silence. “I think he grew up to be better looking than you, Danchou.”

Kuroro has nothing to say to that, although Nobunaga seems just as bewildered as he feels. “You sure this isn’t edited?” Nobunaga asks dubiously. “Some kind of prank?” 

Even if it is manipulated, Kuroro can’t fathom why someone would place so much effort in this charade and waste their time. It doesn’t explain why Sol bears so much resemblance to both him and Kurapika, and why Kuroro has an instinctive feeling that Sol is part of him. 

“Believe it or don’t,” Sol answers, an air of derision around him. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

Nobunaga breathes out deeply to restrain himself, a vein protruding from his temple. “Seriously, this brat…”

This is the only photo he has in his wallet, perhaps an old keepsake. The name Dr. Sol Lucifer from the top of a business card peers out from one of the slots inside. 

Kuroro’s brows lift faintly as he looks up at him in question. “You look far too young to be a doctor.”

Sol snatches the wallet out of his hands, something that others wouldn’t dare to do from fear of stepping out of line. “I graduated a decade earlier than my peers. And I’m a researcher, not a physician.”

Kuroro fights back a twinge of pride in his heart. With the parents Sol claims to have, it makes sense for him to be a prodigy, but he chooses not to dwell on it.

“Dad died before he could see me graduate.” His fists tighten until Kuroro can see the powdered bone of his knuckles, the tremor in them nearly imperceptible. He draws in a breath, shaking on the exhale. “Who knows where the hell you were?”

Kuroro doesn’t know either.

The notion that he would be absent in his son’s life makes him lapse into silence, because it contradicts the impression he has from the photo. Would he be involved in nurturing his children, allowing them to eventually succeed him as members of the Ryodan?

That seems impossible with Kurapika as his partner.

Machi eventually breaks the silence, drawing him from his thoughts. “Congratulations on fatherhood, even though your future self doesn’t seem to be good at it.” She leans against the wall with her arms crossed, her stare completely humorless. “Are you going to tell us about your secret love affair now?”

Kuroro breathes out, almost a laugh. “If only I knew.”

“I told you back then he was interested in the chain user,” Machi says to Nobunaga. “My intuition is never wrong.”

Nobunaga looks as though he’s on the verge of having a breakdown. “You said that he wanted the chain bastard to join us, not—reproduce with him! You really expect me to believe this kid is his son from the future?”

He recognizes how perceptive Machi is, so it doesn’t surprise him that she noticed that back in Yorknew. But he is neither in love with Kurapika nor does he have the burning urge to have his children—although that apparently changes in the near future.

Which gives rise to the question of how he ends up with Kurapika. Even if Kuroro becomes interested in him in a different light, why would Kurapika want to rebuild his family with him? What happens between them that leads them to have wedding rings on their fingers and a son who wishes him dead?

“I’m beginning to think it’s possible,” Machi answers, no matter how improbable it seems. “Danchou had an ability to predict the future by writing it down. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some kind of Nen that allowed him to travel through time too.”

“Seriously?” Nobunaga demands, just as disbelieving and incredulous as when Sol first made his appearance. “No matter how he spins this story, he—”

“Listen, Uncle Nobu,” Sol interrupts, ignoring his sputtering at being addressed this way. “I’m not expecting you all to believe anything. And to be honest, I don’t believe it either because Dad deserves much better than him!”

“Watch your mouth—”

Kuroro extends an arm, signaling for Nobunaga to quell his temper, knowing how much he hates it when captives challenge him and speak out of line. But his anger goes beyond that, rightfully so, when his son has imparted upon them the knowledge of who his other father is and the uncertainties of Kuroro’s eventual relationship with him. It’s also becoming increasingly clear that Sol isn’t able to communicate without insulting him in the same breath.

“Aren’t you supposed to keep your identity a secret in this kind of situation?” Machi suddenly asks. “Don’t we know more about you than we should?”

“Only if I wished to preserve the timeline. But I returned to the past to change the future,” Sol says, his fierce resolve returning. “If I can’t kill Kuroro, I’m still going to save Kurapika—even if it risks everything I have.”

It strikes him then.

Kuroro can see not only Kurapika in his son, but himself too.

Not only because of his features or his volatility in Kuroro’s presence, but the way that he focuses without wavering to accomplish his goals, unable to overlook his grief and suffering, blind to consequences. 

That is why Kuroro can’t surrender this opportunity, when a single cause has been at the forefront of his mind for months. “You know who dies and lives on this ship.”

“Yeah,” Sol answers absently, “because you were too useless to save all your companions.”

No one has ever called Kuroro that before, and he finds it unpleasant. “Where is Hisoka hiding?”

Sol doesn’t say anything for a moment, then his expression hardens. “That’s what you're worried about? I told you that Dad—your own husband—is going to die because of you!”

“Regardless of what happens to the chain user in the future, I have no association with him now.” Kuroro’s tone is even, as though he’s commenting on something mundane. “And you,” he continues, “are the least of my problems.”

Sol glares at him, full of renewed fury. “I can’t believe you,” he says, accusation seeping into his voice. “I honestly don’t know how Dad fell in love with you in the first place! Even if you’ve yet to become the person who Dad said you were, I guess it was too much to expect for you to care for him here—”

“I am not who your father is,” Kuroro says.

“No,” Sol says, still bristling, “but I still wanted to give you a chance.” 

Kuroro believes his anger to be misplaced. “Need I remind you that you were the one who came after my life earlier.”

“And I missed because I hesitated,” Sol reveals, voice faltering. “Because… I wanted to know what you were like when you were younger because you never told me. I wanted to learn something about you, when all I remember are the horrible things you’ve done.” His eyes are watery when he continues. “But you’ve been nothing but a disappointment, Kuroro Lucifer.”

Kuroro can’t find the words he needs to answer. A heavy silence follows and—

Fuck, is his son crying? 

“Shame on you, Danchou,” Machi chides, and Kuroro doesn’t need that right now.

Sol sweeps away his tears in frustration and when he blinks, more tears slip down his cheeks. Seeing his vulnerability reflected on a face that reminds Kuroro so much of his own, unnerves him more than it should.

Kuroro doesn't forget about what Sol's presence here implies, when he can use him for his own ambitions on this ship. But even though Kuroro can’t bring himself to care about him right now, he is his flesh and blood. He represents his future and he will—eventually—be important to him. The innocence in his family’s photo will fester from whatever his son has been through, despite that he would expect a different life for his children—reminding him that he is the catalyst for his family’s inevitable downfall.

Breathing out an aggrieved sigh, Kuroro pushes his bangs away from his face, drags his hair back and—

He gives in.

“Get up,” Kuroro commands, rising to his feet. “Walk.”

“I’m not a dog,” Sol says beneath his breath, wiping at his eyes. Evidently he’s only being contrary on principle because he follows.

Kuroro gives a subtle nod to his Spiders and turns on his heel, leading them down the hallway. The echo of tentative footsteps follow behind him, until they increase in pace. When Sol catches up to him, he takes notice of how much taller his son is when their shoulders brush—nearly a five centimeter difference.

“Your sister,” Kuroro decides to say, “is she here too?”

Sol blinks at him for a moment, caught off guard. Somehow, the expression he wears softens considerably, even if he doesn’t realize it. “Runa-neesan doesn’t know that I’m here. She’s far stronger than me, so if anything happens to me…” 

“She’s going to come after me?”

“She loves you, but…” Sol averts his gaze, as if imparting an act of mercy. “I don’t think she’s above kicking your ass.”

Kuroro snorts, getting him an odd look. He doesn’t know if he can handle meeting another one.

“Where are we going?” Sol asks with faint wariness.

Kuroro can’t help but smile, unkind. “We’re paying your dad a visit.”

Chapter Text

Sol wakes to the sound of the coffee machine whirring to life from months of unuse. He holds his breath as the familiar notes of coffee settle in the air—the kind that only Kurapika brews in the early morning.

Beyond his bedroom, he can hear the kitchen cabinets opening. Water rushing into glasses. Cups clinking against the countertop. His heart starts pounding. An impossible, treacherous hope rises in his chest and dares him to believe. If he rushes out of bed, maybe he will find Kurapika again—Kurapika who will berate him for staying up all night again to study and offer him a cup of coffee anyway.

When he throws his bedroom door open, only his sister stands in the kitchen.

Only then does he come to his senses. He pauses in the doorway, one hand braced against the wooden frame. 

It hasn’t been long since Runa moved back home after the incident, keeping an eye on him when he’s all alone here. Their house is an empty place now, weighted with a silence that only absence brings. 

“Good morning,” Runa says, turning to him from the counter. Her long hair has yet been styled, so it falls soft around her face and spills over her shoulders. “Join me for breakfast?”

Sol is about to decline and return to sleep, when she deliberately cracks two eggs into the pan. She isn’t going to take no for an answer.

There are two pairs of chairs directly across from each other at the table. He slumps into the same place he has been sitting at for years, his clothes rumpled from sleep and his hair still mussed. He hasn’t had the capacity to take care of himself lately. That’s why it comes as a surprise that Runa is preparing breakfast rather than ordering something for them.

Sol props an elbow against the table, resting his cheek against his palm as he listens to Runa cooking. One of the egg yolks pops in the heated pan. All of these sounds fill the silence of the early morning, pleasant noises that he hasn’t heard for so long.

The windows are open for the first time in months. The white curtains billow, guided by the same breeze carrying the scent of flowers and fresh soil from their father’s garden. Runa tends to these flowers now, placing as much care in them as she does for him. 

When the wind blows again, the scent hits him full-force.

It makes him think of where Kurapika is buried, beneath the fire-bright poppies blooming from the ashes of his ancestors. It makes him think of Lukso. 

And the chill seeps into his very bones.

He takes a deep breath, letting his lungs empty on a shaky exhale. He leans forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the table, trying to keep it together when Runa’s back is still turned to him. His hands curl in more, the corners of the table digging deeply into his palms, as if he wouldn’t fall apart if he holds on tight enough.

The funeral procession burns into his mind. Memories of himself standing in a field of wildflowers upon sacred lands, watching a violent sunset burn across the sky, striking the ground with his knees and pain sparking up his legs from the impact when he could stand no longer at the sight of his father disappearing into the earth.

Too aggressively, Sol gets up to close the windows. The tacked-up calendar on the wall flutters and the leaves of the houseplants on the windowsill rustle with the force of it.

When Runa glances at him, he tells her, “It’s getting cold.” 

He wills himself to focus on the scent of coffee in the air, the eggs frying in the pan and browning at the edges, the cascade of mercury hair over Runa’s frame. Anything but the world outside.

Runa joins him back at the table moments later, setting down a cup of coffee in front of him. He watches the steam rise from the surface absently. He doesn’t know if he can stomach this.

Everything reminds him too much of Kurapika, triggering memories of things that he doesn’t want to remember and he doesn’t know how to stop them. His stomach roils, not from hunger, but from a queasiness that leaves him feeling unsteady and nauseated.

Runa gives him a long-suffering look. She grasps at his hand over the table, closing her fingers around his knuckles. 

After endless condolences from his aunts and uncles, he has gotten used to everyone around him treating him as if he’s fragile—as if he’s composed of flowers and one wrong move is going to crush him. Before, no one ever looked at him that way. It hurts him most that his own sister is acting like this.

He rises with the sound of his chair scraping against the floor. 

“Sol?”

“No matter how much you try,” Sol says callously, “you are never going to replace Dad.”

Runa’s face may as well have been carved in ice. He should know better than to lash out, but he always had the terrible habit of burying heartache with rage. Sympathy from others always faded with his attitude.

He doesn’t want to hurt his only family, but maybe he can’t help it. Maybe he’s just like his other father after all.

It’s not all anger though. Runa is responsible for caring for him now when he’s still just a teenager, but she has a life of her own so why does she have to be burdened with him too?

Sol turns to leave, not managing to go far before a cold hand catches him by the joint of his elbow and holds him in place. He looks back at her, but his voice dies at the intensity of her gaze, the different shades of scarlet that give it the depth of precious gemstones.

“Don’t speak like that to me again,” Runa warns in a glacial tone, regal in how she carries herself, “or you’re going to lose your sister too.”

Being reprimanded immediately fills him with shame, the heat of his guilt burning through his spine. If he was ever a bad son, the last he wants to be is a bad brother too.

“I—” Sol swallows thickly. “I’m sorry.”

After a moment, the grip on his arm eases. Maybe he is fragile. Maybe he will break in the wrong hands, but he belongs here with his sister who is trying her best.  

Runa presses her lips together, then nods. “Come eat with me, alright?”

There’s an infinitesimal squeeze before she releases his arm, encouraging him to follow her to the table. She prepares eggs over rice and places two plates down on the table.

Their breakfast is a quiet affair. A tired silence lies over them, and the only sounds are their chopsticks clicking against ceramic. Sol has as much as he can stomach but when he raises his cup to his lips, he falters. 

Runa stares at him without speaking more than once, and the part of her expression that he can discern tells him that she blames herself for this. For someone who has always indulged in pageantry, he hasn’t seen her wear makeup for the longest time. The absence of it allows him to truly see the shadows beneath her eyes, the weary lines around them. His cup makes a clinking sound as he sets it down, clenched in his hand again.

“It’s not your fault,” Sol says, which is why he shouldn’t be angry at her. 

“I don’t know,” Runa answers in a low voice. Her utensils have been neatly set aside, and she clasps her hands together over the table. “I should have been there for him.”

Sol shakes his head. “It’s Father who isn’t free from blame.”

“Sol,” Runa says, an undertone of warning in her voice. “You know he spent all this time searching for a cure in the Dark Continent.”

“A cure that might not even exist. A cure that has lost its purposes anyway.” Frustration bleeds into his voice, and he’s always so prepared to fight with something to prove. They all know the mythic stories of an herb that cures ten thousand illnesses, a grain that extends one’s lifespan, but none have ever succeeded in retrieving them. Not even Kuroro. “He probably already got himself killed already—”

“He’s alive.”

How can she be so certain? How can she have so much faith in someone she hasn’t seen in years? Her gaze is resolute, but she doesn’t burn with raging fire like he does. It’s her cold and somber temperament that reminds him too much of Kuroro, of a parent lost and promises unfulfilled.

“Why hasn’t he come home then?” Sol hears his voice breaking apart in his throat. “He walked out on us and never looked back. If he were here, then we could have done more—then Dad would still be alive—”

Runa sets her jaw. For a moment, Sol fears that the atmosphere of their meal has been broken. All she wanted was breakfast with him and he had to ruin that too. But he’s just as angry with Kuroro as he is with himself—maybe Kurapika would still be here with them, if only his father assumed responsibility for his own enemies. Why did Kurapika have to suffer the consequences of Kuroro’s actions, when he was already suffering so much?

“He’ll come home soon.” Runa’s voice softens, only a little. “Just as you did, I’m sure that Papa tried his best too.”

“I can’t forgive him.” Sol is surprised that his voice has none of the resentment from before—only weariness. 

“I’m not asking you to.” The gentleness in her tone pierces in his heart. “Even if you might not understand now, he loves Daddy more than anyone.”

Sol resigns himself to silence, lowering his gaze to his untouched plate. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. Too many emotions swell inside him, so he keeps them all sealed in his throat. Even Runa has stopped eating the rest of her meal. Their coffee has already gone cold.

“Thank you for the food,” he eventually tells her, gathering his plate without meeting her eyes. He’s grateful that she doesn’t stop him this time. “I’ll help you cook another time.”

Sol returns to his bedroom and closes the door behind him. He collapses on the bed, pulling the covers over himself and swathing himself in a cocoon of softness. Outside, the water from the faucet starts running. He knows that his sister is here, appreciates her presence, but it isn’t the same when he’s still missing someone else. 

He allows himself to lie there for a long time, until his tiredness begins to overtake him. Maybe he will find him again in his dreams. 

Closing his eyes, he tries to remember a time when he didn’t feel so alone.

Kurapika takes him to his first science and technology museum after he doesn’t stop asking about the massive dinosaur skeleton he saw on television. The one that looks like Kuroro’s skeleton fish friends, only so much bigger. The exhibits are so crowded that Kurapika has to carry him in his arms, but that’s fine because he can see everything from up here.

Kurapika reads him all of the signs and panels in the exhibits because he can’t read yet, but also explains more about them too. He adores how Kurapika knows so much about everything, maybe even more than the educators here. He loves learning about the human body, the technologies of ancient cultures around the world, and especially the dinosaurs.

When they arrive at a darker room displaying a collection of minerals and gemstones, Kurapika falls quiet. The geodes and crystals are illuminated by the lights within the glass case, their glittering facets reflecting in a way that makes him want to avert his gaze from the brightness. The ones in front of them are all sparkling rubies and red diamonds, reminding him of Runa’s eyes.

“Daddy,” Sol whispers.

Kurapika turns to face him. The small earring swinging from his ear glints in the light. “Yes, my little sun?”

Sol pats Kurapika’s cheek with his small hand. “What’s wrong?”

Inconspicuously, Kurapika glances behind him and around them. “Will you listen to me?”

Sol nods.

Kurapika’s voice grows hushed. “There are many people in this world who want to hurt your father and me. The best way for them to do that is to take you away from us.” A gravity falls over his features, making Sol worry over this sudden revelation. “But if anyone ever tries, I will always protect you.”

Warmth swells in his heart, making his chest feel full. But there’s something else there too—something that feels like dread because he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to hurt his father.

“But Daddy, if you do that, then who’s going to protect you?”

“I’m strong enough to protect myself. If I ever need help, then I have your father too.” Kurapika ponders that for a moment, then laughs to himself. “Well, I think he’s the one who needs more rescuing than me.”

“I want to protect you too!” Sol declares with overflowing affection.

Kurapika gives him a quiet smile. “Maybe when you’re older, you can. For now, you can depend on me, alright?”

In the end, no one did protect Kurapika. 

His children were too late and his husband never came home.

Sol spends his days in his lab until his clothes are covered in the dust of old textbooks and all he smells on himself is ink and paper knowledge. Cheadle had given him this room to use for his own research and he loses himself in its refuge. A quiet sanctuary with everything he has ever worked towards.

But none of it has ever been enough.

Remembering it all has Sol’s head spinning even when his face is buried in his arms over the desk. Pressure builds at his temples, swelling the way overripe fruits do and making his head feel ready to pop. 

His hands fist into his hair when all he wants is to set flame to his papers and shatter glassware. He wants to tear his lab apart. He slams his forehead against the desk when his entire body aches with the desperation to do something, anything, because with all the pressure pooling inside his head and pressing outwards, something is going to burst—

The door to the lab slides open. Heavy footsteps announce their presence in the room, far too loud to be his sister.

“Sol?”

He doesn’t answer and pretends to be resting, but that doesn’t stop Leorio from coming over to his desk and giving him a pat on the head.

“Figured that you’d be here.”

Sol lets out a frustrated sigh and raises his head to address at him properly. He shoves the hand away without too much force. “What are you doing here, Uncle Leorio?”

Leorio gives him a wide grin. “Taking you out for ice cream.”

“No thanks.” Sol lowers his head against the desk again, turning his face away from him. His dismissive tone means to put an end to this conversation. “I’m not in the mood.”

“What?” Leorio’s voice has a tone of underlying disapproval. “You never refuse sweets. And it’s been months since we had our dessert days.”

“I’m not a kid anymore—”

Leorio pulls him by the elbow until he’s on his feet. He places both hands on his shoulders and looks him in the eye, his grip firm enough to tell Sol that this invitation is not open to discussion. 

“You’re never too old for ice cream.”

This is how Leorio coaxes him outside and treats him to his favorite dessert from his childhood. A custard crepe with vanilla ice cream. It’s almost laughable in this situation, when he would rather be alone and miserable, but Leorio pulls him along the street to the neighborhood park.

Sol sits beside him on a bench, too weighed down to be irritated at him. He listens to Leorio’s stories about his patients, how Cheadle wants him to work for her, how Gon and Killua are wondering about how he and Runa are doing and how they would appreciate it if Sol wrote back to them. Spending time with Leorio feels the same as it always did, but the mention of Kurapika is notably absent in their conversations.

He wonders if Leorio ever resented him or his sister for what they represent. If he ever did, he only treated them with compassion their entire lives. 

“Are you ever going to get married?” Sol asks absently.

Leorio blinks at him with a plastic spoon in his mouth. “I’ve been heartbroken far too many times in this lifetime. I don’t think that’s happening anytime soon.”

Sol makes a small, thoughtful sound. He unfolds the paper around his crepe, playing with the edges. “Don’t you ever wish that things were different for you and Dad?”

Leorio frowns, waving the spoon in the air. “Don’t dwell on weird things. If things were different, you wouldn’t be able to exist.”

Sol knows that he exists not only because of Kurapika, but because of Kuroro too. 

“You’re my precious nephew, so we wouldn’t want that happening.”

Sol swallows what he was about to say. A dull ache throbs in his chest at his words. Leorio isn’t his father and that will never change. 

“So,” Leorio says, changing the subject at hand. A knowing grin tilts at his mouth. “What about that boy you like? The one with the pink hair?”

Sol averts his gaze because he absolutely does not want to relate to his uncle in terms of unrequited love. He hasn’t thought about it for a long time. “We’re only friends. Besides, he’s too busy looking at my sister.”

“That’s rough.” 

Leorio leans against the bench to rest his arm along the backrest, looking towards the sun. He pats Sol’s head again, tousling his hair despite his protests. “Well, you’re plenty handsome yourself. Smart, too. I heard that you’re pretty popular with the other students in your department.”

Sol makes a face, despite that Leorio was only reassuring him. “You do know that they’re all at least ten years older than me. And that’s the last thing on my mind now.”

Leorio nods. “I guess I wish Kuroro could see you now. You’ve grown up well.”

Sol may never admit it, but he longs for that too. He has a father who is alive, but his father isn’t the one by his side when he needs him most.

“If you need anyone to talk to, I’m always here for you.”

Sol’s throat tightens up at that. “Thanks, Uncle Leorio.”

But this is something that he can’t involve anyone else in. His head feels a little clearer, with the pain of helplessness falling behind him. 

Anger flares in his chest at the reminder of Kuroro’s absence, but it eventually imparts upon him a new purpose. An ambition that burns bright in his veins and scorches at his core.

He’s going to accomplish more than what his father could ever hope to. 

Sol matches innate strength with his prodigious mind. He throws on his white coat, his ever-present companion in academia, the weight of it making him feel as though he’s living the life that Kurapika deserved to have. He synthesizes novel compounds and bends the laws of science to his will—whereas Kuroro seeks out myth and legend, he has the power of truth and time on his side. 

An entire year takes its toll before he develops a therapy. It’s a tiny thing contained in a glass vial, and he’ll make sure that a younger Kurapika receives it. It isn’t going to recover the lifespan that Kurapika has already lost, but it will surely mitigate the consequences of a weakened constitution. It will save him when he needs it most.

It’s not something that he could ever hope to tell Leorio or Runa or anyone else about. But Kurapika won’t have to lose his eyesight. He won’t have to suffer for years from an untreatable illness, only for him to give up his life in the end for his family—a family that Kuroro never deserved in the first place.

There’s no one else in this world who can do what Sol does and he will stop at nothing to get Kurapika back.

When Kuroro forces him by the throat against the wall, Sol doesn’t see it coming. The sudden haze of pain makes him choke for breath in Kuroro’s grip. A scream burns in his throat without any escape. 

Through stinging tears, Sol focuses on the man who is his father yet not his father, searching him as deeply as he himself is being scrutinized, and he finds the certainty of death. He can't be so sure that Kuroro won’t kill him, when his ancestors died for these eyes. Kuroro wouldn’t need to use Nen if he was so inclined to snap Sol’s neck. 

But Sol won’t resign himself to his fate here. He’s living to give Kurapika a better future and that’s the only thing that he’s willing to die for.

With a hand that isn’t desperately clutching at Kuroro’s own, he reaches inside his pocket, aura writhing at his fingertips. But with Kuroro staring at his eyes, he catches the faintest imperfection in Kuroro’s composure—so subtle that he wouldn't have noticed had he not been his son. 

The grip around his throat lessens, releasing him.

Sol’s throat burns, ripe with sensation. He can hardly wrap his head around seeing Kuroro so close to him, hardly affected by his presence. His father was only a distant memory over the years and now Sol can only think of him as a murderer. 

And yet, Sol still finds himself following him to where Kurapika is. 

He closes a hand around the bullets in his pocket, reassuring himself with their quiet hum of aura. There are two Nen-sealing bullets left, meant to incapacitate his targets. One was consumed when he missed earlier. He needs to conserve the rest and steal his gun back from Kuroro.

He tries not to evoke any more suspicion than he already has, especially with Kuroro beside him, but a sudden realization stops him in his tracks. Kuroro couldn't seem to care less about Kurapika, but the possibility that his parents are already seeing each other horrifies him. 

“How do you even know where Dad is?”

Kuroro glances at him, unconcerned. “I saw him in passing, though I can’t say the same for him.” It doesn’t sound like a lie, but he’s always been difficult to read. Difficult, but not impossible. “If I’m accompanying you there, I expect that you’ll work with me to find Hisoka afterward.”

The familiar swell of anger rises in his chest, pulses in his blood, and he wills it to calm. He’s not a Spider and he makes no promises. 

So he does his best impression of Kuroro’s indifference. “Depends on how it goes with Dad.”

Sol follows him into the crowd of affluent guests returning from what he concludes to be the banquet, melting against bodies flowing with silk dresses and finely tailored suits. If he plans this carefully, the Kakin princes should be returning to their residential quarters as well.

When the corridors are quiet again, Machi and Nobunaga make effortless work of the Kakin royal guards in their vicinity. More often than not, Sol has seen Machi’s threads pull people apart and put them back together but her movements leave him breathless when he sees how dangerous she can be. Not even Sol could escape their control earlier, when those threads tightened the air around him and constricted his limbs, with enough precision to shred muscle and bone.

Nobunaga doesn’t hold back a derisive snort when he finds him staring. “What, you have a thing for Machi or something?”

“That’s—” Sol is helpless against the heat rushing to his face. “That’s not it. She just reminds me of someone I know.”

Machi looks back for a moment, studying him with faintly arched brows. “Don’t go falling for me. It’s weird when you have Danchou’s face and all.”

Sol can’t bring himself to meet her gaze, trying not to show how uncomfortable he is beneath her scrutiny. He even looks away from Kuroro, who must find it ridiculous for his son to be so emotional. “Of course.” 

The passageway leading to the princes’ quarters is clear for them to proceed. Concealed behind a wall, Sol identifies the fourteenth door before them, where Woble and her associates should be arriving soon. He doesn’t even have time to think, because his breath tangles in his chest as the memory of a man steps into their periphery.

Nothing prepares him for seeing Kurapika again. 

Blond hair falls gently around his young face, the same as it always has. Fatigue and exhaustion shouldn’t belong in someone as young as him, but Sol finds the evidence of weariness in his frame, reminding him too much of the years that his father suffered from illness. 

The infant in his arms is undeniably Woble, resting against his shoulder with her full head of blond hair. Perhaps under different circumstances Sol would smile to himself, amused at seeing Woble so young, but the way that Kurapika gazes at her makes his heart ache. Queen Oito joins him not long after, accompanied by Bill, whispering her gratitude and taking Woble back into her arms.

Kuroro’s voice is only a murmur when he speaks, low in his ear. “You didn’t say anything about Kurapika having another child out of wedlock.”

His father is supposed to be perceptive, and yet Sol is finding him to be more and more insufferable as time goes on.

“That’s Woble, the fourteenth prince of Kakin,” Sol whispers heatedly. “She’s neither Dad’s nor yours!”

A subtle satisfaction flickers through him at the way Kuroro blinks at a loss for words, and he turns his attention back to Kurapika. Sol is in no position to be giving orders, but he does so recklessly, dismissive of whatever Kuroro has planned. “I'm going to talk to him first, so wait before coming in.”

Kurapika pushes the door open, allowing Queen Oito and Bill to enter the residence first. If Sol is going to announce his presence, it should be now. 

After the door falls shut, he forges onward. He stands in front of the door, one palm splayed against the ornate surface, and pushes. He's heartened at the memory of his father’s love, so warm that it burns at his soul. His entire body aches for it.

Sol takes only one step inside before he’s on the ground, a bullet flying past his cheek and striking the door.

He stares with widened eyes up at Kurapika standing before him, and his eyes are dark. His father has never looked at him like this before.

Kurapika points his gun at him like he’s an enemy.

“What are you doing here, Lucifer?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“That’s Dr. Lucifer to you.”

A familiar voice comes from behind them, sending a frisson of recognition over Kurapika’s skin. His head snaps back, and he stops cold at the face of the second intruder.

Kuroro Lucifer stands in front of the entrance to Prince Woble’s room, his forehead bound in bandages and his form clad in his emblematic fur coat, remaining constant from their last encounter. Beyond his unchanged ensemble, however, lie the differences in his demeanor. Kuroro’s complexion is gaunter than he remembers with a lingering pallor, his gaze stricken with an unfathomable expression when usually devoid of any sentiment, and Kurapika stares back wildly with burning scarlet eyes. 

“The kid earned his title, so we should address him appropriately.”

Kurapika apprehensively turns to the young man in his grasp, beholding his features and finding them highly familiar. The black hair falling across his forehead, the pale skin blighted by shadows beneath his eyes, the youthfulness of his face—as if he could be close to Kurapika in age. Where his appearance hails from is unmistakable, and Kurapika’s head spins from the impossibility of the sight before him. Besides sharing a namesake, these two may as well be the same person.

Taking advantage of his moment of incomprehension, the young man breaks out of Kurapika’s hold. “What are you doing here? I thought I said I wanted to speak with Kurapika first.”

Kuroro appraises him with dispassionate eyes. “I heard a gunshot, so I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.”

Kurapika takes a sharp step back, his hands slightly trembling over his gun. He can’t help the tremor in his hands, the throbbing in his temple compounded by the stress of overusing Emperor Time. His nights have been long, his leisure nonexistent, and their unwanted company is close to suffocating him. 

Amidst everything that transpired during the Kakin succession war, the presence of the Genei Ryodan in the first deck had gone unaccounted for. Were he confronted with only one of them, he may have had a chance of successfully navigating these circumstances, but not only are there two, he doesn’t know who this doppelgänger of Kuroro could be. Considering his unknown affiliation with the Spiders, Kurapika needs to tread carefully to ensure the survival of everyone in his association.

The doppelgänger raises his hands in surrender, addressing Kurapika in a calm voice. There’s a gentle lilt in the way he speaks, his voice not as deep as Kuroro’s own. “I’m just here to speak with you. I don’t mean any harm.”

It’s an unbelievable statement, but there’s no room for negotiation or discussion here. It’s difficult for him to breathe, let alone continue speaking. Standing in front of him is the man responsible for the slaughter of his clan—responsible for ruining his life—and he's fighting every instinct straining inside him to retaliate, suppressing his urge towards violence with the knowledge that his greatest responsibility lies in protecting his liege. He refuses to allow his emotions to blind him and provoke him into recklessness. Any mistake could prove to be fatal.

“What about him?” Kurapika manages to ask, keeping his voice level despite the panic rising within him. He turns his gun towards Kuroro, who remains unphased despite being faced with his weapon. As if he’s here to exchange pleasantries as a simple guest, instead of assuming his reputation as one of the greatest threats on this ship.

The doppelgänger glances at Kuroro doubtfully. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for Kuroro to seek Kurapika out for the two lives he claimed during Yorknew, but he claims otherwise. “He won’t do anything. Not as long as I’m here.”

It’s strange that this young man is speaking on behalf of Kuroro. Even stranger that Kuroro is allowing him to, despite being their leader.

“Why are you—”

Before Kurapika can ask what they want from him, an intense pain flares through his head. He nearly drops his gun, clutching his head with one hand against the sudden pain assaulting him. The power within his eyes is taking its toll at the worst possible time.

Cold, numbing fear paralyzes him. Not fear of the Spiders, but of what will happen to Prince Woble and Queen Oito should he lose consciousness here. He’s entrusted Bill with guarding them in the back of the room, and there’s no telling what the Spiders will do once they cross the boundary where Kurapika stands. 

Unexpectedly, Kurapika hears someone asking are you alright, but why would someone in Kuroro’s entourage be concerned for him? He forces himself to raise his head, and his vision suddenly blurs. The two versions he sees of Kuroro are coalescing into one, and he already knows what will happen next.

He can’t succumb to Emperor Time now. Not when the people he has vowed to protect will be left vulnerable and defenseless if he falls. He rebels against his instincts willing him to surrender, grasping onto his consciousness with a surging desperation. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, growing louder and louder with each passing moment.

Darkness encroaches upon his vision, and he finds himself helpless against it. A voice penetrates through his mind, difficult to hear above the pain pulsing through his head, calling Kurapika something that no one has ever called him before. 

The last thing Kurapika remembers is—

“Dad!”

And the world tilts.

If not for Sol intercepting his fall, Kuroro would have done nothing as Kurapika’s unconscious body hit the floor. 

Kurapika falls forward, his head slumping against Sol’s chest. Sol catches the soft scent of baby powder lingering on his clothes, making him somewhat wistful. Supporting Kurapika’s back with one hand and beneath his legs with the other, Sol sweeps Kurapika up in his arms as if he weighs nothing and carries him over to the settee in the center of the room. 

An indescribable emotion overcomes him at the memory of how Kurapika was the one who always held him in his arms as a child—only now it is the other way around. Has his father always been this light?

Sol feels the weight of Bill and Queen Oito’s attention on his back, and Kuroro’s indiscernible stare, as he lays Kurapika down. Dropping to his knees beside him, he watches over Kurapika carefully. 

If Sol was working under any other circumstance, his first thought would be: 

My dad is so cool.

His greatest mistake is working under the impression that Kuroro and Kurapika wouldn’t kill him. Sol is well aware that he’s an accomplished Nen user, having undergone extensive training and preparation to meet his father’s younger self. But nothing could have prepared him to face Kurapika’s murderous intent. Having been held at gunpoint twice, he realizes that his all-consuming love for his father has obscured his judgment.

It’s one thing to be unwanted and disregarded, and another thing entirely to be hated by the person whom he loves most. For all that Kurapika is his father, he currently is not, and Sol needs to will his emotions under control if he hopes to survive here.

Ignoring the ache in his chest, Sol concentrates on the matter at hand. He finds himself fortunate that Kurapika is unconscious, because this has given him the opportunity to check on his health discreetly.

His father is certainly the type to ignore his limits and work himself to exhaustion, but Sol recognizes that there is more to it. He places a hand on Kurapika’s stomach, searching for any sign of another life, and is relieved to find the absence of one within him. Thankfully, Kuroro and Kurapika have yet to consummate their relationship.

Sol chooses to ignore the questioning gazes behind him, lest they consider him to be more insane than they already think he is. There’s no way he can possibly explain how Kurapika would come to have a child, so it’s best to observe him for now. 

Weakened from Emperor Time, Kurapika’s sleeping form conjures painful memories. Memories of his body in eternal rest, surrounded by the fire poppies of his homeland. His face is calm and peaceful, with the preternatural beauty that death leaves on the faces of people who die young. 

Sol gently takes Kurapika’s wrist in his hand, wishing that he couldn’t feel how thin and bony he is. He clings to the signs of life in Kurapika's body—the rise and fall of his chest, the steady pulse in his wrist. His father is alive and he can still save him.

“Your Highness, wait—”

“You—what are you doing?”

Sol looks up at Queen Oito trying to approach them, BIll impeding her path, and he stands up to greet her. He may have only shown his shameful side to Kuroro so far, but he knows proper etiquette. Falling on one knee, Sol presents himself before Queen Oito and Woble.

“I greet the venerable Queen Oito and Her Highness, the fourteenth prince of Kakin, Prince Woble. My name is Dr. Sol Lucifer.” 

“A doctor… you say?” Queen Oito appears distrustful, holding onto Woble tightly in her arms. It’s understandable, considering all of the unexpected crises that have occurred so far during the succession war, especially resulting from unwanted visitors. “Why are you here? What happened to Kurapika?”

“Kurapika fell unconscious from the fatigue of overusing his abilities—and I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve seen this happen,” Sol explains, regretful of how Kurapika is already facing repercussions on his health. “I’m here to provide treatment to him. If you send for a physician from the hospital wing, he’ll be asleep for at least three days in his condition. But under my care, he should recover almost immediately.” 

“Who sent you? Why should we trust you?”

Queen Oito flinches when Sol takes her hand, but he gently raises it to his lips, pressing a fleeting kiss against her knuckles. He can feel her trembling, her skin cold compared to how feverish Kurapika is. When he looks up, Woble is watching him curiously with her round eyes.

Sol stands up and grabs Bill’s wrist, startling him. He does the same to him—pressing a kiss over the back of his hand and sending a small wave of aura through his skin. Heat washes over Bill’s face, reddening his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Surely he finds it to be a bizarre gesture.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Bill,” Sol says, reassuring him with a wry smile. “You’re not my type.”

Bill coughs in embarrassment into his other hand. “What’s going on? And why am I your uncle? I definitely heard you call Kurapika your dad too—”

The effects happen almost immediately. Queen Oito presses a hand over her forehead, closing her eyes tight at the dizzying sensation. It would only be an uncomfortable feeling lasting a second—not dangerous or threatening enough to Queen Oito that Woble’s Nen beast would emerge. Sol leads her to sit down on the chair beside the settee that Kurapika is lying on, and suddenly she looks drained.

Queen Oito opens her eyes weakly. “Is this Nen?” 

Kuroro raises a questioning brow. “Nen?”

“I can share my memories with other individuals through a kiss, as long as they’re the subject of those memories,” Sol reveals in a calm manner. Out of his arsenal of abilities, his memory Hatsu pays respect to Pakunoda—the aunt he had never met but the Spiders always spoke fondly of. “This would’ve been useful to convince you of my identity before you nearly killed me, but I don’t have any memories of you during my adulthood.”

Kuroro remains silent with this revelation. Using this ability on the other Spiders would have been advantageous too, but Sol doesn’t think that someone like Machi would take kindly to a strange man trying to kiss her.

“This has to be an illusion—” Bill struggles to comprehend the flood of memories arising from nowhere, strange and unbidden. Sol has imparted upon them the knowledge of his identity, his past, his relationship with Kurapika. “How can we trust you?”

“Coming from a future timeline, I have knowledge of how the succession war will end and the key to your survival.” Sol knows the best way to appeal to them in which there’s no room for argument. “But first, I need to treat Kurapika. I’ll tell you all everything you need to know once he’s awake.”

He doesn’t phrase his words as a request. He intends to care for Kurapika regardless if he receives permission, and no one in this room has the power to intervene.

Queen Oito looks at him with greater clarity in her eyes, as if she recognizes him distantly, but how could you truly know someone if they don’t exist here and won’t exist for another decade?

“You won’t—you won’t do anything to hurt him, will you?”

“Of course not,” Sol answers with a small smile. “He’s my beloved dad.”

“And you…?” Queen Oito asks, focusing her gaze on where Kuroro stands.

Kuroro silently inclines his head in a small bow. Queen Oito carefully looks from Kuroro to Sol to Kurapika, and he wonders what she sees in her eyes. Her lips part in surprise as if everything has fallen into place, and she doesn’t say anything else.

Sol procures a small vial from his coat, containing the therapy that will relieve Kurapika of the painful consequences caused by Emperor Time—in the present and for the precious years to come. He props up Kurapika’s head on a pillow, elevating him so that he can administer the medication, but finds that this might not be the most suitable method.

So he hands the vial to Kuroro, who accepts it with a vague sort of interest.

“I need you to transfer this to Kurapika,” Sol tells him, marking a slight pause with hesitation, “mouth-to-mouth.”

Kuroro considers the clear liquid in the glass vial, holding it up against the lights of the chandeliers. To anyone besides Sol, the therapy looks so ordinary that it may as well be water. “You’re asking me to kiss him.”

Avoiding his blank stare, Sol drops his gaze to Kurapika’s unconscious face. “It’s no different from CPR.”

“In that case, why can’t you do it?”

“Because you two are going to do much more than kissing on this ship,” Sol reveals, seemingly burdened, “and I’d prefer not to have to do this with my own dad.”

Sol reaches out for the vial, intending to take it back. “If you don’t want to, then I’ll ask Uncle Bill—”

Bill meets Kuroro’s dark stare, and he immediately looks away as if he wants nothing to do with this.

Unexpectedly, Kuroro evades his grasp and accepts the responsibility. “Fine then.”

Kuroro kneels down on one knee beside Kurapika, reminding Sol of the childhood tales of princes awakening their lovers from a curse. He unseals the vial and tilts it to his lips until it is empty. His hand goes to support the nape of Kurapika’s neck, and Kuroro pauses for a moment as if to take a careful look at Kurapika’s sleeping face, and he leans in to press his lips against his. 

It’s meant to be clinical, but the sight of Kuroro and Kurapika together irrationally warms something within Sol, whether he accepts them with each other or not—because this is what it means to see his parents together. Even Bill is unable to look away, peering in between the gaps of his fingers despite hiding his face in his hands.

They stay there for a while, a drop of medication spilling from the corner of Kurapika’s mouth. When Kuroro parts from the kiss, he wipes his lips with the back of his hand, murmuring something that only Sol can hear.

“Coffee, huh?”