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Leorio understands, on some level, that Killua was not raised right; he understands, on some level, that none of these kids were raised right. He knows this, has known this for a while because it wasn’t hard to figure out, but the thought is no less painful than it was the first time he had it, when he watched Killua’s little hands become claws, when Killua cleanly ripped a grown man’s still-beating heart from his chest and dropped it at his own feet, blank-faced and no longer present.
He gets it, even if he doesn’t want to, even if he wishes that he didn’t.
It is obvious to him in the way these kids do anything at all, but especially in the ways they handle themselves, because Kalluto has night terrors where he screams himself hoarse, fitful and frightening, unable to talk about them afterward and following Leorio around the house for the entire day afterward like he’s lost, afraid of his own shadow more often than not; because Kalluto holds so tightly to his hand whenever they leave the house that Leorio’s palms are often marked by his pretty nails, and it’s like he’s afraid to let go, pressed so close that it’s difficult to walk in a straight line down the market aisles; because Kalluto’s breath hitches in his throat when it’s too loud or someone’s too excited, overwhelmed and easily startled, fearful of the things he doesn’t fully understand; because Kalluto is quiet and because Kalluto watches, used to being nothing more than an ornament at his mother’s side.
Because Alluka cries loudly and frequently with sobs that make her little chest rattle, big and heartbreaking over things that matter too much to her, fits of emotion that leave her dehydrated and weak for hours; because Alluka phrases every question like it isn’t one, eyes wide and glassy like she thinks she’ll get in trouble for asking for seconds, for being tired or for being hungry, for pointing out things she likes on shelves when they shop; because Alluka bites her nails down to the quick and because Alluka shuts down so easily and, on her worst days, is almost nonfunctional, unused to attention of any kind when her mood shifts; because Alluka acts much younger than she is, padding lost and barefoot throughout the apartment, a shell of the child she should be.
Because Killua feels anger with his entire body, red-faced and agonizing, but holds it all in the back of his head, right behind his eyes, holds it heavy in the pit of his stomach until he can’t anymore; because Killua gets sick more often than any kid he’s ever met, feverish because he can go days without sleeping and often chooses to punish himself with the fact instead of facing his own head; because Killua hates no one more than he hates himself, grief and guilt misplaced and misshapen by things he never should have had to deal with in the first place; because no matter how much he trusts him, Killua won’t eat anything he hasn’t seen Leorio cook with his own eyes, hovering, most nights, in the doorway of the kitchen.
Because Killua shakes when he is touched, starting, always, in his fingers, almost unnoticeable and subtle in ways most things about Killua just aren’t, traveling steadily up up up until the barely-there tremble has reached his bony shoulders and taken root in the notches of his spine, unstoppable and unmistakable.
Leorio knows, really, that it is an understatement to say that these kids weren’t raised right, because that isn’t exactly it, because the words don’t sit quite right on his tongue. These kids were, simply put, not raised at all. Leorio isn’t stupid, even if it is easier to pretend to be, sometimes, because children who are loved do not have layers of cigarette burns on the bottoms of their feet. They do not have scars that form rings around their fingers or cuts that healed silver below their eyes, carved by pieces of expensive glass to prove to them how vital sight can be and how close they are to losing it; they do not have stories to tell of open palms to the face and knees to the soft, still-developing muscles of their abdomens, of bruises around their throats that took months to heal and a deep-seated knowledge of all the ways they can be hurt, drilled into their skulls before they’d even learned to read.
Children who are loved and cared for, safe and protected like they should be, do not behave this way, and Leorio wishes there was a name for this ugly, all-encompassing emotion greater than grief, but there isn’t.
Leorio returns from a thirty-six hour shift to silence. It’s not unusual for the apartment to be teetering on the edge of quiet, filled with the muffled humming of the tv, the static of the space heater, the creaking of floorboards and the clacking of beads as Alluka stims, pacing and knocking her hair pins together, the hushed voices of children that reside in the lull between dinner and bedtime, swallowed by dimmed lighting and the slow setting of the sun.
Tonight, though, there is none of this. Leorio taps the tips of his boots against the doormat to get rid of any excess snow he may have tracked in, slipping out of his coat. He spares half a glance at the wall clock in the kitchen as he hangs it on one of the entryway hooks.
10:33.
He furrows his brow and toes out of his shoes, nudging them haphazardly into place beside Kurapika’s red wool-lined flats, removing his well-loved knit scarf and looping it over his assigned peg. He plucks at his gloves. It is odd, for the house to be so silent, so still, especially on a Friday night, for the house to be so silent at all. It is by no means early, but it certainly isn’t all that late, either.
(Normally, he can hear Killua from his bedroom at the end of the hall, halfway into an hours-long phone call with Gon that will last well into the early morning and drive up his phone bill, conversation indistinct and muffled through the walls. Normally, he can hear Alluka singing and dancing just a little too loud in the little heeled shoes Leorio bought her for her birthday, clicking over the kitchen tile or bouncing behind the couch where the floor is the creakiest. Normally, he can hear Kalluto whining for her to stop even though he’s tapping his knitting needles together to the beat of her song, tucked beneath a blanket in the armchair and watching a show with the volume turned all the way down, repeating what he catches under his breath.)
He steps through the kitchen and into the family room, the small space lit only by the old yellowed lamp in the far corner, the glow nestled between window and couch. Kurapika, just back from assignment and still in his rumpled suit, is fast asleep, sitting half-slumped over the arm of the battered loveseat. Leorio ducks beneath the archway and crosses to him. He is usually content to let Kurapika get sleep whenever and wherever he can, especially on nights like these where the world is as quiet as it will ever be, but Kurapika is resting the weight of his head fully in his palm, neck craned awkwardly, and Leorio knows that he’s going to hurt from wrist to shoulder tomorrow if he stays like that through the night.
Tapping gently at the hand that remains in Kurapika’s lap, long, spindly fingers tucked between his thighs, Leorio speaks, barely above a whisper. “Sunshine,” he begins, soft and adoring, stroking over his knuckles reverently. He watches as Kurapika stirs, eyelids fluttering as he rouses from what may have already been his REM cycle. He makes a sleepy, disgruntled noise, cracking his dark eyes open to blink heavily at Leorio.
“Mm?” Kurapika rights himself slowly, joints popping as he moves, wincing as he rolls his shoulder back and flexes his arm at the elbow, wiggling his tingling fingers. “Leorio?”
“Hey.” Leorio grins, exhaustion heavy in the bag beneath his eyes. Kurapika rubs at his own eyes with his fists, yawning as he twists to crack his lower back. He drops his hands back into his lap afterward, breathing out in a rush of air. He is thick and foggy with sleep.
“What time is it?”
“Almost eleven.”
Kurapika nods and yawns again, large enough this time that his jaw pops in two places, standing with his fingers crooked in the half-knot of his tie. Leorio, too, rises from his crouch, arching backwards so his arms don’t hit the ceiling fan when he stretches. Kurapika slots himself at his side, necktie abandoned somewhere beyond Leorio’s line of sight. He wraps his arm around Leorio’s waist, and Leorio drapes an arm loosely over his shoulders as he comes down from the stretch.
“Have you eaten?” Kurapika murmurs, nuzzling into what is, essentially, Leorio’s sideboob. Leorio gives him a squeeze and a shake of his head, flexing the muscle just enough for Kurapika to shoot him a sour look through his sleep-ruffled bangs.
“I had something on my break around four-thirty,” he answers. Kurapika hums and lightly pinches the skin of his hip, admonishing. He knows that Leorio also got a legally-required break a little after eight but worked through it anyway, because he has long since memorized Leorio’s schedule, whichever form it may take. He doesn’t voice this, even though they both know it, because he also knows that Leorio could ask him the exact same question and dislike the answer just as much.
“Kalluto cooked tonight,” he says instead, soothing over the abused spot with his thumb. Leorio shudders, goosebumps rising where Kurapika has bared his flesh to the unheated room. “There should still be some in the fridge.”
Leorio hums thoughtfully, leaning further into the embrace. Kurapika, ever tactile, keeps moving his thumb in those slow, deliberate circles that make Leorio’s eyelids droop. Speaking feels like a challenge, his tongue thick in his mouth, but he does it anyway. “What did he make?”
“His own version of that stuffed zucchini and rice dish I got from that fusion place last weekend. The one he kept stealing bites of when he thought I wasn’t looking.”
Leorio snorts, nodding, and Kurapika easily falls in step with him as he begins the short trek back toward the kitchen, ducking, again, to pass through the archway. Leorio is glad, suddenly, that he had the foresight to shower and change at the hospital before he came home despite not being particularly gross, because he is much too tired to do anything other than eat and fall into bed, ready to sleep until well into the next afternoon. In a strange way, he is glad, too, that this thirty-six hour shift means he gets the weekend off.
Kurapika deposits him at the corner of the island, and Leorio falls into the stool behind him gratefully, all too aware of the persistent ache in his feet that hasn’t left him since hour nineteen. He sighs, tipping his head back as Kurapika putters about, socked feet swsh-swsh- ing quietly as they slide over the floor tiles. Leorio shuts his eyes.
Cheap silverware clinks against the faux-porcelain of a dinner plate. The microwave opens, and the plate scrapes against the frosted glass tray. Leorio breathes, deep and from his stomach, shoulders relaxing against the back of the chair. The microwave door slams back into place, deafening in the quiet. It beeps as it’s set and then begins to hum just on the side of too loud, the edge of the plate knocking against the plastic film with every rotation. Leorio unclenches his jaw, tension headache ebbing to a dull, ignorable thrum, and lets his fingers extend limply to brush against the wooden legs of his seat.
Two glasses knock together lightly, a harsh noise that rankles. Kurapika sucks air in through his teeth in an almost-hiss, quieter as he places them on the counter. The fridge opens, closes. Liquid hits the bottom of a cheap glass, shifting one cup into the other. The process repeats and the microwave continues to buzz, steady and grounding. The tapping on the inside door skips every other rotation, settling itself into a new rhythm as the off-sized tray shifts back into place. Leorio inhales, and the smell of spices fills his lungs. The fridge opens and closes again. Kurapika’s nails drum against the door handle, pondering, and the fridge opens and closes for a third time. A package crinkles, top popping as it's opened. Leorio cracks open an eye, vision blurry. Kurapika sits propped against the mismatched cabinets eating cherry tomatoes, lidded gaze locked on the microwave timer. Leorio shuts his eyes again.
The buzzing continues. The frosted glass tray jumps, and Kurapika tuts in irritation, pushing himself off and away from the countertop. His ring tinks against the tile as he sets his package down by the sink, scraping over the grout that spills asymmetrically over the lip because the apartment is cheap for the location. The buzzing stops abruptly as the microwave opens, replaced by a series of beeps. Cheap silverware, again, clinks against faux porcelain, knocking into the grooves that circle the rim. Kurapika taps the neck of the spoon against the risen outer edge once he’s finished stirring the rice and then the microwave slams shut again. Kurapika makes another disgruntled noise at the sound, louder in the absence of the space heater. The buzzing resumes. Leorio keeps his eyes closed.
Another minute passes, and the microwave beeps, loud and incessant, to signal the meal’s completion. Kurapika snaps the lid of his container closed, and hurries to make the room quiet again. The plate scrapes against the tray, and the microwave door slams shut for a final time.
There is shuffling. Leorio opens his eyes and sits himself up just in time for Kurapika to set his plate in front of him with that tired, lovely smile Leorio knows all too well. Kurapika passes around him, pressing a kiss to his temple before he takes the stool beside Leorio, sighing sweetly once he sits. Had he the energy, Leorio might be tempted to make a mess of the kitchen, leave his food abandoned on the island. He doesn’t, and instead settles for taking a bite of his still-hot zucchini and rice. The pork is underseasoned, the squash too soft and the rice too salty, but it’s the best meal he’s ever had, because Leorio is proud of Kalluto for cooking by himself. He makes a promise to himself that he’ll tell him how much he loved his dinner once he’s up, even if it did have to be reheated, and how sorry he is that he missed it. He promises himself that he’ll ask Kalluto to make it again, even if it is difficult to get down, as overloaded with the wrong amount of spices as it is.
Leorio reaches for his juice and swallows half of it in one gulp before taking another bite. Kurapika scoots his own sipped-at glass in his direction knowingly.
After a moment Kurapika leans against his arm, and Leorio instinctively laces their fingers together below the table, resting their hands against his jean-clad thigh. Kurapika’s hand is shaking in his grip.
“When was the last time you slept?” he asks softly, gently. There is no accusation in his tone, but concern is bitter on his tongue. Kurapika shuts his eyes, and Leorio looks back to his food, scooping another bite into his spoon. He leaves it on the plate, thumbing over the carvings in the handle of his utensil.
“You’re not going to like the answer, Leorio,” Kurapika finally says, fingers twitching involuntarily against Leorio’s knuckles. Leorio squeezes them gently, and begins to rub his thumb over the band-shaped scar on Kurapika’s forefinger.
“I know,” Leorio responds. He sighs through his nose, and drops it. He takes the bite. Kurapika exhales shakily, and, a moment later, slumps against him fully, breathing evening out.
Leorio finishes his food, turns out the lights, and puts them both to bed.
It is Kalluto that wakes him, clammy little hands patting at his face.
The world outside is terribly dark, moonlight and city pollution casting odd shadows up the walls, over the laundry chair, across the foot of the bed, along the curve of the dresser and the knicknacks that decorate it.
Leorio groans, heavy and sleep-thick and definitely too loud, curling his knees to his own chest and pressing his nose uncomfortably into his pillow. The hands pull back, fingernails ghosting over Leorio’s unshaven jaw.
His shoulders dip towards his ears, eyes shut tightly in what is, surely, a childish attempt to keep from having to wake up, something he well remembers doing when he was young. The phantom twinkling of a woman’s fond laughter rings in his ears, but all that really answers him is silence, save only for the whirring of the ceiling fan.
His muscles relax slowly as he shifts further into the awkward position, and, just as he begins to drift back off, the little hands start their rhythm up again. They’re more insistent this time, almost-cold palms pap-pap -ing against his cheekbone.
Leorio cracks his stinging eyes open with another disgruntled sound and, upon seeing the eight year old at his bedside, rises onto his elbows, blinking at the shadows that roll over the carved wood of the headboard. He swipes for his glasses blindly, and the clammy little hands retreat a little too quickly.
Kurapika shuffles at his side, but doesn’t rise.
He blinks the still-dark world into focus, and the angry red numbers on the clock read a far too early 01:07 am.
Leorio bites back another, more aggravated noise because it will get him nowhere even if it will make him feel better, and swings his legs over the side of the bed, pushing his glasses up to scrub his exhaustion-shaky hands over his tired, stinging eyes, dragging them down the sides of his face. He yawns and slumps over his own lap, elbows digging into the meat of his thighs as he tries to massage his body into coherence.
Kurapika grumbles in his sleep and shifts half onto his stomach, the quilt drawn to his ears.
Leorio stares at the analog on his nightstand until it turns over to 01:12 am. He considers just falling back asleep sitting up.
But Kalluto reaches out to tap at his wrist again, barely brushing the tips of his fingers over his skin before pulling away with a jerk when Leorio reacts a little too sharply, a little too sudden and a little too fast, dropping his hands back down into his lap to sit up properly. He is still too sleep-addled to think better of what too-quick movements mean in the darkness, what they mean to a child starved of affection.
“I’m up,” he mumbles, arching backwards into a stretch with his fingers laced together over his head. He pops the joints of his shoulders, elbows, wrists, and settles back over his thighs with a whooshing exhale, flexing his aching hands. His eyes adjust slowly to what little light is peeking in through the curtains. “Hey,” he yawns. “Did you have a bad dream?”
Kalluto stands in front of him, clammy little hands bunched in the front of his yukata. He shuffles his bare feet anxiously into the fuzzy rugs, toes curling and uncurling. He shakes his head, and his pretty curls, normally flat-ironed straight to tickle at his chin, bounce with the force of it. Leorio furrows his brow, and tries not to run a hand through his hair in frustration.
“What’s the matter, then, kiddo?” he questions, soft and low, voice a soothing rumble in the back of his throat.
Kurapika shifts again, rolling onto his back but not otherwise stirring. Leorio spares him a brief glance over his shoulder.
Kalluto hums a few disjointed sounds to himself, gnawing at his bottom lip. He twists his gown in his fist, bringing a hand up to tug at his ear a few times, thumbing over the lobe. His eyes dart to the side, and then back to Leorio, tongue clicking in sets of three inside of his mouth.
Leorio waits, because he has to.
“Killu got sick,” Kalluto finally says, barely a whisper. He moves his hand from his ear to his mouth, taking to chewing at his thumb instead of his lip, eyes big and nervous like he’s going to get in trouble. He picks at his fingernail with his teeth, and even in the low-light Leorio can see how much he’s gnawed at the nail bed, blood blooming at the corners of his cuticles.
Leorio sighs heavily through his nose and stands, joints popping as he rises. He runs his hands over his face again, exhausted.
“Okay,” he says, taking long strides toward the door. “Okay. Is he in the bathroom?”
Kalluto shakes his head and hurries after him, bare feet purposefully soundless even as he goes from rug to hardwood. His curls are wild, hair sticking out at odd angles. Leorio slows his pace and pets a hand over his head, mindful of knots, and Kalluto leans into the touch like a kitten. “He’s in his room.”
Leorio nods and closes the door quietly behind them. Kalluto fists his clammy little hands into Leorio’s sleep shirt as they walk, alert even though his eyelids are starting to droop a little, because he loves his big brother and is worried for him. Leorio wants to tell him to go back to bed, that he can handle it, but he knows that it will do no good, even if Kalluto will listen to any request as if it’s an order.
When he arrives, Kalluto gripping tightly to his shirt like he expects him to disappear if he isn’t touching him, he expects Killua to have a low-grade fever. He expects Killua to be coughing, grouchy about being awake and crowded at most, maybe even upset at Kalluto for making a big deal over what is, probably, just another minor cold, stuffy but overall present in the situation.
He does not, however, expect to find that Killua has puked half over the side of his bed and mostly into his own lap.
“Fuck,” Leorio swears. He clicks his tongue, and looks down at Kalluto briefly before continuing into the room, taking quick steps over to the sobbing, curled ball of a kid. Kalluto, thankfully, stays put in the doorway, worrying at his lip, little hands fisted in his yukata.
Leorio crouches beside the bed, mindful of the puddle of discolored vomit at his feet. Killua blinks at him hazily, eyes red-rimmed from more than his awful, stomach-aggravating sobs. He babbles something unintelligible, half syllables that don’t quite form, flushed and visibly delirious.
“Leorio?” Kalluto remains rooted in place, toes white and curled against hardwood. His lower lip wobbles, tiny voice thick with building tears and wavering further with every inhale. Leorio frowns, glancing his way for half a second. He reaches out to press the backs of his knuckles gently to Killua’s forehead; he’s hot to the touch, very, very feverish, and Leorio tuts worryingly when Killua leans heavily against his hand, into the cool touch of another person, his eyelids drooping.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Leorio soothes, partially to Kalluto and partially to Killua, brushing Killua’s damp curls back away from his face. Killua hiccups a shuddering breath that sounds like it rattles a bit in his chest, and Leorio’s frown deepens.
Kalluto whimpers from the doorway, beginning to rock anxiously from foot to foot, up on the balls of his feet and halfway to his tiptoes, one hand back to tugging a little too roughly at his left ear. Leorio exhales shakily, half-sighing as he scratches his nails lightly into the back of Killua’s sweaty head. Kalluto hiccups pitifully at the noise, and the floorboards creak with his rocking.
“Kalluto,” Leorio says, gentle but firm, and Kalluto’s big doe-eyes flit up to his briefly to show that he’s listening before dropping back to his shifting feet. His teeth are chattering, molars scraping over the swell of his tongue. “You did such a good job getting me up for this, buddy, you know? I’m really proud of you, but I think I’m gonna need you to go and wake Kurapika up. Do you think you can do that for me, sweet thing?”
Kalluto nods, frantic and jerky, and Leorio is a little worried that he’s going to give himself whiplash. He yanks hard on his ear and rocks back down onto his heels, and Leorio turns back to Killua as the pitter-patter of swift-moving feet take their leave down the hall. Killua huffs warm, shuddering breaths against his wrist, eyes big and glassy. He sniffles, pressing into Leorio’s thumb rubbing circles against his temple.
“Hey, Kiki,” Leorio murmurs. He uses his free hand to flick the bedside lamp on, shushing Killua as he flinches. “I know, buddy. I know it’s bright, I’m sorry. I just need to get a good look at ya and then we can turn it back off, promise.” Killua sniffles again, the next breath dissolving into another wet hiccup as Leorio leans in to cup his side. “Think you can sit the rest of the way up for me?”
(They’re still getting used to routine.
It’s the third time in a little over a month that Killua has woken them up like this, delirious and sobbing and wet, still, with his own vomit. Every time it’s been after Leorio’s finished a too-long shift and Kurapika’s just come home from an assignment that ran over.
Leorio thinks it means something that Killua only ever seems to get this sick after absences like these, once everyone is back together again. If he had to guess, Leorio would say that it’s probably something instinctual, base-level, something raw and buried deep, that makes Killua get this sick when he and Kurapika are there to help him, able to clean him up while he cries and rub his back as he shakes through a high, high fever.
Really, as far as Leorio can tell, this has been building all week.)
Killua shakes his head weakly, reaching out to latch loosely onto Leorio’s wrist. He mumbles nonsense into the heel of Leorio’s palm, blinking slow and lazy in the direction of his face. His nose scrunches, tears welling, and Leorio immediately stops trying to move him upright for fear of being thrown up on.
“Okay, buddy, that’s okay,” Leorio soothes, a little urgent, stroking over his sticky cheek with his thumb. “We don’t have to sit up yet.” Killua hiccups again, and Leorio spies Kurapika’s shadow as it shifts into his periphery.
“‘M sorry,” Killua warbles, tears spilling over his waterline. Leorio hushes him, smoothing back his bangs, and Kurapika shuffles further into the room. Killua’s eyes dart over to him. “‘M sorry, ‘m sorry-”
“Hey, hey,” Kurapika says, gentle, crouching, too, at the bedside, on the other side of the puddle of vomit. He places one hand over Killua’s leg, still tangled in his quilts, and begins rubbing in circles, resting the other in his lap to hold his robe shut. “It’s alright, Killua.”
“Din’ mean to, din’, I din’-” Killua babbles, desperate, like he’s trying to convince them, like he’s going to get in trouble for this, clawing frantically at Leorio’s wrist with blunt nails. Sound bursts like fireworks from his chest, heaving with breathless sobs that shake his whole body in between erratic gasps for air.
The floorboards by the doorway creak loudly, accompanied by tongue clicking in quick sets of three, and Kurapika tilts back to look at the youngest of their brood anxiously tearing at his fingers with wide, shining eyes. Kurapika rises into the popping of his knees to see to him, and Leorio lets him go.
(Leorio’s swallows, and it’s hard to breathe around the weight of whatever has lodged itself in his throat, because none of this is right.)
“I know, kiddo,” Leorio says softly, brushing a knuckle beneath the irritated skin of Killua’s big, red-rimmed eyes to catch his attention. It works, and Killua’s lashes flutter. “I know you didn’t mean to. It’s okay, you’re okay. Deep breaths, sweetheart, there we go.”
Leorio makes a point of inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, big and exaggerated, and Killua copies the action after a few harsh, choking gasps that get caught like bubbles in his throat, broken only by shuddering hiccups he can’t control.
Kurapika joins them again a moment later, shortly after Killua’s breathing has evened and his damp eyes are, once again, drooping. He side-steps the puke to sit at the foot of the bed by Killua’s knobby ankles, gently resting his palm over his knee and thumbing at the bone.
“Kalluto okay?” Leorio says, and Killua’s gaze drifts between the two of them, hazy and dull, half-listening and half-awake. “He was tearing his hands up pretty bad.”
“He’ll be alright,” Kurapika whispers, moving the heel of his palm in a slow, circular motion over Killua’s thigh. “I helped him wash his hands with the lemon soap he likes and got him tucked into our bed under the blanket with the tassels. He was fiddling with them and sucking on ice cubes when I left.”
Leorio nods, and turns his attention fully back to Killua. “Hey, bud. You with me?” Killua rumbles a little noise of affirmation, blinking his eyes open to stare at Leorio blearily. He smiles warmly, stroking over his cheekbone. “Hey there, little man. You wanna try sitting up again?” Killua nods into his hand, and Leorio leans in to help Killua right himself against Kurapika’s side. The kid goes easily, and Leorio, once he’s settled, shifts Killua’s grip around his wrist to his hand.
Kurapika tucks Killua more comfortably into his side as Leorio stands, muscles aching and multiple joints popping. He squeezes Killua’s hand affectionately before letting go to stretch properly.
“You wanna get him in the bath?”
Kurapika snorts fondly, playing with the curled, sweaty ends of Killua’s hair, twirling it where it rests just above his shoulder blades. They both know the answer already, just as they both know that Kurapika likes to be asked anyway. “He weighs as much as I do, Leorio,” he says, soft and warm. Leorio hums and nods, arching one final time to pop his back.
“Kiki,” he murmurs, rolling his neck beneath his own palm until it, too, cracks pleasantly. Killua blinks up at him, sniffling around snot and bile. “Let’s go and get you cleaned up, yeah? Kurapika’s gonna change your sheets and get you some medicine, that sound good?” Killua hums, and the sound comes out scratchy. “Coolio. I promise we’ll get you back to bed real soon, bud.”
Killua nods limply into Kurapika’s collarbone, half-asleep, and Leorio takes that as his cue to lift the skinny kid into his arms.
The bath Leorio runs is warm, and Killua settles into it easily, curled over his own knees. He stares blearily at Leorio as he gently washes the spittle and vomit from his face, feather-soft washcloth damp and cool against his raw, sensitive skin. Leorio rinses the cloth in cold water from the sink and brings it back to dab at the puffy underside of Killua’s gooey, irritated eyes, rubbing it beneath his steadily dripping nose and behind his ears afterwards for good measure.
“There we go,” he says, dipping the washcloth into the tub and wringing it out. He grins, bringing a hand up to brush through Killua’s fluffy curls, wetting them down a little. “Lookin’ better already, little man. You wanna sit and soak another minute before I do your hair?”
Killua nods, a barely-there motion against his skinned-up knees. His shoulders tremble with effort, and Leorio can clearly see a few of the lower notches of his spine with the way he’s sitting, balled up and shivering.
“Alright bud.” Leorio relaxes back into the vanity cabinets, tilting his head back against the faux-marble countertop. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
Killua nods again, tracing half-shapes into the bottom of the tub. Leorio lets his eyes drift shut, listening to Killua drag his hand through the water, breaths shaky and half-rattling like the beginning of a wet cough.
A minute passes, and then another, and another and another and another, and then the floorboards creak.
Leorio registers the shuffling of slippered feet directly outside of the bathroom door just before he hears someone knock, soft and hesitant. Leorio sits himself up properly, ready to stand, and the knob twists.
“Hey, Lulu,” Leorio smiles warmly, and Alluka beams sleepily through the crack in the doorway, mouthing lulu lulu lulu , little hands gripping the brass doorknob. She twists it a few times back and forth, eyes twinkling excitedly when it rattles. “What’s up, princess? You okay?”
Alluka nods, hair silent and free of beads for bedtime, and pushes the door open enough to squeeze through the crack. “Mhm,” she says, trying to whisper because it’s late and she likes to be quiet when it’s dark, dropping down to Leorio’s side and burrowing into his waist. Leorio rubs his palm over her back, smoothing the wrinkles in her nightgown.
“Did we wake you up, pretty girl?” Alluka half-shrugs and shakes her head, stills pressed into his side. Her nose digs uncomfortably into his lower ribs. “Okay,” he nods, accepting the non-answer for what it is and scratching lightly at her spine in comfort. “Anything I can do for you?”
“Wanted to check on Kiki,” she mumbles, the sound muffled by the cotton of his sleep shirt. She hums a few aborted clicking sounds in the back of her throat before pulling her face away and sitting up properly.
“He’s doin’ fine right now, Lulu. Kurapika and I are taking good care of him.” Leorio smoothes the back of Alluka’s sleep-frazzled hair down, and she leans into the touch, repeating lulu lulu lulu softly as he speaks.
“Did he get sick?”
Leorio nods. “Yeah, kiddo, he got sick.” Alluka peeks around him to look at Killua, hands fisted in his tee, smiling brightly at her older brother sitting slumped in the tub when she spots him. She turns back to Leorio when Killua barely acknowledges her, biting at her lip.
“You’re making him all better?”
“Sure am,” Leorio says, and Alluka seems to settle somewhat, clicking in her throat a few times. She plants herself in his lap, tilting her head back to look at him.
“Can I stay here with you?”
“Not tonight, Lulu. You need to go back to bed,” Leorio chuckles, bending slightly to kiss her forehead. She giggles, mouthing lulu lulu lulu , eyes scrunching at the corners. “It’s late. Kurapika and I can take care of Killua, so you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about it. Okay?”
Alluka giggles again, and turns around in Leorio’s lap to wrap her arms around his neck. “M’kay.” She squeezes him into a too-tight hug that Leorio all-too-happily returns, and Leorio presses another kiss to the crown of her head before she stands. “Night night, Leorio!” she stage-whispers, throwing her hands out and flapping her arms a few times. She turns to Killua next, and pats his head gently despite the energy thrumming through her muscles. “Night night, Kiki!”
“Night night, lovebug. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Alluka beams, mouthing lovebug lovebug lovebug , and slips back through the crack in the partially-open door, shutting it with a soft click behind her. The knob twists a few times, rattling the brass, and then Leorio hears a squeak followed by the shuffle of her slippers as she goes back to her room at the end of the hall.
Killua shifts in the tub, stretching his legs out so his toes touch the edge, right below the spigot. Leorio rises and crouches beside him, dipping his fingers into the water. Killua blinks at him, with eyes no less tired than before but seemingly a little clearer. Leorio smiles at him.
“Ready?”
Killua nods, and Leorio dips his head back gently into the water to wet it.
Killua is asleep before they’ve even finished tucking him in.
Kurapika flips off the bedside lamp and Leorio presses a kiss to still-damp curls before following his partner from the room. He leaves the door cracked when they step into the hallway, and every step to his own bedroom feels monumental.
Leorio yawns, so large that his jaw pops, and Kurapika snickers behind his hand, whispering old man into the spaces between his fingers just loud enough to hear. Leorio waves him off, and yawns again.
The washing machine buzzes in the closet as it runs Killua’s soiled sheets, and the noise is so soothing that it makes Leorio’s head buzz a little bit, too.
The clock reads 03:19 when he falls into bed , and Leorio sleeps until noon the next day.
He wakes with an armful of napping, feverish teenager, gangly limbs and unbrushed hair, drooling onto his pillow, stolen out from under him.
Figuring that he can wait a few more minutes before getting up to piss, Leorio pulls the blankets up over the both of them, and shuts his eyes for just a little bit longer.