[That's what he would do, normally— let Kurapika have his space and leave him be until morning came around and they both felt better. Felt normal again. It's clear that neither of them are, and even if neither of them speak a word of their inner turmoil, it's a shift that can be felt in the air between them. A feeling that runs bone-deep.
The bed groans beneath Akira's weight. Kurapika, curled up on his side, takes up no room at all. He looks so small, so alone, so frail. This isn't the Kurapika he knows.
The bed creaks, evening out when Akira's weight lifts from it, but a minute later and he's lying down beside him. Back to back, they can at least share in each other's warmth. Goodnight, Kurapika.]
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The bed groans beneath Akira's weight. Kurapika, curled up on his side, takes up no room at all. He looks so small, so alone, so frail. This isn't the Kurapika he knows.
The bed creaks, evening out when Akira's weight lifts from it, but a minute later and he's lying down beside him. Back to back, they can at least share in each other's warmth. Goodnight, Kurapika.]