─ Kurapika & Chrollo x writer!reaader
─ summary: Your literary works seem to be attracting the most curious people, standing out for your rawness and bitterness towards life.
─ Warnings: sad reader, kinda gloomy thoughts about life, reader inspired by Clarice Lispector
This was requested by @alicedash2 (love u pookie :p)
The night's chill pricked your exposed skin, not too intense, but enough to send a slight shiver through you, the night was still, the stars shone with a peaceful quiet, the only thing offering a faint warmth being the half-finished cigarette between your fingers.
You were exhausted, you had squeezed every last drop out of your brain, writing new ideas, rewriting old books, unfinished projects, meaningless scribbles, all just to feel something, to stop feeling so empty, so hopeless, it was a way to cope with the burden of sadness your heart carried.
You didn't just limit yourself to writing to rid yourself of the negativity in your thoughts; you also had a book signing —your books— which left you mentally drained, overloaded, and stimulated. You need the tranquility, the bitterness of your solitude, to recharge that little bit of energy and write again.
It was pure chance that Kurapika found you here today, he didn't know much about you, aside from your most famous books, he hadn't read much, but what little he had read moved him enough to want to know a bit more about you. He was there during the book signing, observing your small smile, a smile meant to express happiness, but which didn't, it was just a smile, not a happy one, not a sad one, just there.
He recognized the raw, bitter, lonely look that expressed a torment of presumably negative emotions, he recognized it because he, too, had felt that way at some point in his life when he thought he was lost, that revenge was —and is— the only way to feel anything.
"It's too beautiful a night to be this quiet, if you're here, it's for a reason, am I wrong?"
Your voice cuts through the silence like a knife, not soft, not rude, but direct, Kurapika feels a brief moment of embarrassment at having been caught staring at you so brazenly, but he quickly recovers from your words, clearing his throat. You don't meet each other's eyes, but you both acknowledge each other's presence.
"I was just wondering… about certain parts of your recent work, is it inspired by something personal? I feel like it perfectly captures the feelings and the harshness of the world, almost as if I could feel like the character."
You let out a murmur of understanding, letting his words sink deep within you, reflecting, recalling all the words you write every day, some more heartfelt, others meaningless, some more generic, some more convoluted…
"I wouldn't know how to answer you, I only know that I write so as not to torment my mind any longer; real experiences are mixed with fiction, I don't necessarily tell personal things; all I do is strip myself of all my senses and feelings, and mold them with ink and paper."
Kurapika nodded at your words, he understood what you were saying because you expressed it in your writing as well. He could identify with the sadness emanating from you, from your slightly hunched posture, from your distant gaze. He found familiarity in your writing, felt a connection with the quiet sadness that surrounded you, understood you perfectly, almost as if you were two sides of the same coin.
"I see… your book is unique in its own way; it's made me think about a lot of things about myself."
"I'm glad you can feel it, even if you don't necessarily understand it."
Kurapika offered you a small, genuine smile, he certainly understood negative feelings more than he understood them, and it was refreshing to find you, as an author, so aptly captured that rawness, depression, bitterness… without any ceremony in your writing.
Chrollo was always curious about new things, things out of the ordinary, completely captivated by philosophy and ancient texts. He found you, a small author slowly but surely making a name with your short books, full not of fantasy, but of reality, of everyday life, without ceremony, straight to the heart of the matter, without mincing words. Your writing was… somehow simple and complex, conveying so much with so few words.
He did some research on you, of course, curiously, in all the interviews he found about you, which were rather few, you always seemed downcast, as if you didn't want to be there, as if you belonged to a quieter, more peaceful, darker world… your words left a bitter taste, both when heard and read. You didn't intend to sound sad, you were just direct, but it was always there, the quiet sadness clung to you like a little devil, so you simply let it live with you and embraced your depression.
Your eyes scanned the room, it was a small café that seemed full, you gave up rather quickly, deciding you could go somewhere else, but Chrollo recognized you immediately. Your gaze said it all, and he wasn't going to waste the opportunity to speak with one of the authors who was slowly captivating him.
"Please, allow me to invite you to my table, I would appreciate the company of one of the writers I've been reading most lately."
You hadn't expected to be recognized, not many people knew of your existence because your books had only reached a very specific audience. Chrollo led practically the entire conversation, curious about your thoughts on certain topics, current, historical, more general, or more specific, he savored every answer you offered, analyzing each of your words just as he did in your books.
"Your mind is incredible, you shouldn't stop writing."
“I don’t plan to stop, it’s the only thing that saves me from drowning in my thoughts, the only thing that keeps me sane, the only thing that makes me feel anything, when I don’t do it… everything is empty.”
Chrollo hums at your response, he understands what you mean, he feels that same emptiness, that sense of insignificance in his own life. He thinks, just like you, that everyone in this world is disposable, that they’re only passing through life, some last less time, others longer, but all are destined to perish regardless of their circumstances.
You reflect this so well in your writing that he thinks you really should consider yourself a philosopher. You deny it. You don’t want to make people think; if anything, you want them to feel, and above all else, you just want to stop feeling dead inside when all you do is write, your only way out of cutting your time on earth short.
“We should meet again sometime, I’ve enjoyed your company, and I’d like to read a preview of your upcoming books, if possible.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t mind.”
You offer a smile; it’s not happy, just polite. You don’t care if your work is read, because its purpose is purely personal, but you also don’t care about recognition. You’ll remain the same even if you become a famous writer; fame won’t fill your void as well as writing does.
