Murderers Don’t Dance Part 1
A little Dancer x Dancer two-parter, featuring PhinShal with a garnish of Trouble Trio, because happy healthy polyamory is great. Part 2 Here
Fandom: Hunter x Hunter
Pairings: PhinShal, Trouble Trio (PhinFei, FeiShal)
Additional Tags: canonverse, some adult content
Synopsis: Murderers don’t dance. They’re not supposed to, anyway. But Shalnark does. Perhaps more surprisingly, once upon a time Phinks did too.
Just a musing on the two of them, the importance of body language, and the chance for drunk makeout sessions.
Here’s a badly kept secret. Shalnark and Phinks are murderers. Murderers don’t dance. They’re not supposed to do anything like that. They’re supposed to be miserable and furious. They’re supposed to be depraved and despairing, intent and, well, murderous. But murderers aren’t supposed to be human. They’re not supposed to smile, or love, or act without gravity. Sure, they can be wild. Maniacal. Hysterical, even. The Joker made it work. But there’s meant to be intent in their mirth: they’re meant to be always planning, always scheming, always taking things as seriously as the seven feet of earth their victims’ families dig to bury their loved ones. No one likes the idea that their death is meaningless. So murderers must, above all, be meaningful. They can’t be frivolous, or light hearted, because that makes all this a joke. It means admitting that these deaths meant as little to them as they did. Nobody can accept that.
So murderers don’t dance. They stalk with grim intent from place to place, scowling and shrouded in darkness. They aren’t people. They’re just monsters, reaping the souls of those allowed to live the whole dizzy range of life, from the earth-shakingly meaningful moments to dancing in the rain and sniffing sherbert and trying to eat spoonfuls of cinnamon just to see what happens. Except that this isn’t wholly true, is it? Nobody is one dimensional: not even the monsters under your bed. And the Troupe were never an ordinary gang of murderers, anyway.
Here’s another secret. Shalnark likes to dance. Everybody knows that he’s flexible. More than once, he’s taken off a head or three with an unexpected and anatomically improbable twist. He can bend, and he does, for the hell of it and the skill of it and the advantage that it gives him over opponents who are bigger and stronger than he is. In another world he could have done what he does when he’s bored for a living, flipping and somersaulting and tripping from building to building at night with Feitan and Kortopi to break in a new city just because they can. It’s no secret he likes the way he moves, either. He makes no effort to hide it, and the amount of time he spends stretching and bending and hanging upside down just because he can, it’s almost inescapable. Then there’s the athleticisim he shares with every other spider: their speed and strength and reflexes.
With all of this, the physical movement of dancing is easy. But the magic happens when his physical skill is combined with the talent of his mind. Shalnark is a manipulator. He knows how to play people’s minds like an orchestra and he’s been tuned in to the beat of liars and thieves since before he can remember having a name. The rhythm of power that ripples between every member of a crowd is a soundtrack that he’s been listening to all his life. He’s clever, and he’s wary, and it makes him an excellent observer and that helps with dancing. He can imitate easily, it’s how he learnt to do everything else. He can pick up a beat like breathing, and he knows how to go with the flow. Keeping people happy doesn’t seem so different to carrying a tune to him.
There’s even more to it than all this, though. Shalnark’s mind is a busy place. It’s loud and it’s suspicious, like a crowd on the precipice of anger, day in and day out. He is always vigilant and always tired and always wary and always, dimly, caught somewhere between anger and despair like a fly in the web of the spider that he so proudly wears. This is where the necessary seriousness of murderers comes in. There is that: it’s true. There’s enough fury burning through his spine and in his gut and somewhere deep and essential that could be described as the soul he consigned to hell years ago that lets him kill people smiling. If the blood of every person he’d killed had stayed with him he’d be drowning in it by now, and as it he’s been elbow deep. There’s a note that rings off key in the background of his life that lets violence dog him like a shadow. It’s a shadow to which he panders, tenderly. Violence comes easily to Shalnark. Hurting people is as simple to him as twisting them against each other, and he does both daily.
But he’s not just anger. His sadness isn’t just violent, either. And his mind is busy and loud: endlessly chattering ten different ideas at once, and whilst it helps him succeed on the narrow and twisted path he’s chosen it’s not peaceful. So he likes dancing. Because when he dances, it is simple, and it’s as close to peaceful as he gets. It’s almost violent: forceful is the word, without the pain or, endlessly, the little niggling glitch of guilt that spikes every time he watches the light fade from his victims’ eyes. He forgets that with laughter and jokes and neatly drawn lines between those he chooses to call people and those that are no more than tools. (It doesn’t always help.)
Dancing doesn’t have to involve other people. It doesn’t have to involve thinking. It’s just movement: instinctive and fast if he wants and slow too when he feels like it and if he turns his earphones up loud enough and finds somewhere quiet and far away from his fellow spiders it’s almost peaceful. It’s just a punching twist here and a kick there and his eyes shut and his chest heaving and sweat dripping down his spine. It’s his abdomen twisting and clenching with an exhausting strain that hurts with the sweet pain of exercise. It shoves the twisted knots that curl and tangle all the way from his gut up the hair thin fibres of the nerves in his spine and into his head and bite there, into the air. It gets them out, and there’s some kind of release happening and it’s something and if he shuts his eyes and jumps for a second it feels like he’s leaving the earth and every mess he’s ever been caught up in far, far behind.
So Shalnark likes dancing, in empty buildings with his headphones in and his eyes halfway to entirely shut until even his preternatural fitness is exhausted and he falls, fatigued and panting and sweating, into long langorous stretches that bend him double.
Here’s another secret. Phinks likes dancing too.
Phinks makes a lot less sense than Shalnark, to people who don’t know him. As people instead of murderers, Shalnark is the light hearted one. Shal makes jokes and laughs and teases and flirts, Shal charms and flatters and snaps witty comebacks and twists his body any which way he wants whenever he can. Phinks isn’t like that. Phinks is irritable, and easily offended. He’s eager to please but he’s awkward, and he can’t play the game of people and power half so well as Shalnark can, though then again neither can most of the spiders. Neither can anyone. Phinks isn’t flexible, he’s heavy. He’s strong: stronger than Shal, but it’s a density of muscle that doesn’t quite fit into the category of lithe that Shal has monopolised so well. Phinks is built like a brick shithouse. Brick shithouses don’t dance.
But Phinks is boisterous, and loud, and playful. Phinks likes laughter and he likes games, and like every member of the troupe he breaks the rule of serious murder. Phinks is competitive, and he’s proud but he’s easily impressed by the people who beat him. He loves physical skill a little for the competition and mostly for the sheer hell of it. He pushes himself, hard, as much and more than every other spider. He’s strong for a reason, and it’s because behind the spluttering and the irritation and the easy shouting and faster punches, he’s got a reservoir of willpower that’s the mental equivalent of molten iron. Phinks is easily dared, and he’s a quick learner. He’s not as manipulative as Shal, but Shal’s a world class manipulator.
Phinks is an athlete. He’s strong and perhaps not the fastest spider but he’s not the slowest either and that still puts him out of a population of nearly seven billion in the top 0.1%. He’s a good athlete, too: he learns games fast and that’s where the dancing comes in. To him dance, like martial arts, is just another more complicated game. It’s a kind of physical chess: a series of complex movements to be learned and then employed in specific orders to elicit a desired result. Phinks likes dance because it doesn’t get old quickly, no matter how easily he, as any member of the troupe could, picks up what he needs to. There’s always something else, because it never stops. As long as there’s someone with two feet and a beating heart somewhere there’ll be the same old movements and new ones being created. It’s a game he can never win so he loves it.
Plus there’s the side of things that he shares with Shalnark. Namely, the same glitch of regret that flickers through him with every death he brings to pass. Phinks doesn’t experience it with everybody. But sometimes he does, and he hates it, and he usually drinks until it’s drowned again deep enough in his subconscious for him to ignore it. He doesn’t stop killing. Neither does Shalnark. They’re the murderers in this story, not the heroes. But neither always likes killing either. Sometimes neither wants to hurt anyone at all. Even if they’re not trying, by this point it’s a thing that’s far too easy for them to do anyway. A normal person catching a ball that Phinks had thrown with even a fraction of his strength could lose their hand. There were only so many members of the troupe willing to humour him in his games, and they didn’t always have the time when he wanted them.
So Phinks dances too. But he’s been doing it for years, and he hasn’t told anyone that. No one alive now anyway. Phinks started dancing when he was 17, when the echoes of old fists haunted every waking hour and he had better things to do at night, anyway. Phinks had been killing since he was 14 and on his own since then, too. But he found a crew to run with before he evolved them: getting bigger ambitions and greater abilities until he’d left them so far behind that they didn’t even seem human any more. Like every member of the troupe, Phinks had never really known anyone like him until he met Chrollo Lucifer. Chrollo was their revelation and he wouldn’t go back for the world.
But he used to dance. When he was slower and weaker and mostly just an angry kid making it as best he could. When he wasn’t shouldering the burden of a loaded gun or rinsing bloody hands or running the poision of the month, and it wasn’t often, he’d drop into the clubs. Phinks was not always on the level of a Spider, but he was always strong and he was always fast. He was always special. All of them were. So he could dance like breathing once he’d watched it long enough. He learnt that he could bring in a tidy sum if he did it just right at the right time with the right people. Occasionally he’d enter something and he’d lap up the attention and the admiration that was so different to the fear he lived with. It gave him another dimension in the eyes of his followers, and sometimes it gave him their loyalty, because he became a human and not just a monster. (Monsters don’t dance.) Phinks knew this, but mostly he was a teenager with a hundred people screaming his name. He didn’t need to think about anything but the thudding beat running through his bones and the way it felt so good to stay on top of it and stamp his feet and twist and jump and touch people without hurting them.
Here’s another secret. Phinks watches Shal dancing.
Anyone else could not have slipped under his radar, and as it is it’s not easy. Every member of the troupe has strengths and weaknesses. Phinks is strong but not fast. Shalnark is observant and fast but not strong. He’s one of the more difficult spiders to tail, which is why he’s assigned missions where Chrollo needs subtlety. Feitan gets those, too, as did Pakunoda. Phinks could not have trailed him if he hadn’t known him as long as he had, and as it was it required all of his not inconsiderable concentration. But he did. He wasn’t totally sure why.
The first time had been on instinct. Something had been off with Shal. Phinks thought that he was getting better at noticing when that was the case. Since Uvo. At first Shalnark acted like it was nothing. Then he got quiet, and Phinks hated that the most. Even Kortopi had seemed upset, as much as they ever did in front of anyone. Shalnark got smaller, somehow, and darker. Not in a strong way, either, like villains could. Just dim. As if the charge that had kept him running for so long was running low and wearing thin.
But after that. He’d started to spend more time with them: them being Phinks and Feitan. It had just been Feitan at first, and Phinks hadn’t really understood. They’d spend hours getting drunk or having soft conversations or reading beside one another as if it was normal for any troupe members to be so...unguarded with each other. At first Phinks had just been jealous. Feitan had never been so gentle with anyone but him and certainly never in public. Not as often as he was with Shalnark.
But then, shyly and occasionally even blushing, Shalnark had begun to gravitate towards him too. There was a certain pride, in being chosen by someone so fickle and wary. Like earning the trust of a wild animal. So when Shalnark slipped into the spot beside him and, cautiously, nudged his elbow, it took everything Phinks had not to overreact. As it was, Shalnark laughed at him. But he relaxed too.
Phinks knew it was Uvo’s ghost at work here. With the exception of Franklin, he was closest to what Uvo had been. He was certainly the strongest, now, and his enjoyment of life for the sheer hell of it could have been the closest in the Troupe to Uvo’s own philosophy. It was what had made them friends.
Shalnark and Uvogin’s involvement was no secret to any Troupe member, though Phinks was fairly certain that with the possible exception of Nobunaga, no one knew exactly what it had entailed. Whether it had been a committed relationship, or something more casual, or just intimate friendship; even unrequited on one side or another. No one dared to ask now, anyway. Either way. When Shalnark slipped very quietly into his room, six months after Uvo’s death, he pretended not to wake up. He pretended not to hear him crying either.
So something had been up, and Phinks had been worried. Because that was what he did, he worried, especially about those nearest and dearest to him. That category was pretty much exclusively reserved for the Troupe. As mad as they could drive him: and truly, murderously mad, too, he loved them in a way anyway. Again, he was pretty sure that none of them understood it entirely. So when they’d disbanded, and Shalnark had flitted away with a half mumbled excuse about getting a drink to clear his head, Phinks had followed. Nobunaga had pissed off immediately: he’d been fairly irritated for the whole mission anyway. (He wasn’t taking Uvo’s death well either, but Phinks couldn’t care for him too.) The rest were on another continent.
Maybe that was why Shalnark had let his guard down.
Phinks had an idea of what he was going to see before he saw it. He caught the thudding of feet on linoleum, and very very softly the tinny sound of headphones turned up too loud to strictly be healthy. By the time he got to the door, he could hear the weight of Shalnark’s breath. He stepped onto the threshold in time to see him leap, twisting in the air, eyes shut. It was hard to tell if it was tears or just sweat that went flying in a little arc with his movement. Phinks chose not to think about it.
After that, it became a habit. Phinks was sure Feitan suspected something, though he knew his lover didn’t know what it was he suspected, exactly. Phinks wasn’t sure what it was himself. But there was something about Shalnark; raw and unguarded and lithe and graceful, twisting and leaping and downright shining whether it was under electric lights or the last rays of the falling sun, that was impossible to look away from. That, and the fact that Phinks liked dancing too.
He was watching, then, one day, and he recognised the song he could hear dimly from across the room. Normally, it was just a tinny thudding, but now Phinks’ memory matched up the pieces and played him the music between his ear. He smiled a little, resisting the urge to tap his foot as he watched Shalnark move to the familiar beat. And then Shalnark tried a Collapse.
He sank smoothly enough at first, and Phinks assumed he knew the move. But in the last fraction of a second he stiffened, back going rigid where it had been curved in a perfect arc. He hit the ground with a thud, wincing and laughing softly at himself. Phinks raised a hand, fingers spread. But then he let it fall. After all, stepping in would be giving himself away. He flushes a little. He’s not sure how exactly he’d explain that.
Shalnark fishes his phone out of his pocket, re-starting the music and wandering back to the corner of his latest practice studio, stretching his arms above his head. He falls back into the routine again with comfortable grace. Phinks is sure he’s choreographed each song he dances to, but whether in the first place Shalnark improvised or just copied someone else, he’s still not sure. The inclusion of a move he obviously can’t manage yet could honestly stand to be proof of either theory. He could just be testing himself.
The beat drops, and Phinks braces himself. Shalnark falls backwards, but this time he bends his legs less than he did before and loses his balance with a yelp, thumping down onto his ass. Phinks has to press a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. Which is when Shalnark reaches up to take out an earbud. The tips of his ears are pink, and his hair is a mess. He doesn’t turn his head, just glances from the corner of his eyes at the exact spot where Phinks has been hiding.
He huffs, and growls, “if you’ve got something to say then say it, Phinks.”
He’s dead. Sweating, Phinks steps out of his hiding place with his palms raised and facing outward. He goes for a laugh that is so stilted it’s funny, and Shalnark’s mouth jumps up at the corner as he stands and brushes himself off. He quickly schools his expression though, raising an eyebrow and resting one hand on his hip.
“Oh. Uh. How long have you known I was here?” It’s the first thing on his mind. He figures there’s not much point trying to explain himself. Shalnark snorts.
“Past six months, right?” He taps his lips, looking up at the cracked concrete ceiling of the building they’re standing in. “It was...May 5th, I think?” Phinks gulps, feeling dread settle heavily into his stomach. Shalnark’s gaze slides down and slices back towards him. “Don’t underestimate me, Phinks.”
Phinks’ mouth is dry. (It’s really unfair that that expression is as hot as it is.) When he can, he breaks Shalnark’s gaze, going pink and anxiously rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh. Right.” Shalnark watches him. His mouth curls at the corner again, as if he can’t help himself. Outside, birds caw and flap into the air. It’s a still day and not a big city. They’re far enough away from the centre for the traffic for it to be a soft, distant roar. It’s a little cold inside. This place has been abandoned for months, at least. As much is obvious from the mould and broken windows.
“I’m not mad.” Shalnark says it as if it’s funny. Phinks jumps, dropping his hand from his neck and shoving both into the safety of his pockets. Shalnark laughs at him, softly, covering his mouth with one hand. His eyes crease at the corners when he does. “You’re kind of cute when you’re shy, you know.”
Phinks starts at that, irritated. “I’m not shy!” he pauses, gritting his teeth. He doesn’t know why his heart is beating as hard as it is, but it’s annoying. He looks down at the dirt and dust scattered on the floor and mutters, “I’m...”. He heaves a heavy, begrudging sigh. “I’m sorry.”
Shalnark laughs again. “Don’t sound so sincere.” Finally, Phinks looks up to meet his eyes. He offers a wry grin. “If it bothered me, I’d have stopped you months ago.” He winks. “So both of us were kind of playing each other, you know?”
Phinks doesn’t, really, but he slumps, relaxing and relishing the relief it gives his aching shoulders. He hadn’t really realised how tense he was. It was weird. Even if he was being an asshole, he never normally cared this much about what other troupe members thought. He’d said as much to Feitan a few weeks ago. Feitan had looked at him like he was stupid and muttered, “he isn’t just a troupe member. Not to us.” Phinks had decided that he didn’t understand what he meant, and Feitan had huffed and let it slide. The conversation ran through his head now, though, as Shalnark turned his back on him and walked across the studio.
He was wearing his tight, sleeveless black undershirt and loose pants. His vest lay discarded to the side. Phinks’ gaze caught on the sharp curves of his shoulder blades, the slick slopes of his upper back, gleaming with sweat... Then he looked away, flushing. Shalnark was talking, and it took him a moment to catch up “ - so I’m guessing you have an opinion on how to do this.”
It doesn’t take him long to catch the point. As he tells Feitan daily, he’s not as stupid as everyone seems to think he is. (Shalnark doesn’t.) “Oh, right. You were trying to do a Collapse?” He doesn’t really need to clarify, but Shalnark blinks and nods, looking surprised. Phinks huffs. So much for not being underestimated. He shrugs off his jacket. “It’s pretty easy, actually.”
Shalnark scowls. “Yeah? Prove it.”
Phinks smirks. “I was going to.” And he does, leaning back and letting his knees fold, holding his weight in his thighs and calves and curving his back, right up until his shoulders touch the floor and he lets himself fall. He gets back onto his feet in one easy jump, loving his sneakers. He turns to Shalnark, proud and grinning, “see? Easy.” Shalnark glances away, but not before Phinks catches the slight dusting of pink over his cheeks, or the way his lips were parted. Phinks’ own cheeks get red all over again.
He rolls his shoulders, bodily turning away from Phinks and playing with his phone. He pulls out the headphones and the sound rings tinny and half quiet. It’s enough. Shalnark glances back up at Phinks, and he looks sort of shy. Phinks is pretty sure it’s the first time he’s seen the expression on his face, and he isn’t sure what to make of it. But then Shalnark tosses his head, letting a smile spread over his features as the rhythm picks up and he spins, dancing on the balls of his feet. Breathless, he says, “you know how it goes, right?” He jumps into a turn, landing with easy confidence. He catches Phinks staring and says, “it’s kind of weird if you just watch now, Phinks.”
Phinks is considering that and the idea of joining in. It makes butterflies roll in the pit of his stomach. Shalnark isn’t nice enough not to laugh at him if he looks like an idiot. It’s part of why he likes him. But it makes him nervous, too. He guesses that’s hypocritical, he’s been watching Shal for long enough. But. Shalnark shuts his eyes, laughing, and the music rolls and ripples towards its climax. And Phinks can’t help himself. He steps in between heartbeats and Shalnark crashes into him, eyes still shut.
Shalnark jumps, startled, missing a beat and opening his eyes to stare, caught off guard. Phinks catches him, hands falling easily to his hips as if this is something they’ve practiced. The music rises and falls with an electronic hiss, and Phinks isn’t exactly thinking when he moves one hand up to support Shalnark’s upper back and dips him, but Shalnark bends and lets him and for a moment they’re face to face, and Shalnark’s hair is brushing the stone floor. He stares, and Phinks is pretty sure he stopped breathing at some point, but his feet move of their own accord with the familiarity of old movements and he stands and spins him. When they let go, it’s like a cord snaps, but Phinks slips into the music and rolls with it, and after a moment spent too long staring Shalnark does the same, picking up the thread of the dance. Together, they just move.
It feels good.
It doesn’t take Shalnark long to get the hang of the Collapse. But after that, there’s a sort of an unspoken invitation that Phinks can follow, if he wants to. He doesn’t always. Sometimes he stays with Feitan, and ignores the question in his eyes and the glances Shalnark throws back to him. Sometimes he goes, and without really talking about it, they end up shifting into a routine, practicing things that work better with two. Phinks doesn’t tell anyone, and he’s pretty sure Shalnark doesn’t either.