A/N: For Frog-kun; happy birthday you dork! (You're one year older, HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL 8D) Thank you for always putting up with me; I love that we're so similar, I love that we flail together about ridiculous things, I love that you're the Beat to my Rhyme, the Lloyd to my Colette, the Fai to my Kurogane (fffft) and thank you thank you thank you for being such a good friend to me and such a questionable brother, too. XD I love you lots and I hope this fic will make up for all the stupid things I've done in the past and probably will continue to do :'D Until then, stay awesome and stop losing your virginity to different anime characters please. XD DORO RABUS YOU~
where do we begin;
They never use guns to kill. Or knives, nor do they use swords or daggers.
The whip, occasionally. Or perhaps a wooden stick. And Illumi uses pins. But the use of a gun is never needed. Never. It's cheating, they say. We pride ourselves in using what we've been given; our hands. Cheating. Like bribing someone or paying someone to do your job for you in order to get all of the benefit. Like writing or speaking in a foreign language no one but you can understand, just to get ahead of the others. The gun is a fatal weapon. It kills instantly; it's easy to use, and it's just one click of a button. It makes the whole process easier. Killing could never get easier. Aim a couple dozen at a standard army and they'd almost certainly be dead within hours. And it would be especially easy for the members of the Zoldyck family. But of course, the guns—and knives, nor swords or daggers—are simply never used.
Killua is five years when his forehead meets the cold, hard barrel of a black, sleek rifle.
"Ain't so strong after all, eh?" There is something disturbing about the way the man says it. His teeth are a dull shade of yellow-brown and his cheekbones are hollow and he's wearing ratty, torn clothes that smell like milk having rotten for months. The barrel of the gun trembles as it's held, and it is easy for Killua to tell that this man is not experienced. "I'll let you go if you're willin' to pay up," he continues to say. His voice is shaking and his breath smells of alcohol.
Killua says nothing.
"Huh. Hotshot, huh?" The man hiccups, readjusts his hold on the gun, lowers it just a bit. "You don't look scared. You ain't a normal kid; anyone else your age be screamin' into the night for their mommies now." He grins. "Ahh, whatever you're doin', it must be for the money. Mighty young for a job like this, ain'tcha?"
Killua is five years old. He whips his arm across and the rifle falls to the floor. The man in front of him trembles.
"Okay, okay," he slurs, voice trembling, shaking. "You win, kid—I give. I—I, uh—"
But his sentence is cut off, and so is his head, when Killua extends his fingernails and the deed is finally done. There is blood gushing out from where the junction separated and it pools around his sneakers, staining the laces a dark crimson. It's nothing new; he's seen it before. It's never new, and it will never become old.
He watches the limp, lifeless body for a while, simply wonders. Human bodies; such frail, frail things. Killua remembers the man's words.
"Mighty young for a job like this, ain'tcha?"
Killua kicks his feet in dust. The night is long and dark and he still has three more people to kill but when he looks up the moon id dyed in red. The sky is littered with everyday's sparkles and the lights decorate the town with a faint, reassuring glow. He looks back down and only realizes how much time has passed when the blood is dry and is already beginning to crack just the slightest. To the left, the rifle gleams and reflects the moon-dyed-red. It beckons Killua closer, closer, closer—until Killua finally picks it up with three fingers, his fingernails scratching delicately at the barrel.
The words ring again, the voice raspy and engraved vividly in his mind.
"Mighty young for a job like this, ain'tcha?"
"You're never too young to kill," he murmurs quietly. He crushes the gun in his hands and drops the pieces. The night dark. The streets are lit up. The moon is dyed red, and the stars are like miniscule specks of dust cluttering in the sky.
There are still three people left to kill. (And Killua is five years old; not five years young.)
There is a nice old lady that always smells of rice crackers and she sells goods at the market every other week. She looks older time after time but Killua likes her, visits frequently whenever training is over with. There is no reason to it, but he does anyway. He is eight years; meeting her is a secret.
"Baa-chan," he calls, and she turns around, her hair grey-turning-white but with the same crinkly smile that Killua has already finished learning to love.
She shakes her head sagely. "Skinny," she says. She tugs him close and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Too skinny. Eat more," she says to him. "Food." And that is all she has to say before she turns back around to set up shop. There aren't many people that look at her wares, but Killua would buy them all. He would.
"Killu." She reaches an arm out and makes an accentuated arm gesture. "Come, come." She brings him to the back and fumbles around in her wooden boxes. Killua waits patiently before she turns back around, a sheath presented in her hands. He looks at her and she pushes the object into his hands. "Take good care of it," she whispers, the sound soft and wispy in his ears and Killua's eyes shine. Hers glimmer back at him, full of life, full of trust.
He unsheathes it and almost stops breathing. It's a beautiful, short blade, engraved with pretty designs and reflecting his own face so clearly it could almost be mistaken for a mirror if not for the obvious shape.
And suddenly, he is reminded of blood-stained hands, of remorse and ruthless murder that he commits. Of shrieks and howls and of people, crowds of them, and he swallows and it is so, so very hard to do so. "I—"
"I know." The old lady taps a bony finger to her temple and smiles, so, so sadly for him. "I know, Killu."
He hears words that represent nothing but truth, and he wants so much to tell her—to thank her, to tell her that he's appreciated everything she's done and just for being there.
It is only selfless pride that holds him back when he takes her hand instead of embracing her. He swallows hard and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
He remembers her smile. This time it is a different smile and she grasps his hand so tightly. "So young," she murmurs, "and yet so old. Bambino, where is your childhood?"
Killua says nothing; his throat is choked but it's not because of that but because he doesn't understand what she is talking about. But he figures he doesn't have to. He'd give all of that up in the world just to linger in her warmth for just a little bit longer.
(Meeting her is a secret.)
"You've been going to town a lot, hm, Killu?"
Killua flinches a little bit. "Oh. Hm, yeah," he tries to reply offhandedly. None of them need to know. It can be his secret; it is his secret—and it will stay his secret. Baa-chan doesn't need to get involved. She doesn't.
"Training?"
"Sometimes."
Illumi takes Killua's face into his own hands. Killua trembles. Illumi's eyes are cold and soulless, like a thick drop of ink that swirls one into a never-ending vortex of despair. Like a starless sky and darkness abound.
He whispers. "You're not telling me anything. Enlighten brother dearest of this past week's absurd musings, hm?" His gaze drops to the item Killua is holding in his left hand. "What's this now?"
Killua moves his hand out of Illumi's sight. "Nothing."
There's a swift jolt to the side of his neck. Killua's eyes widen and he breathes, sucks in as much air as he can, and it feels like his world is blurred, feels like he hasn't really breathed until now. The knife is wrenched out from in between his fingers and he drops to the floor, panting and gasping for air. Beads of sweat hang themselves and cling to the skin of his forehead.
"A knife." Illumi turns the object around in his hands and lets out a whistle, impressed. "This is quite the antique, Killua. Wherever did you get it?"
Killua coughs and tries to stand, but his knobbly knees do not cooperate. Illumi's gaze flickers to him, and then back to the blade. "I'm assuming you retrieved this from your...training?"
Killua stares, nods slowly.
Illumi sighs. "All right," he says, and Killua's muscles loosen just a touch. "I'll let you off today. Father will be back soon; we've got another client. Be ready by then." Illumi tosses the knife back at Killua, and he catches it deftly. "Pity," Illumi mourns. "I'm expecting you to be rid of the knife by tonight."
"It's not like I'm going to use it," Killua mumbles.
"Then why keep it?" Illumi's feet glide across the floor soundlessly and stands at the door to the room. "We don't use weapons, Killua. You know this. Gone. By tonight. Keep defying orders and swim with the eels again tonight. They do enjoy your company."
He's out that night, and there is a scream. There are always screams, but this one stays in his head, and it resets and plays, as though it's been recorded. His mind replays it like a broken record; the sound is distinct, ringing like clear, silver bells on a brisk, glassy evening, like it's the only sound playing in the world. Like everything else is muted and in grey scale and that is the only aspect of it in colour.
The shop's lights are still on, he notices. Maybe he'll wander in and chat with Baa-chan before she closes up. But when the door swings open, Killua feels the familiar aura of a murderer in the area and realizes there is something very, very wrong.
"Baa-chan?" His voice grows from soft to rushed and frantic. He jumps over the counter and pushes the back door open and the first thing that hits him is the ugly stench of blood. The scent is strong and it wafts up his nose and his eyes are wide and there is Baa-chan. Baa-chan is lying on the floor on her left side with her insides torn and with blood splattering everywhere. Her eyes are open and her skin is pale and Killua feels like screaming and his hand is grasping at the knife in his pocket, running trembling fingers over the swirly pattern—Baa-chan, Baa-chan, Baa-chan.
"Killu. How good to see you here."
Illumi's voice shatters the still atmosphere. Killua can hear his soft footsteps this time around, can hear everything. His senses are accentuated and he is alert. He flinches when he hears Illumi's chuckle.
"I was just going through her stuff," he muses. "She carries around beautiful things, doesn't she? But of course, you wouldn't know. You've been a good boy and you've been training every single day."
Killua turns around. His feet are paralysed and his breath is caught in his throat, not wanting to believe.
Illumi keeps talking. "We could sell her things and get them for more money. I wonder where she finds them. Ah well, no matter. We'll come back tomorrow to retrieve all of this."
"You... you killed her?"
Killua's voice is small and sad and so very lonely.
Illumi's facial expression hardens. "She's been helping you acquire human emotions. Killua, you were born to kill. Born to destroy. Your hands are not meant for helping." Illumi sighs. "And I'm guessing you still haven't gotten rid of that ridiculous knife. It doesn't matter anymore anyway; we'll just sell it."
Killua's mouth is dry. His throat is hoarse and words don't seem to want to come out.
Illumi nudges him back into reality. "Let's go home."
Killua has to swallow the dry lump in his throat before his feet unglue themselves.
The next time Killua visits the shop, the blood has been cleaned up and closed. He walks in and runs his fingers over the dust-layered cabinets, the shelves, now empty, and the counter. He remembers her gentle, wrinkled hands; remembers her wrinkly smell that he had finished learning to love.
Baa-chan is no more.
Later that evening, during dinner, Killua realizes that his food tastes of salty tears.
Silva Zoldyck questions the knife a few months later on Killua's ninth birthday.
"Explain," he says, with arms crossed and a levelled stare that Killua quivers at.
There is a sullen silence. Silva is waiting for an answer; Killua for a way out. The silence is thick with humidity; thick with an irritating atmosphere and sullenness.
"Killua."
"The knife—" Killua chokes over his words. Silva listens intently. Kilua continues. "This knife," and as he says this, he clutches the handle tightly, "is my last resort." He looks up; repeats. "The weapon of last resort."
Silva barely quirks an eyebrow; he does not understand.
"When I have to take it out, it is an admittance that I've failed." He swallows. "It means I've failed."
There is a silence then, and instantly there is the familiar bubbling of hate. Of hate for his actions, hate for his words, hate for his damn family who never understands—who never tries to understand—and for his father, his brothers, his mother—who all try and try and try (even when he doesn't want to) to make him do this. And so he hates, simply because he was never born to love. Never born to feel.
His fingers clench the small, black sheath in his hands. It keeps me sane, he wants to say. It does. It keeps me sane and I'll be damned if you take this away from me, too.
But before he can say anything else, his father is laughing. His father has his head thrown back in laughter and his entire body is shaking with the effort.
Killua is so angered that he leaves the room promptly and slams the door shut. His blood is pounding in his ears and the blood lust is creeping up his throat, into his face and finally, reaching his eyes. All self-control is forgotten, and he runs down the hall to his room and screams. It is loud and painful, telling an untold story of how he had tried to protect and it had failed, utterly failed, simply because his hands weren't to protect but to kill, but to drown in the scent of blood and to feel pride in his actions. The scream reaches the ears of everyone in the household and nothing in the world seems to matter anymore.
(Silva doesn't move from his position. His laughter dies down after a while and mutes to small, quiet chuckles. He can see the hate in Killua's eyes, can feel the fury building. He's never seen it before. Silva smiles, confidence tracing his smile and utmost pride lacing his initial emotions.
"You've grown," he notes, eyes soft and fond and full of faith.)
And it does matter. It does, it does it does. It matters so much to him that sometimes he doesn't believe it, himself. The scenario reruns itself in his mind a little too abruptly, a little too sharply, filled with vivid details and beating hearts, pulsing blood, and it haunts.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Like it's beating too quickly, and all too sudden it's slowing down and speeding up and Killua has no idea which to follow; the part that keeps him sane or the part that lusts for the spillage of blood. In the end he through with both, splitting half of his entirety and separating them so that the two will never meet paths again.
Thump.
Thump.
...Thump.
And as such, it does matter. Killua sees the remnants of the wrinkled, old smile. And as such, it matters. It does; it does it does it does.
When Killua turns twelve, he leaves home.
(Finally, finally finally.)
The Hunter Exam is an event well-known and well-spread; an event that comes once every year. Killua doesn't know what he's going but wherever he goes it has to be away; away away. So that no one can find him. So that he won't want to be found.
Up until now there had been rigid chains bound around his wrists, around his feet, along the broad of his back and curling around his neck. Breathing had been difficult; breathing in too deeply sent a sharp pain ran through his ribcage and pounded at his lungs, his heart.
And when he's realized it, he is standing in a clunky, run-down noodle shop, demanding what the heck he is doing and he's been looking for the Hunter Exam and not a place to drown himself in food (but of course, if said food was the equivalent of chocolate, that would be a different concept altogether). He's brought under, down to another location, and it feels like a new page of a fresh, new journal; like opening a child's new storybook and breathing in the smell of fresh air and feeling the flower petals fly across his face.
(Everything starts from here.)
And then he meets Gon.
(Gon, who is naive and a bit air-headed. Gon, who is a nature freak and who gets upset when the birds and skies hate him. Gon, who is almost foolishly honest and is willing to tell anyone and everyone about himself. Gon, who never gives up. And this same Gon, who sees past Killua's own and calls him 'friend'.)
The only thing that hurts now is the clenching of his stomach muscles when Gon accidentally hooks his fishing rod to the back of Leorio's underwear and even though it hurts, it's a good kind of hurt.
The word carves itself into his head and Killua smiles hard, really hard, and Gon laughs with him, tells him that his smile is bright—as bright as the sun, maybe. Killua stares at him for a while, until Gon asks him what he's looking at, and his response is 'your stupid face'. Gon lunges at him in protest and Killua laughs and laughs and laughs.
'Friend.'
It's not about the past anymore. And it hadn't been—it had simply never been. The memories he'd kept in the past meant nothing in his future. And now it's different. Before, Killua had to pretend. Killua became a tool; not a person, but a weapon that was forced and ordered to shed blood as a living.
And Gon—
Gon came along and made him feel like he didn't have to. (And that was really, really all he wanted.)
Owari
2011.04.18