I apologize for the ridiculously long wait. The response to this fic from you, my hot-assed readers, blows my mind. Thank you. I have a dark, twisted imagination and I cannot stop it from running wild.

I'd like to leave some room in this A/N to thank my beta, Petit L, who has always been my most diligent supporter/cheerleader/mentor, right from the start. You are made of awesomeness, man. This chapter is dedicated to you.

I don't plan to go on with this rambling because this chapter is freakishly long already, and I'm a bit insecure about it. Critique is mightily appreciated.

Two more songs that I thought would fit: Memories by Within Temptation and Cold by Crossfade.

Enjoy.

25. Frenzy

I had never in my life been somewhere so gray. It was like when you adjust the color from 'vivid' to 'movie' on the TV, and all of a sudden the color just goes off somewhere to die, leaving behind some faded grayish mockery of a color in its place. It was depressing. I'd been in the police station for less than twenty minutes and I already felt sick.

My heart was pounding and my lungs were burning and a nervous sweat had broken out in all my most unglamorous places. I was dropped into another waiting room which had the temperature of a freaking sauna and its disturbance matched my nervousness level. The sensation settled in the back of my brain, burrowing deep and coating itself in the hundreds of other thoughts racing through my mind. It was there, like a mass of cells dividing and growing, becoming part of my neural networks and making itself at home. I shook my head, hoping to clear away the whirlwind of thoughts as I focused on my hands—and waited.

"Excuse me, Miss Kudo?"

I looked up to see a beautiful, blond-haired girl holding out what looked suspiciously like a double-shot green-bean macchiato with a shot of mocha and extra cream.

"Oh, you look stressed," she said that with just the right amount of concern to prevent me from scolding her in the rudest way possible. "I'm Aimi. I'm an assistant here. Would you like me to get you something to drink?"

"Hey," I said not looking at her but eying the cardboard cup dubiously. "What are you drinking?"

"A double-shot green-bean macchiato with a shot of mocha and extra cream," she answered.

I gave her a nod, impressed. "That's exactly what I figured."

She chuckled soundlessly. "Are you here to see Killua?"

I stifled a frown. Something was off with the way she said his name.

"Do you know him?" I found myself asking.

"Not really, but I've met him before in the past."

Huh?

Before I could inquire what was that supposed to mean, Marcus popped in with the confirmation that it was time for me to enter the room. He made sure to ask me if I'd like to drink something too, but I refused. My stomach was still not ready to accept anything right now.

I shrugged off the conversation I had with this girl for the meantime, knowing that it wasn't important to deal with when I had better things to focus on. Things like facing the Zaoldyeck I had waited my whole life to meet.

I could almost see the look of the serious-derision on his face, and I was horrified to realize that before I even set a foot in that room, I would have the overwhelming urge to slap him. The last thing I needed was to give him ammunition. He was deadly enough without it.

Stay cool, I hissed under my breath as I paused outside the door and tried to pull myself together. For the love of God, and your tenuous grip on sanity, stay…cool.

I closed my eyes and inhaled a few deep breaths, desperately trying to calm myself. It was at this point I realized 'desperately trying to calm myself' pretty much meant 'work myself into a bigger frenzy' and I mentally slapped myself for being such an idiot. Then I started fantasizing about mentally slapping him. Then actually slapping him. Then throwing him on the ground and kicking his douche-baggery right out of him.

Oh heck, stop that already.

I grinded my teeth in frustration.

So much for maintaining my professional composure.

"You ready?" Marcus asked softly, his cold hand on the small of my back.

"Definitely not sure," I said shakily. "Mind if I borrow your gun?" Marcus gave me a skeptical look. "It'll make me feel better," I explained. He sighed, but handed me the gun nonetheless.

"Thanks," I muttered. The weight of the weapon was comfortable in my hand despite the bad memories of my father that came along with it. I always hated guns because of him. I always refused to even get close to the drawer where he used to keep it in his office. And now I was requesting a gun. Things had changed a lot.

Marcus cracked the door and carefully pushed it open. Surprisingly, it didn't squeak or betray our presence. I strode into the room, flustered and furious, and I could feel Killua's eyes on me even before I saw him. I know I was probably scowling like a crazy-person but I was beyond giving a damn at this point.

I resisted scanning the room to look at him because, well…that was what I wanted to do, and one thing I'd learned with Killua was to push down my natural instincts, or at the very least, ignore them. That was probably how things got screwed-up between us sometimes in the past. Me thinking I could have something from him when, in fact, he offered me nothing.

Despite my efforts, I couldn't stop my eyes from skimming down to glance at him. Handcuffed, he was sitting on a chair, hands across his lap. His face was damaged, covered in cuts and bruises that had yet to fully form. He was pale, not as bad as me obviously, but quite a difference from his normal coloring, which was surely a result of his captivity.

His eyes were the same as I knew them. Mesmerizing. Intense. Damn, I'd forgotten. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and I cursed my stupid blood vessels.

"Here. I brought her to you just as you requested," Marcus said coldly. "Happy?"

Killua kept his look fixed on me. "Very much. I'm just holding myself back from jumping out of joy," he replied with a straight face.

Same old. Sickly sarcasm.

"I'll give you two some privacy," Marcus stated. He exchanged a final look with me, making sure I was holding it together. I thought a simple nod would do the work, but Marcus needed two before he stepped out of the room making sure to eye the gun in my hand as a warning for me not to be a reckless numskull.

I sighed, slowly turning to the boy I was left alone in the room with.

I cleared my throat repeating his surname back in my head along with the definition of his true identity, feeling something scratching at the nape of my neck. My skin was hot―sweaty. The air between us was suddenly filled with awkwardness and neither of us knew quite how to respond to the oddity of our current situation. He studied me, waiting to see what I would do.

I did nothing, but put down the metallic weapon over the table that was resting between the two of us, and sat on a chair across of him, wriggling my hands, pondering what to say and how to begin.

I tried to think of something to break the ice, but suddenly, I had zero topics of conversation in my head, which astounded me because when I was not with him, my head was full of questions burning for answers. Now he was here and obviously open to trying to explain himself, and I was blank. Wildly nervous.

I gazed at his fingers. His thumbs were slowly rubbing against each other, his hands tense and restless. I wouldn't look at him. I could feel his eyes on me, contrite and sincere; but if I looked then he'd crawl inside of me and never leave.

I looked at the table. Much safer. Boring and stained, but safe.

A few moments of quiet passed before he spoke gently again. The square-shaped room was very small, the noise of silence was high, but even through the increasing liquor haze of my mind I could hear his words with crystal clarity.

He leaned forward, closing the space between us.

"How have you been?"

Wow. What a letdown.

A hard leaden weight settled on my chest. "Shut up," I said quietly, balling my hands into fists on my lap. "Do me a favor—" I looked up at him. "—and shut up."

Something flickered behind his eyes. It made my insides tingle.

"I'm really curious to know though," he admitted softly, and despite how derisive his words sounded to me, his voice wasn't sarcastic anymore.

"There's no need for you to know," I muttered with an edge of building anger.

"There's not?"

"Why do you care?" I blurted out. We locked eyes for one beat, but he didn't answer. "Didn't think so," I continued, my tone impossibly bitter.

He let out the first sigh for the night, and I could tell he was frustrated.

Good. Join the club.

"Is that really what you think?" he asked me then. "That I don't care?"

I thought about it a second before responding, "Yes, that's what I really think. I don't think you're capable of caring. All you know how to do is manipulate. It's not the same."

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It's a shame you have this impression."

I almost reacted by turning to meet his eyes but kept my focus on my hands when I spoke, "I need answers."

"Ask me whatever you want. I promise I'll be honest." His voice velvet and smooth, like running silk over all my senses.

"You could have done that from the beginning."

"I couldn't," he retorted immediately. "It wasn't an easy choice for me to just speak freely about who I am—uh, used to be, in front of you. Not only because of the shame, no. Also because I knew that I'd miss my chance in… um, getting to know you better. And I can assure you such distress to you was not my intention."

"Getting to know me," I echoed like a confused parrot, realizing I was losing any control I might have had over the situation. Which was turning out to be not very much. "Why did it matter so much?"

"Because you always interested me," he conceded.

My eyelids fluttered and I found myself smiling to myself.

"You don't believe me, do you?" he asked monotonously but it sounded more like a statement than a question.

I sighed heavily. "I can't tell when you're telling the truth anymore."

"There's no reason for me to lie to you now after this point. Not that I ever did that before."

My chest engulfed in warmth. "You didn't?"

"No," he confirmed.

So what we had, it all meant something, I wanted to blurt out. But I kept that to myself, because even if he confirmed that one too, I doubted that it would change a thing. Nonetheless, I couldn't shut down the voice of the little girl inside of me, who constantly needed the reassurance to carry on, and I couldn't keep my eyes from reflecting the confusion and the helplessness I was feeling because of my unfortunate racing mind.

Since his one-word answer, he'd turned silent and tense, palms rubbing together, shoulders hunched. I guess he was thinking about what he was going to say next. That made two of us.

Over the years I'd thought a lot about what I would do if this day ever arrived. Now that it was here, I didn't feel any of the gloating vindication I thought I would. I felt nervous. For both of us.

We just sat there, so much history and memories hanging between us. So much heartache and venom and crossed-purposes, and I was under no illusions that our chat tonight was going to erase the past or rewrite our present.

He grunted and I could see the hard set of his jaw, the way his Adam's apple seemed to be choking him. For all his strength and bravado, his crippling insecurity was lurking just beneath the surface.

"When I rehearsed this conversation in my mind, I rehearsed it a lot," he admitted, "I was a whole lot smoother. There was very little silence involved."

Over-rehearsing is just as bad as under-rehearsing, I wanted to reply. It was strangely comforting, knowing that his current condition matched mine exactly.

"How is it that after all this time you still affect me like this?"

I blinked. "Like what?"

"Nervous and calm at the same time. Crazy and serene. Feral and civilized."

His condition perfectly matched mine.

"If it's not too late, can I speak my mind?" he asked.

"Go ahead."

"Look, I know that telling you this now won't change a damned thing but I need you to know." He awkwardly shifted his eyes across the room. "This is the first time I get to be in this place, in this situation. I've never experienced this before," he started, his voice low and smooth. "There's always been this part in me. I don't know if it's in my heart, my soul or somewhere else. That part has always been unknown to me. Undiscovered. And you found it. For the first time, you made me realize it. You made me know more about who I am and where I am. I never knew that part even exist, I never knew that I'd be able to just… have it. I had no idea." He breathed in, shaking his head. "And I don't know if you can understand what I'm saying."

I leaped up from my seat and paced the room.

I could understand. But I chose not to. I wanted him to stop talking, to stop explaining himself in a way that might make me retreat. I needed him to stop messing with my thoughts, and with the determination I was holding into, but my curiosity tingled to hear, begging me not to say anything until he was finished.

"You are someone I felt like I should follow, because that part ordered me to. I knew I should follow and protect you in every way possible. I knew that I should always be strong to do that." He paused, slowly rubbing his palms together, seemingly lost in thought. Like he was reliving a tender emotion and revising the memory of it.

I knew I was standing like a pillar of stone, my heart battling with my mind, constantly and with no reprieve. I knew that no matter what he said, he wouldn't be able to make yesterday's pain seem tolerable or manageable. Not so easily.

If there was a second chance for me to give at that point, it would be one to talk. I owed him this.

He looked at me, calmly and expectantly. I had no intention to speak yet, having a feeling that he still had something more to say.

"Sometimes… I imagined you as a fragile glass doll, something I needed to be careful around, that might be shattered to pieces with one wrong touch, probably because that was the only memory I had for you in my mind. A fragile child. I couldn't bring myself to break you."

"But you did break me," I eventually said, my eyes latched onto him. "You broke me beyond repair. It would have been much easier if we never met, if none of this ever happened. You were so selfish because you let it go this far. You made the choice hard. If I knew the truth from the beginning, I wouldn't have made so many mistakes."

His eyes narrowed. "…mistakes?"

"Yes, mistakes. I desired something thinking it was so beautiful, yet it turned out to be more twisted that I'd thought. But even though, I dared to dream." I scoffed at the thought, smiling bitterly. "That was my first mistake. Deep inside, I saw this end badly. But even knowing things were futile, I kept a burning fire of hope in the little place of my thoughts. You made me so happy, and I'll never really know why. But you did. You, and you alone. I thought this happiness would last and never fade. And that was my second mistake."

He looked away, avoiding my stare.

"And now I self-destructed into a thousand irreparable shards of who I used to be," I continued softly, my hands uncontrollably shaking. "And nothing can put me back together."

He finally met my eyes with a stark, trapped gaze; no expression upon his face at all. "What's the third mistake?" he asked in curiosity, but I already knew that he already knew the answer.

"It doesn't matter now."

"Yes it does. Why can't you say it?"

"Because there's no point in stating the obvious," I answered.

"No, because you don't believe it was a mistake."

Something clutched at my heart hearing that. And I wasn't sure if it was because of the pure certainty in his voice or because of the anger that followed me when I considered the truth of the simple statement.

"Not true," I said anyway. "I believe it was my ultimate mistake, and I've never been so ashamed of anything my entire life."

His eyes widened slightly, a hint of pain could be seen underneath the façade of his normally blank expression. "Is this all because of my identity or because I deceived you?"

"Mainly because of your identity. The two options are actually related. You deceived me because that's who you are, that's what you learned how to do. You manip—"

"Do not say manipulate!" he cut in loudly, and I winced, despite myself. The particular word seemed to have a powerful impact on him. "I did not manipulate you. And no, that's not who I am. I'm not a normal Zaoldyeck. If you're claiming to have such an intact memory, then put some effort in remembering the night when we met in the streets, few weeks ago. I'm telling you, none of my family members would care to notice a girl in need for desperate help. A normal Zaoldyeck wouldn't give a damn."

"I hardly was desperate to—"

"Get the point, Yuki," he interrupted strictly.

"You want me to count on that one night," I replied angrily. "Alright, let me ask you a question."

His response was quick. "Fine."

I reached for the metallic chair again and dropped heavily onto it, leaning forward. He maintained an expressionless countenance as he regarded my movements.

"That night," I started tardily. "Let's assume that I got outside my room a few minutes earlier and saw what you were doing to my family and attempted to stop you and tried as hard as I could to get in your way. Would you hesitate in killing me?"

He arched an eyebrow; the question obviously took him by surprise.

"Tell me. Wouldn't you kill me, as brutally and hideously as you possibly could within a matter of seconds?"

"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "No." He frowned, gritting his teeth like he was biting down on them. "This is not fair," he interjected hoarsely. "You can't count on that either. I was nine, for God's sake. My choices were not exactly wise and fool-proof. And not exactly mine."

He was right. God, what a weird situation this was.

"I can't believe I agreed on doing this." I shook my head, my hands squeezing my waist.

"Calm down and let's do that," he replied, gesturing at the chair for me. "Sit down, if a normal conversation is what you wish for us to have." He waited with his hand still indicated at the chair. I stalled for a minute, reviving back my composure by taking long deep breaths. "Sit down," he demanded again and I finally compelled.

"Do you still want to hear about my past?" It astonished me just how his personality seemed to change all of a sudden and swallow the whole place up. "Fine."

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. I looked at his face, so serious, so focused.

"Let me take you back to when I was younger, when I had the mind and the naïvety of that nine years old kid. I was taught not to expect people in this life to be saints and heroes, that there should be a room for balance where evil reigned and that the world craves, perhaps even demands, balance. Give and take. Plant and harvest. Yin and yang. I spent the first twelfth years of my life questioning my family's reasoning, trying to accept the fact that it was destined for me to reside with the evil and that having the absolute power of being the heir would probably be a good thing so—"

"Hold on." I blinked in confusion, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. "You are the heir? I didn't know you are the eldest son."

He seemed annoyed. "I was the heir. And no, I'm not the eldest son. They thought I had the most potential to be the heir."

I crossed my arms and went back to my silent mode. "Go on."

"Sometimes—No, most of the times, I didn't really believe in my own excuses or in my family's, I told myself that this kind of assassination was really not that bad at all, that this was so I could purge the evil I consumed all. That killing the murderers and rapists and criminals and peculators must surely be my gift to society, so what could be so wrong? Sometimes, when I felt especially cocky, I'd tell myself that this was what society owed me, that this was all part of nature's balance."

He stared at me, expecting a certain reaction to his words. When he found none, he kept going.

"I had my nights of bad. I did not find the idea highly satisfying because what I wanted was not the foulness of criminals or to let my family interfere with my life choices, so I decided to be different. I can't say that in one night I became more normal than temperamental assassin. No matter what, what I did to people followed me wherever I went."

"So when you told me that you left your family at the age of twelve, you were being honest?"

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "You're so fucking stubborn. I never lied to you, and it's your choice to believe that or not."

"Why would I?" I countered harshly. "You had me fooled for weeks."

He rubbed his hands over his face and groaned in irritation. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"I'm not judging you—"

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm pissed at you! You dragged this on and on, with no intentions of telling me. I was this close to falling in lo—"

"Don't say it," he said, his voice so low I barely heard it. "Yes, I fucked up. You can say I betrayed, deceived, whatever. But…"

"What's done is done." I scrubbed at my face. "This situation is too fucked up. I don't know how to even start."

He scowled. "You know I never planned to hurt you. I wasn't even planning on being your friend anyway."

I inhaled and exhaled quickly, trying to not completely lose my temper. "Well thank God! Maybe I'll be able to sleep well tonight after all. I was starting to get worried."

"God, you're so…" He trailed off and his shoulders were tense.

I was so confused about him and what he was trying to say and why I actually cared so much.

"What?" I demanded, annoyed because he wouldn't look at me. "I'm so what? Annoying? Irritating?"

He seemed really drained when he looked at me. "Do you hate me?"

I stopped, because I hadn't thought of this before. I might have hated him, briefly, irrationally, but for the long run? "Of course not."

"Even though I assassinated your family?"

"I live in a world of crime. I know criminals when I see them. You were made to be an assassin."

"Then why can't you give me another chance?"

"Well, that's me, Killua!" I shouted, and spread his arms wide. "What, did you think I was the same little girl who welcomed you into her room? I'm not! I have tons of issues. Tons of insecurities. You're fooled to think that you might want to get to know me. Because this"—I gestured at myself—"is not worth any of your efforts. I am impatient and provocative and vain. I worked really hard to be a good person, but I'm not. I can't be. Don't expect me to try now—here, with you."

"You're not a bad person," he said quietly.

"Well, I can be. You don't know me. Last night you saw a different picture of me. Last night I had a different picture for you in my mind, but I didn't know it was just some kind of a mirage of what you're truly are."

"What do you think I am?"

"A damn good performer. Former murderer."

"No, that's a common misconception. An assassin is the right word, not a murderer."

"What's the difference?"

"Yes, it's a very tricky subject you touch on. Lucky for you, I'm well versed in it, and that's why I should be well able to answer any questions you may have."

"If you're so well versed, that must mean you were a murderer and an assassin," I returned.

He smiled mysteriously. "Assassin? I'm telling, I was, once. I would have had to chastise you on calling me a murderer, but I have done my fair share of murdering so. Don't tell me you haven't. We're Hunters. You know the world we live in."

I wasn't going to. "Well, what's the difference?"

"Let's see. An assassin does not have any malice in mind for the mark. There is no grudge held against them; they are nothing more than a goal, and so malice is not needed. There is no personal investment in the deed, while murder is very personal in nature. Murder is something done in retribution, anger, fear, lust, possessiveness, even love perhaps." He smiled. "Personal things, yes? Like, if you killed me now, you would become a murderer." He explained further. "While a common murderer sees killing as a chore to get someone out of the way, I, as a Zaoldyeck, was taught to see it is as art. Some artists express themselves on a canvas or with words. I was taught to make the human body my canvas and unfortunately the result was death. It was the price my victims paid. Art isn't cheap. Not to mention, the hiring party made their own requests. Sometimes, the hiring party asked us to perform the assassination in a certain way. I didn't wake up in the morning and thought, 'Ah-ah, tonight I should dismember the man. Should be fun.' It's not. It's a job."

"God, you're talkative." I arched my neck back. "What about serial killers? What's the difference between them and assassins? They both have a pattern, go after specific victims, often physically abused in their childhoods." I glanced pointedly at his forearms.

A tiny smile crept over his face. "Technically, I was a serial killer."

"Technically?" I grunted, straightening in my seat.

"It might have been suitable for everyone to call me a serial killer, but I'm nothing like that. I was not a sociopath who killed for the sake of killing. I've come to know every single thing about every 'client' I dealt with. The Zaoldyecks kill to keep the business going, and believe it or not, they pick their clients very carefully. It is never an easy decision. Your parents were criminals." There was a flash of defiance in his eyes. "Your father was responsible for burning an orphanage for kids but the Zymirals, his bosses, managed to blame it on someone else. An innocent man. It was accidental, I suppose, but your father always believed his conscience was clear. As for your mother, she murdered one hundred and forty-eight person, and if she wasn't killed that day, her next target was going to be killed in the following night. She must've come up with a random excuse for not attending your children ballet show."

Sort of shocking? Not really. I knew all of that from the background check I did on my parents. My father used to pull his shot gun out at the first sign of provocation even when he was walking down the streets. My mother was injured in four ribs, had a broken eye socket, and she was partially deaf most of the time so we always had to raise our voices for her to hear us. I now understand that all of that was due to her secretive missions.

I stared at the oolitic wall. My silence was a sign of agreement.

"Okay, the hiring party thought my parents needed killing. Why did you kill my brother?"

He just looked down, a solemn look on his face. "I was just following orders."

"And what orders would those be? Killing innocent boys?"

"The orders were to stop anyone who tried to interrupt me, anyone who tried to threaten me." He still didn't look at me, already knowing the look on my face.

"He did nothing."

"I fucking know that. He stood in my way. I was left with no choice. I didn't even have the intention of killing him; I was only shoving him off me. He wasn't supposed to lunge at the scary looking kid. I was built to react that way."

I lunged at him now. My palm rose up to slap him. It took him a split second to determine what I was about to do. In an immensely speedy motion, the handcuffs were crumpled and dropped at the floor. His hand vehemently stopped mine and squeezed my wrist. He was on his feet now.

He brought his face to mine, nose-to-nose. "Don't hit me."

"You deserve it," I said, pushing him off of me, loosening his hands in the process, but he brought me back. I backtracked quickly, uncomfortable by the closeness.

He drew in a huge breath and exhaled slowly. "You have no idea what a dangerous game you're playing here, Yuki. If you did, you wouldn't be so blasé about doing this. Did you even consider the consequences of trying to slap a Zaoldyeck? Did you think for one second that he may not be the type of person you should provoke… or be alone with?"

"Don't try to scare me," I warned, trying to ignore the shudder that wracked through my body at the contact of his. All the air in the narrow, dark room was getting as thick as cotton wool and as rough as sandpaper.

"Did you even consider the possibility that I might be a bad person, Yuki? That I've done vicious, heinous things in my life? That I've destroyed more lives that I can bear to recall? Did none of those things cross your mind before you stumbled into this room to hurt me?"

My face remained blank. "You don't scare me, Killua."

Something showed on his face, a soft emotion that looked so much like relief. He released me.

Someone knocked on the door, but it remained closed. "Is everything alright? Yuki? Should we interfere?"

"Everything's fine, Marcus," I called out, my eyes still on Killua as he moved to sit down again, resting his elbow on the table.

"What's the deal between you and him?" he demanded. I frowned in return, not quite following him. "That Marcus guy," he explained. "Did you two use to date?"

I was caught off guard, unprepared for the sudden question.

"What?"

He tapped his foot impatiently. "What do you mean 'what'? Either yes or no. Did you date him?"

"Why do you care?"

He leaned back and looked away. "I'm just curious."

I opened my mouth to say something snippy, but the look in eyes stopped me. I didn't know why. It was like I could see something fragile in there. Amidst all the hard edges and stony stares, there was something immensely breakable, and I couldn't do it.

"Just tell me," he ordered softly.

"I never dated him," I admitted grudgingly.

"Good," he muttered.

"Hey, you do not get to ignore telling me the truth that you killed my family and then start chatting about my personal life like nothing happened."

"I didn't ignore telling you truth, I just hid it from you," he objected.

"Yes you did," I immediately snapped back. "And you ignored my right to know."

"I just chose not to speak to you about this matter."

I placed my hands on my waist, beginning to feel exasperated. "What about my right to know?"

"I was going to tell you," he told me. "But needed time."

I grunted in frustration and felt my body lean from the dizziness Marcus' medications had created, and I supported myself by clutching at the table. I cringed slightly and I realized that I could smell Killua's scent nearby as he approached me. My stomach churned at the thought, and my mind raced, desperate to find some solution to the unacceptable situation I found myself in.

I came up with nothing.

"Are you all right?" he murmured. "You look like you're going to vomit. It's been a while since I've made someone physically ill. Apparently I haven't lost my touch."

He was trying to make me laugh or get me angry. I could tell from the way he smirked and waited for my comeback, but I stayed silent and kept breathing because I felt like my stomach was trying to crawl up my windpipe and strangle me.

"Yuki?" he called, frowning now, his voice all liquid comfort and unspoken affection. "Seriously, are you okay? Should I call someone?" He rushed to the door, but I stopped him with a strong grip at his forearm.

"No," I said. His eyes were soft and concerned. Too soft. Too concerned. "Stop looking at me like that. You can't. Stop."

"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll try to control what my brain tells my eyes to do."

I laughed wryly. "You're a piece of work, Killua."

I pushed him away, slightly losing my balance in the process. I tripped on my own feet, my shoulder falling limply at his body. His hands remained by his side and didn't caught me. He didn't touch me at all, just as I'd requested or more like ordered him to do. He only looked down at me as I quickly lifted my forehead from where it rested against his chest.

I gasped a little when he bit his lip and drilled his eyes into mine expectantly.

The feeling that I was instinctively letting him in again terrified me. I couldn't risk the sweet numbness I'd worked so hard to achieve over the past few hours. Wanted me to dismantle my walls of self-preservation.

I pushed him away again. I could smell him – so familiar and zesty and full of memories I didn't want.

"Do you think we stand a chance to be friends again?" I was challenging, incredulous. And hurt. "We can't. You know it. I know it. I'm supposed to hate you, not because you were an assassin, but because you lied about being that assassin."

My voice was small but simmering. Anger flooded me.

"You're more understanding," he asked. "Be that."

"How do you expect me to be understanding when I just found out I knew nothing about you?!"

"You do know me," he disagreed calmly. "You know things I've never told anyone else."

"I never knew you. It was like you were pretending to be somebody else with me."

I could tell from the way he looked at me that my words felt like a slap.

"I never pretended with you," he said, shock all over his face. "Ever."

"No, I don't. I was just another mission to you. Something you used to make amends or something."

"Something I used?" He sighed and heavy regret weighed his words. "This might sound strange to you, but I don't have to feel guilty for something I was made to do when I was nine years old."

"I'm not even half angry about the assassination! You know exactly why I'm angry!"

"What, then?" he spat, his voice showing a small fraction of the bitterness he was feeling. "That I hid it from you? That's it?"

"Yes, Killua. That's it." My anger was filling the air, making it thick and hard to breathe.

I headed towards the door. "I have to go," I whispered to my myself, my voice was dull, lifeless.

"And now you're running away."

"No!" I screamed. "I'm going to work on getting you out of here, you presumptuous asshole!"

His returning look was ice-cold, as if what I said did not matter. His eyes were deadly-serious. Seeing them made this all too real. Too relevant.

"Wait." he started again, more patiently, "I get that you may never forgive me for what I did. I understand. But that doesn't mean I'm willing to give up without a fight, and if I end up dying friendless and alone, at least I'm going to do it knowing I moved heaven and earth to make things right with you."

He came very close to me, as close as possible without actually touching me.

"I know what I want. But what do you want?"

"I want you gone!" I said, relieved from the release. Liar. I looked away, my voice growing weaker. "Out of my life, out of my world." Liar, liar, liar.

"You can't, or you don't want to want anything else?"

Both.

"I can't," I lied as calmly as I could. Internally, my blood was close to boiling.

I ran my fingers through my hair as my mind raced with possible outcomes. None of them satisfied me. None of them allowed me to satiate any of my desires without unacceptable consequences. All of them ended with me killing him, and that was an outcome that was becoming more and more abhorrent to me with each passing second. The image of his body lying bleeding and broken beneath me made an uncomfortable knot of pain and sickness squirm inside me.

But it did satisfy me. Vengeance is an elusive whore.

"Go on then," he said.

He picked up the gun from the table, grabbed my hand and slapped the weapon over my palm. My finger wrapped around the trigger. I wasn't aware of what was happening when his hold tightened around my hand, moving it against my will and aiming the gun at his heart.

"Do it."

I felt like my stomach was trying to tie itself in knots. I was still holding the gun. It had been more than few seconds of silence and the gun was still aimed at him. I hadn't lowered it, not that he expected me to. His eyes were flashing and every few moments his lips twisted down in an idiotic determination.

"Go ahead. That's the great thing about guns; they are too quick. I'll probably die immediately and you'll feel better. Isn't that what you want?"

I stood still, but then the fight left my eyes. No longer was there the flame of anger. Now it was only defeat. For a second I let myself look at him, without the distorting haze of anger and resentment, and I saw him as I used to – remarkable and special. His eyes caught mine and suddenly I was back to the day we first met. The day I first saw those eyes looking at me like no one else ever had.

"You're underestimating me, and how much I value my peace of mind," I warned softly. "Don't think I won't pull the trigger just to escape my feelings for you."

His face was impassive and smooth. Unreadable. But his eyes were looking at me with a soft glow. Sharp and challenging. They were blazing and I didn't know why, but my new false-bravado felt heavy under his gaze. It started to fall. It slid off me like mud, dirty and thick.

"What about your peace of heart?" he asked, just as quietly. His voice was borderline intimate, making me, for just a split second, to imagine what it'd be like to slap the weapon away and pull his mouth down to mine.

"I wouldn't need that. My feelings for you bring me so much confusion, I'd be better off without them."

We stood there for a few seconds, just breathing. My eyes never left his. The air between us solidified, connecting us, like two parts of the same person. And I couldn't help but remember the games we played. Back in time. Years ago, when things were easy. When imaginary lands flew past our very fingertips. As we used to pretend to be heroes, dancing and playing in the shadows of the real world.

"Prove it," he whispered.

My hand tightened around the gun, locking my muscles as I felt my ever-fragile hold on my humanity melt away. I held my breath, as I'd learned to do long ago in the face of inconvenient challenges.

I closed my eyes and breathed. Long, measured breaths. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I tried to imagine a white sheet on a clothesline, blowing in the breeze. It was my focus. The image that calmed me; and peeled away my layers of panic.

I couldn't get it. The image was all blurry and inconstant, like a TV channel I couldn't tune. Memories interspersed. They were all him. His eyes. His smile. The look on his face. The uncertain look on mine.

Fear and indecision kept me standing still, kept my fingers grinding into the weapon's hard substance.