Sleep did not come to Killua that night. To be fair, it was a rare occurrence when it did. Most nights, he managed to reach a sort of compromise with sleep, staring at the ceiling in a blank stupor or watching the fan blades rotate, feeling and sensing but not quite thinking. Tonight, though, his eyes were plastered uncomfortably wide open with possibilities and hypotheticals. It would be one of his worse nights. Relatively speaking, at least.
He brooded over the possibilities. It seemed that there were only two, but that wasn't really accurate. Illumi's offer hinged on many variables—Killua shuddered at the term his mind supplied for him, variables, cold and clinical in a way he never wanted to be. Like a scientist watching his lab rats run and run until no strength was left in them, and they had no choice but to die. Like Illumi.
He knew Kurapika had been right: Gon would've run after him without a second thought if he'd been missing. Gon would be out in the world now, punching criminals in the face to find him. That wasn't what bothered him. Another suspicion nagged at him, that it wasn't just Gon who would've done something like that. Kurapika had sacrificed any hope at a normal life for the sake of revenge for his clan. Leorio had dedicated his life to saving others with medicine. In fact, there were only six people he knew who would've hesitated: him, and the ones who made him. He felt the burning in his chest that demanded to have Gon back, certainly, but he wondered if it was strong enough, if it was truly what others felt. If he could just hurt a little more, would it bring Gon back sooner? Maybe a little more pain would make him real.
He gave up the foregone possibility of sleep for now, or even his own approximation of sleep. He suddenly felt a primal urge to hit things really hard and make loud noises, so he made his way back to the arena, where he wouldn't disturb any of the others or make them ask questions.
Unfortunately, he was intercepted; Netero already sat at the edge of the arena, and brightened at Killua's emergence from the hallway. Perhaps the old man already knew he was coming. He had an incredibly annoying way of knowing things he shouldn't know, it seemed. "Hello, white-haired kid whose name I definitely remember!" he called.
Killua sighed at the slight but did not otherwise acknowledge Netero's presence.
Netero was unfazed by this. "What brings you out here tonight? I was under the impression that most people go to sleep at night."
"Not me," Killua replied.
"Why not?" Netero asked. Like he didn't know already.
"Stuff on my mind, I guess. Besides, sleep is overrated."
"Ah, soon, you'll find that sleep is rated just fine as it is."
Killua grew increasingly irritated by the small talk, by the fishing for details and heartfelt confessions, at its aimlessness and wastefulness. "Why do you care, anyway?" he said. "About what I'm thinking now? Besides, it's not like it's your business. This is Zoldyck stuff."
"You may not believe me," Netero said, a new tinge of gravitas slipping into his tone, "but one of my best friends was a Zoldyck. Zigg was his name. A little like you, actually, although Zigg was utterly out of his mind. You'll get there someday too, if you're lucky. Aside from that, my claim to fame was that I survived Maha Zoldyck. I'm no stranger to your family; in fact, I might be able to understand what you're going through better than anyone here. But I understand if you are unable to share."
"Fine!" Killua snapped. "You want to know so bad, I'll tell you. Just leave me alone after!"
To Killua's great irritation, Netero did not look shocked or offended, only sympathetic.
"You know the gist of it, anyway," he finally replied tensely. "I ran away a little while ago to take the Hunter Exam. I heard it was supposed to be hard, and I was bored and wanted to spite my family. Mom and Dad want me back now. Illumi will do whatever it takes to get me for them. End of story."
"Will you go with them?" Netero asked.
The million-dollar question, if there ever was one. "What do you think I'm so worked up over?" he said wryly. "I don't know if I will. I think I should, anyway. If that's what it will take to save Gon, I really don't have a choice, do I?"
"I believe your other friend, Kurapika, answered that question for you earlier today," Netero said. "You always have a choice, especially when it seems you don't. From a certain perspective, every new second is a choice. You choose to continue living in the way things are, or to make a change. And there are never just two choices. That way of thinking is no more than a trap meant to keep you from disturbing the order of things. There are surely other ways that Gon could be found."
"Like what?" Kurapika blurted indignantly, before he could stop the stupid question from coming out.
"My sources tell me that Kurapika means to become a blacklist hunter in order to track down a certain group. I believe you could do something similar. Alternatively, you could leave the investigation to the Association. I promise you, we are capable and we do intend to find out what occurred between Hisoka and Gon."
Killua shook his head immediately. "Absolutely not," he said. "Not that I don't trust you, but I have to do something."
"Then, you have so many choices before you. Choose the one that feels right, and if there isn't one, make your own."
Killua sighed, "Fine. I guess I get what you mean." Inside, however, he felt a warm light blossom up in his chest. Make your own choice. It was a dangerously simple concept, so simple he ought to have thought of it, but it held within it a spark of hope.
He knew he was staring down an opponent far too dangerous for him. Once he did this, the Zoldycks would lose their faith in him, and he would be no more than a loose end. Don't fight an opponent stronger than you. Run away. Stay alive. But there was a possibility, twinkling far off in the distance, awaiting him. Gon could be safe and he could be free. It was possible, even if it was no more than a pipe dream.
"Do you know what you want to do?" Netero asked.
"Not yet. Not at all," Killua replied, more eagerly than before.
It didn't take long for Killua to leave.
"Please come out now," Netero called at the blank sandstone wall.
A shadow upon it rustled and shuffled and gained form.
"Ah, so you noticed," it—he—said, smooth as satin. "No matter. I would ask you to stop your meddling, but we all know you can't really resist. It's your nature. It's only a shame you haven't discovered ours."
The sun bore its light and heat down in full force, even through the skylight above the arena. Killua was content to blame it for the line of sweat forming on his brow.
"Have you made your choice?" Kurapika asked him, turning in his seat to face him.
Killua nodded. "I think I know what I need to do," he said.
Kurapika only blinked at him, visibly unsatisfied with his answer, but chose not to force the issue. Though, Killua might actually have answered if Kurapika chose to ask. Kurapika was a friend, it occurred to him. Not the kind who would ever say so—he might vehemently deny it, actually—but the one who he would find at his side when he needed a shoulder to lean on. A kind worth staying for.
The thought calmed him, so he sent Kurapika a thankful half-smile. Kurapika only looked flummoxed, like Killua had presented him with an unsolvable puzzle to pick at and try in vain to untangle.
"Contestants, to the arena!" Netero called. His voice carried over the chatter and cut through it.
Leorio set a heavy, stern hand on Killua's shoulder. "Be careful out there," he said. "Don't let the bastard get in your head."
Killua arose and walked with Illumi into the arena, very carefully, lest he turn his head and discover that Illumi was looking back at him. They separated and took their places opposite one another.
"I believe you all remember the conditions of this match," Netero declared gravely. "If Killua accepts Illumi's conditions, then Killua will be declared the winner of this round. If he does not, the round will proceed under standard rules."
Illumi flashed a vampiric smile toward Killua. "Well, Kil, you heard him," he said. "Do you accept? Will you return and make things right?"
Killua knew that this was the moment that he had spent his lost sleep in preparation for, but the panic and shortness of breath nearly made him forget it. The pressure to return was unbearable, splitting him in two. He remembered the pangs of guilt that would come to him in the night, when his mind was unwelcomely active. If he returned, Mother would smile impossibly brightly, like she never had before, in spite of the scars he put on her. Father would be pleased too, in his own way.
He had thought of these things in the night, and then, he would remind himself what most days were like. It was his third birthday when they first began his poisons training, a chocolate cupcake laced with a microdose of tetrodotoxin. It came from pufferfish, Mother told him when he was four, with that joyous resonance in her voice that came when she talked about her specialty, and a proper dose causes paralysis and death within six hours. "You survived it, my dear, so you can survive anything!" That was the only birthday they had bothered to buy him a cake for.
"I won't accept," Killua finally forced out. "I already told you. Find yourself another heir."
And then, Illumi's smile grew positively ecstatic and wild. "Tell me why, brother," he said, near a whisper.
"Because I no longer need you. I never did, really. I need my friends," said Killua.
The smile fell. "You're lying, Killua," Illumi said flatly. At Killua's insistent glare, he frowned further. "How could the Zoldycks have fallen this far? How could you let yourself become… this? Reliant," he hissed. "All the years I spent teaching you what I knew, and for what, Killua-sama? You would throw it away in the course of a week? I refuse to believe you would squander our love for you like that.
"Now I understand, Killua-sama." Illumi now spat the honorific, with a passion bordering on hatred. "Father has spoiled you. He has indulged your fantasies of a normal life, when we Zoldycks can only deal in the truth. Assassination has always been the business of truth, Kil: the ones who hire us may wear beautiful faces in public and smile graciously upon their enemies, but yet they still hire us. Only the hatred is real, Kil. You will see."
Kurapika and Leorio stood.
"I hope you're beginning to understand," Kurapika said.
"To tell the truth," Leorio said, "I'm almost disappointed you didn't think to check."
They said these things, and their voices were almost, but not quite their own. Leorio didn't speak in a languid drawl like that, and neither of their voices were that artificial. The voices were Kurapika's and Leorio's, but both lacked the core that Killua had come to know, like they had been hollowed out.
Killua had heard this voice before, and he had seen those pinpricks on the sides of necks before.
"Give them back," Killua growled.
"Why?" Kurapika asked, bright and innocent. "Do you have something worth letting this one go?"
"Please, Illumi," Killua said, and it came out nearly a whimper. "Please. I can't lose them. Please."
Illumi only smiled his sickening, infuriating smile. Killua was lost in a fit of rage. He only thought, I'll kill him, before he leapt at Illumi. Leorio jerked from his chair, impossibly fast, with the kind of crack that only came from bone snapping in two. Before Killua could react, Leorio was in front of his fist, shielding Illumi, and he received Killua's punch. Blood seeped through the white cotton, but no pain came through in Leorio's voice. "I see you still don't understand," he said with a low chuckle.
"This is not a battle you can win," Illumi said. "Do you know why I taught you that lesson? 'You never fight an opponent stronger than you.' It was to protect you, Killua. From this. This is what it means to lose."
A stream of tears pricked at the lines on Killua's face, but he threw himself at Illumi again, hoping against all hope that an opening would show itself. The first few attacks, Illumi fended off himself, but Killua did not stop, and his punches began connecting with Kurapika and Leorio, and he could scarcely shield them from the impacts. Their voices never changed, the same hollowness and artificiality painfully evident in their words. At first, they told him to give up, to remember his training.
Then, "Is this what a friend does?
"Does a friend hurt his friends, just to settle a family grudge?
"You are no friend, Killua, not to anyone. You are an assassin.
The tears came harder and faster, and soon, Killua had no choice but to stop. The film of water blurred his vision and a dull ache enveloped him.
Illumi approached him gingerly. "Please, brother, this won't stop," he said, in a voice approximating sympathy. "You know there's no way this ends but with you coming home."
And it tore at Killua, the way the gashes and scrapes on Kurapika and Leorio shimmered in the sunlight a deep ruby-red, and the way he knew that his hands had put them there.
"Take me home," he whispered.
Illumi relaxed and sat next to him. "Please don't ever forget, Killua," he said, "that we love you."
And he understood, with painful and cathartic clarity, just how näive he had been.
A/N: There's another chapter for ya. I've basically been writing nonstop for the past two days now, so I would not expect this upload pace to continue, but I should also have Chapter 6 up in a couple days. Anyway, for all you aspiring writers, I would highly recommend the book The Story Grid by Shawn Coyne, if you haven't already read it. It has some invaluable advice to make writing a little bit easier and hopefully more engaging for your readers, even if it is more dismissive of "literary" and prose writing than I would prefer. I'm working my way through it now, and I thought I'd pass it on.