HATSU
Wusai
A/N: Updates might be a bit slow as I figure out how to link the beginning to the middle/end. Also, I don't skateboard, so I have little to no idea how to describe the tricks and all . . . The fic goes a little slowly at the beginning; Killua doesn't immediately begin a successful rock band (that's unrealistic, anyways), as with the way Killua doesn't immediately learn nen.
Also, I warn that I suffer from misplacement of humor. So . . . if humor slips in during a tense scene . . . I apologize.
Digital cookie questions:
1. What do you call the
things in the subway? Trains?
2. Does the anime/manga
ever say how old Illumi is?
Out of Curiosity: Does the length of a chapter matter all that much? I'm not trying to sound angry or bitter, but it seems as if long chapters make a fic automatically better . . . is this true? I mean, I myself personally prefer shorter chapters because they're easier to read, and there's more pausing points if the fic is long.
Concerning Characterization: Gon appears in here – he's about sixteen in this timeframe, but I want to capture his innocence and keep him in character despite his age. Did I succeed?
II, A TASTE OF FREEDOM
Wind ruffled through the young Zoldick's hair. Effortlessly, he jumped up, flipped his skateboard, landed on it, and carried on. Exhilaration pumped through him along with the music blaring in the background. The combination of rebellion and freedom spurned on chemical reactions of arrogance, igniting a spark that would start a fire that could never be extinguished.
The lights lining the edge of the skating area began to dim, signaling that it was almost closing time. Killua glanced at his watch – ten to nine. His mother wouldn't be back from the party until around ten – if he went home now, he'd have about an hour of free time. But did he want to go home? He'd only be nagged and chided by his mother for hours upon end. Then, like a baseball slipping past the fingers of an amateur player, an idea hit him: his mother had bought a vacation home not too far from here, a home near a picturesque, secluded stretch of the beach. He checked his wallet and found forty pounds, then skateboarded out of the park and into the nearest entrance to the Underground. Pulling out a pound note, he fed it to the ticket vendor, took the ticket that it spit out, went through the turnstile, and waited impatiently at the gate corresponding to the number on his ticket. He tapped his foot impatiently, skateboard under his arm. At last, the train arrived and he hopped on after the doors slid open.
Ten stops and two transfers later, Killua found himself breathing in the fresh ocean breeze. He bounced on to his skateboard and whizzed down the street, past the cars waiting for the command of the almighty traffic light – waiting for a light to control their life. Hah! What fools, Killua thought. At last he reached the ornately embellished doors that were the main entrance to the Zoldick's vacation home. He stared at the panes of stained glass for a few minutes, then swiftly pressed five of the panes in successive order, five panes so well camouflaged that one who didn't know of their existence as buttons would simply overlook them. A panel opened in the wall beside Killua, and the key to the home was presented to him on a hook. He fitted the key into the lock, turned it, threw open the door, and stepped inside.
A faintly musty smell greeted him. Motes and clouds of dust swirled around his feet, and he made his way to the windows and opened them after pulling back the curtains, allowing the breeze to push out the smell and dust. He trod upstairs and looked through each of the bare rooms, then paused at one of them to look at the single book lying on the floor. He strode over to it and picked it up: The Idiots Guide to Hairstyling.
He paused.
Then burst into laughter.
He realized, simply by this book, the last time the Zoldicks had come to this house: probably when Killua was only about four, and Illumi was twelve or so. Illumi, at that time, was very much into hairstyle and hair care, wanting to be a hairdresser as his future career – that was, of course, until their mom – a successful lawyer, working alongside Silva, also a lawyer – almost literally smacked Illumi around the head and told him to be a doctor of some kind. Illumi had been heartbroken for a short while, withdrawing more into himself muttering about mothers crushing his hopes and dreams, but then decided to be a surgeon – more specifically, a plastic surgeon. And now, at twenty-four, he was one of the most well-known plastic surgeons, but usually only with underground groups: he specialized in face alteration, often for criminals.
A fair amount of controversy surrounded Illumi as well: many women wanted breast augmentation, and a competent surgeon to do it. The first one they'd turn to was Illumi – after all, why not? He was good-looking, didn't have big, lumbering hands like the usual male surgeon, and, well, it was a way to flash someone without getting arrested for indecent exposure . . . and most men would agree to operate.
But not Illumi.
This led to tabloids with articles on Illumi's sexuality.
But the world . . .
. . . may never know.
Killua shelved the book and flopped onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The exhilaration and adrenaline in him began to slow down as he contemplated his situation: only one set of clothes (the few in the closet were too formal for him), thirty-nine pounds in his wallet (there was no guarantee that his parents would pay his credit card bill, after all), no idea how much he had in his bank account, mother on his tail (and he had no doubt that she'd employ the Mafia if she needed to) . . . He sighed and rolled over. He couldn't go back home, though, because it would mean Grounded Until Eternity, Or, If We Wish to Cooperate with the Law, Grounded Until You're Eighteen.
He sighed and stood, dusting himself off. This place was too confining . . . restricting . . . He went outside and walked along the beach. At a quiet part of the beach with only a couple people – most were beginning to leave – he sat on a large rock and stared past the glittering waves to the setting sun. Seagulls squawked overhead; children further along the beach laughed as they splashed water on each other, trying to squeeze in as much fun as they could before their parents called them in.
"Are you lonely?"
Killua turned and his blue eyes met with the warm brown ones of a boy about the same age as him, black hair defying gravity, long roll of paper underneath one arm. He paused, choosing his words carefully, then said:
"You could say that."
The boy sat beside Killua, shifting the paper to his lap. "My name's Gon."
". . . I'm Killua." Immediately after saying that, Killua's eyes widened – what if this boy was someone employed by his mother to create a false friendship and convince him to go home, or worse? Gon looked at him, puzzled, and said:
"Are you okay?"
Killua grimaced. "Slightly."
Gon frowned. "Are you sick? My aunt knows how to cure people better and faster than the medicine they sell in the stores because we used to live on this little island where they had to use herbs and things like that, so she knows which ones work the best. If you're sick, you could come to our house . . . I'm sure Aunt Mito won't mind."
"I'm not sick," Killua said, eyeing the roll of paper. Curiosity overcame him and he asked, "What's that?"
"This?" Gon asked, pointing to the paper. Killua nodded. "It's my architectural drafting. I'm going to be an architect . . . my dad's the best there is, but he's always away from home. I'm hoping that maybe, someday, I'll be as good as him, and I'll find him and work alongside him." He smiled. "But I've got a long way to go. What about you? What do your parents do?"
Killua paused and frowned, debating whether or not he should tell Gon. But this Gon was so warm, so friendly . . . and it wasn't as if he'd be able to figure out who he was just from his parent's occupations. As long as he didn't give out his last name, he'd be fine. "Lawyers."
Gon stared out pensively at the sun, then asked, "Both of them?"
Killua smiled. "Yes. You're an interesting guy . . . most people look at me differently and act differently, as if I'm going to tell my parents about the smallest things."
"I see." Gon looked at his watch. "I have to go now; I don't want to be late. It was really nice to meet you . . . maybe we'll meet again? I always pass by here; do you live near here?"
"Yeah, kind of."
"Okay then. Bye-bye!" Gon waved, then stood and walked off. Killua stood as well, gazing at the last rays of the sun as they disappeared over the horizon. Streetlights began to flicker on; Killua set off and walked towards the direction of the main part of the city. The night market was alive and bustling with people and vendors; lights and signs flashed everywhere. Hairs prickled at the back of his neck – he felt as if someone was watching him. He walked faster, past the nightmarket and into the winding street dubbed by the residents as Music Lane, and chanced a look behind him – and nearly choked.
His eyes met with Illumi's.
He walked as quickly as he could without jogging and bringing attention to himself, looked back, and saw Illumi, still a distance off, but rapidly squeezing through the crowd. Heart pumping, he let himself into the nearest building. He hid in the shadows and slid down to a squatting position, breathing deeply. A moment later, he looked up and realized where he was – at A Minor Stage, the one which made passerbys look at its name strangely, or, at least, those unfamiliar with music. The stage specifically allowed minor bands to play and was quite popular because admission was often free. He stood and looked around, held a breath, and sent a thanks up to whoever that was up there ruling over him that white hair was In.
He pushed himself through the crowd to the front, getting as far away from the door as he possibly could. The music blared in his ears; he gazed up at the stage and watched the musicians, focusing his attention on the bassist. He watched, entranced, as the bassist's fingers flew over the strings, producing an ethereal rumble that shook the room. Something about the song touched and calmed him, despite the fact that it was fast and loud. Something drew him to the song as he listened, mesmerized, leaning on the rail separating the stage from the floor; he stood still as the people around him bounced and jumped.
When the mosh pit began moving closer to where Killua was, he edged over and scooted to the side, close to where the bar was located. He briefly contemplated about the lack of judgement the planners had made – alcohol and rock concerts – never a good mix. He watched as the plethora of black braids on the guitarist's head glittered in the light as he fretted quickly, strumming out chord after melodious chord. The logo on the bass drum – JanKenPon – vibrated as the drummer pounded the drum.
Suddenly, from the bar, there came a shout and Killua turned to see an androgynous-looking blond punch a black-haired man in the jaw:
"Pervert!"
A/N: May be revised and expanded sometime. D:
Chapter: 11/14/2004 –
11/25/2004
Fic: 07/18/2004 –