The light passed through the openings in a dense canopy of the trees' crowns, sun rays warm against Kalluto's face as he lay inertly. Tingling grass blades seemed to wrap around his limbs, making them heavier and heavier, forever rooted to the ground. His muscles twitched from the exhaustion, and he could already feel ripples of his blood spreading under his skin, fresh bruises covering the old, still not healed ones.
Despite the strain, his hand was tightly clung to the Mother's dress. After the training, She let him rest here in the yard, while She sat on the patio enjoying Her afternoon tea. Although, he couldn't smell its herbal aroma.
And he wasn't besieged by the heavy, yet sophisticated scent of Her flowery perfumes, which always blended with Her aura in the adornment of Her presence. There were only reminiscences of blood, sweat and dust in his nostrils. Her clothes too, weren't made of the usual, stiff and lustrous fabric that wrinkled easily. It was thinner, lower quality, but also softer to touch; he could crumple it between his fingers without a risk of forming sharp creases.
Because he wasn't home.
Kalluto snapped out of the mockingly cozy mirage, letting go of Feitan's coat, which he habitually seized before. Slightly abashed, he stood up immediately and recoiled, not allowing himself to show the rush of dizziness it caused.
Feitan didn't acknowledge his poised stance, instead, he began leisurely fixing his sling that disheveled during the fight and let out a dissatisfied sigh. Then, only the fleeting glance served as a forewarning before he disappeared.
The shadow charged forward. Kalluto wasn't able to react in time and escape the steel that now shone in front of his face. The repaired sword demonstrated its striking sharpness, freed from any signs of the recent damage. The strangling, vicious energy around them stirred up even further, the air was turning to swelter.
His back arched when the hand behind him painfully tugged his hair, making it impossible to move away. He held his breath in expectation of the sharp fingernails to sink deeper into his skin — but it was just another recall; yet again, this time was different, these ones were blunt.
"You rely on your eyes again and get distracted." He heard a raspy voice right next to his ear. "Maybe you stay focused if I gouge them out?"
Against his will, Kalluto felt the acute tension rising in his chest. He couldn't guess if that was an empty threat or a real possibility; what limits the man wouldn't cross, and if there were any in the first place.
His thoughts raced in excruciatingly dragging stillness, and before they had a chance to settle, he was pushed away, barely keeping his balance. He heard another, audibly irritated sigh from Feitan, which faded into gradually calmer breath, when the grip of bloodlust was loosening dilatorily.
"Break." Taught by experience, Kalluto didn't try to object to the command and gave a querying look to the man who kept scrutinizing him, then scoffed: "Should I give you grades after lesson or what you do in schools?"
"I don't know, I've never been to school."
"Whatever." Feitan dismissively waved his hand. "You supposedly want be stronger, right?"
"Yes," Kalluto replied after a second, disoriented by the phrasing.
"You not very good at that." The bluntness of this statement was perceptible almost physically, though Feitan continued, not waiting for a response. "Dunno if you Zoldycks are so special, but normally you need aura to use Nen. So you want stronger aura and you restrain it all the time? Stupid. You do this right now too — and for what? I see you with my eyes, no one else around can kill you. You want to sneak up on me? No chance, no matter your Zetsu."
"No," Kalluto started defensively. "No, this way I can always be prepared to trail the target whenever it's necessa—" His words were quickly interrupted.
"Why not just kill them?"
He fell silent. The arguments of not drawing attention or family traditions had little chance to convince Feitan, of all people.
"It's not necessary. Play grand assassin if you want, but you think you can slack off on serious missions?" The inappropriately familiar needle of guilt made his muscles tense and forced him to look away, while the lecture carried on. "You want to learn to fight, so fight, not waste your time cowering. And now you also wasting my time, so I forbid it."
"What?" The sudden coldness seeped into Kalluto's bones.
"No Zetsu. And no this assassin bullshit. No one care about it here."
Stunned, he looked at Feitan, anticipating he would take back his words, possibly dismiss it as another taunt or joke.
"Stop staring, that's easiest basics. Maybe you think you above it?" He asked with ridicule instead. "Or you can't do anything your mommy not taught you?"
"I can," Kalluto said mechanically, but couldn't stop the uncertainty from bleeding into his voice.
"Now get over it, and finally do something of value." Feitan weighed his sword with the injured arm. "And better use time I'm still weaker."
Kalluto reluctantly released more aura, which spread on his skin in a twitchy motion. Although it quickly stabilized into an even layer, he could vividly sense its incessant flow. He tightened his hold on the fan and straightened up, trying to put on a mask of self-assurance despite the undefined freezing feeling numbing his body, and the afterimages of the familiar sceneries still lingering under his eyelids.
"End of break."
The sun, still hidden in the first minutes of dawn, omitted the street leading back to the hotel, leaving it dim and bleak. Their shadowy cover was rarely chased away by the jarring lights of cars, passing by sporadically at this hour. Feitan walked ahead, trying to disregard the being that lagged behind him, relentlessly quiet as always, but the silence seemed much heavier now, when his presence was more noticeable. Although it grew faint at times, Zoldyck was always recollecting himself in time to avoid being scolded.
With how efficiently they were corrected, even those missteps came off as calculated. Yet at the same time, they were just too weird to be purposefully deceitful, leaving a general feeling of wrongness. Logically, it should be easier and more reasonable to maintain the natural protection of aura than to force it into hiding, but despite his capabilities, the boy seemed to think differently. Like it was all backward.
Another pair of blinding lights appeared on the horizon, the smudge quickly gained the shape of a truck as it was rapidly approaching. Feitan followed its position with his eyes, watching for the moment it would be mere meters away.
Just a swift motion, nothing more than stretching out the arm with minimal force, was enough. Unsuspecting the assault, Zoldyck couldn't counter or dodge a push and was shoved onto the street, right in front of the truck's bumper. He staggered momentarily, but in a split second managed to flee to the other side of the road. His reaction time was decent.
In the darkness, only his pale face was somewhat visible, along with the eyes, now widened, probably from shock, although just slightly. Another little thing reminding Feitan he was dealing with a human, not a doll.
It would certainly be easier to assume it was just a soulless mole — in that case, he knew methods to acquire information about who in reality was pulling the strings. But moments like these were stopping him from taking any hasty actions. Changes in expression that somehow never include the whole face. Slips, never explicit or lasting long enough to be sure what exactly they conveyed. Constantly hiding something.
Zoldyck stood across the street a little while longer, hesitant to come closer. Feitan chuckled observing this uneasiness, but through amusement, he could feel rising impatience. It was getting under his skin.
Assassins should stay out of sight. That was the organic part of that line of work; the guarantee of the seamless progression of the assignments without unnecessary confrontations. The patient awaiting and the detection of a perfect moment to strike showed their skill just as killing itself. Even when they could easily overpower their target, the clean, swift act was the way they were always choosing. Of course, unless the client wished otherwise.
Therefore, Zetsu was the technique held in high regard within the Zoldycks' methodology, serving as the initial introduction to controlling one's aura. Mother had taught Kalluto very early how to display the refinement of their deadly art, which the unprofessional disarray could only dishonor. Under the watchful eyes of his family, he went through days of concealing his presence on command and incessantly following designated targets until he would become indistinguishable from a shadow. And even long after the training, he remained being the shadow, striving for mastery.
Although he had to admit to himself, the assassin exercises weren't the only reason why he leaned toward this technique. He valued the soothing feeling of the energy flowing in the confinement of his body and the calmness that masking his existence was bringing. The times when he was hiding in the corners of distant rooms in the vastness of the Zoldyck mansion; when he was wandering amid the bushes in the wilderness of the yard. Far from the raised voices of Mother and father, critical gazes of his brothers, stifling supervision of the butlers. Shortly after learning about it, Zetsu had become his second nature, allowing him to forget about his own presence and spend hours observing people passing by as if he didn't exist.
And now his skin itched.
It didn't pain like torture, nor was it intense enough to be a substantial distraction. It was just an insignificant sting, constantly at the back of his head, but easy to ignore. He couldn't ignore it.
He sensed every passing person with the acute clarity, his organism became alerted even by the faintest traces of aura or the least dangerous strangers. Merely their brief glances made him feel exposed, as if they were deliberately focused on him. Kalluto knew there was nothing to be concerned about; he was stronger than an average human, but this time, it was more of a hindrance than a source of pride. Bereft of his usual methods, managing his power wasn't so instinctive anymore and required conscious effort, especially if he wanted to abide by old practices and keep his Nen subtle to resemble the normal people at least to some degree.
However, regardless of what he would do, it was clear he couldn't adjust to the aura of the man now nearest to him, both in its invasive nature and the nonchalance in which it was put on view. Force so grim and different from everything he knew, that it continuously aggravated his senses, unable to get used to it. And despite being more vulnerable to its destructive power in Zetsu, now he saw the constant awareness of its every nuance as much more draining.
Kalluto was pulled back out of his thoughts by an abrupt pain in his hand. Hurriedly, he moved it away from his face. It was a childish habit he thought he had eradicated a long time ago, but now, he didn't even notice when his index finger went between his teeth and red trails started to mark the almost broken skin.
He sighed.
He needed the cold compress to stifle this fever. The chains that could ground him in reality. The stone basement giving stability with its confinement. The unwavering composure of Illumi — the unattainable paragon of self-control, who never seemed to have those mind's weaknesses.
Once more, his mind wandered to the Kukuroo Mountain. He hadn't appreciated how uncomplicated things were back then. The stable routine of training and teaching was demanding sometimes, but never left him without guidance. Living in line with a reliable structure, which now seemed shattered.
It didn't mean this made him consider giving up. The main objective of his education was to prepare him to withstand hardships; after all, it wouldn't be necessary if nothing in life posed a challenge. There had to be a reason for tearing poisons, exercises until loss of consciousness, pushing the limits of his body's endurance, and the pain of awakening Nen for the first time.
Even with the green yard being replaced by the cold floors of abandoned buildings and the uncertainty wearing down the well-known convictions, Kalluto was accustomed to this kind of trials. Those experiences were different, but they shared enough similarities to pretend the current circumstances were just a secondary copy. He had already lived through it, he could do this again.
The thoughts brought him some assurance and a comfort of distant familiarity. Yet alongside, they carried a strange sense of frustration. It shouldn't be so similar.
