Chapter Text
As Killua wakes, it takes a moment for him to remember where he is.
At first, his instinct is to curl tighter in his bed, pulling the meager blanket around his shoulders, and steal a few minutes respite before enduring the pain and cruelty he’s sure he’ll face today.
Except that his blanket isn’t meager. It’s thick and warm, and the pillow beneath his head is perfectly firm. The room isn’t uncomfortably cold, either. And there’s the faint aroma of hot oil from down the hall.
Gon, he remembers suddenly. He slept at Gon’s. He had one blissful evening of plenty to eat and a good night’s rest, and then today he’ll kill him and return home. He’ll leave everything he’s been given here behind, and head back to the misery and loneliness. It shouldn’t make his chest ache, sharp and horrified and desperate, but it does.
But there’s no use prolonging the inevitable. There’s no use lounging in bed, enjoying a few moments more of warmth and comfort. He’ll head to the kitchen, where he can hear the faint sounds of a radio playing, kill Gon, and be on his way.
“Good morning,” Gon says brightly, the moment Killua enters the kitchen. “Do you like eggs?”
He’s standing at the stove, two eggs sizzling in the oil. The light in the kitchen is good--it gilds Gon’s bronzed skin to a shimmering gold, and warms his already bright eyes. He looks so comfortable here, so sure and confident. So alive.
“Eggs are good,” Killua says, softer than he intended.
“How do you like them?”
“Uh, scrambled, I guess.”
Gon beams.
“Alright, I’m going to make you the best scrambled egg sandwich of your life.”
The secret ingredient to Gon’s scrambled egg sandwich, Killua learns, is a half teaspoon of sugar mixed into the eggs. Gon assures him that it doesn’t make the eggs sweet, just creamy and soft, and while Killua is initially skeptical, a single bite changes his mind.
“Good?” Gon asks, with a smile like he already knows the answer.
Killua nods, and Gon beams again, brighter than before. It’s all Killua can do to keep looking directly at him.
“So,” Gon continues, heading to the coffee maker, “did you want to head out today?”
No.
The refusal is sudden and visceral, twisting viciously at Killua insides. No , he thinks, before he can stop himself. I don’t want to leave. Please, not yet.
And what’s one more day, really, Killua wonders. One more day of the purest bliss he’s ever known, even if he’s punished severely for it, is worth it. Killua has risked far more for far less pleasure than this.
“I don’t think so,” Killua responds at last. The pause before his answer should be enough to make Gon suspicious, but if he is, it doesn’t show on his face. “I might stick around for a while. The town seems nice.”
“It’s really nice!” Gon gushes. “And you can stay with me while you’re here, if you’d like.”
Killua wants to take Gon by the shoulders and shake him. How naive can he be? Doesn’t he realize that the person who’s coming to stay with him is going to take his life in a matter of days, at most? Does he have even a shred of self-preservation?
As they eat, they sort out the specifics of the living situation—the spare room where Killua will stay, the process of making a copy of the key, Killua’s contribution to the household expenses.
Killua treats the conversation with the utmost seriousness. He knows that there’s no need for it; it’s not like he’ll be staying long. But the fantasy, the dream of his own place, far from the reach of his family, with large windows that let in the golden sunlight and a radio playing softly in the kitchen, is so dear that he can’t help but indulge it for a moment.
Eventually, the conversation turns to work. Even in this fantasy world, Killua wants to act like he’ll earn his keep.
“What did you do before?” Gon asks. “That might be the easiest place to pick back up, right?”
“No!” Killua blurts out, too urgent.
He clears his throat and tries again.
“I mean, I didn’t like my old profession very much. I’d like to do something else.”
Gon nods, thinking it over.
“Well, you could always be my assistant! I’m an Ecology Hunter, and I’m studying the local wildlife here. But I wouldn’t really be able to pay you—my research stipend is only enough for one person.”
Killua shakes his head. He’s not in the business of accepting charity—he’ll work for anything he gets here.
“Or you could get a job somewhere in town,” Gon muses. “Is there anything you’d really like to try?”
“I’d like to bake, I think.”
Even as he speaks the words, Killua doesn’t know where they could’ve come from. Baking? Really? He’s never baked in his life.
But he does have a sweet tooth, he supposes. And more than that, his hands have been used to destroy for so long, and in this imaginary world, he likes the idea of creating with them instead.
“Oh, that’s perfect!” Gon exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I’m good friends with the owner of the local bakery, actually. And her last assistant just left for university a few weeks ago. She’d probably welcome the help.”
And although Killua knows that the whole thing is ridiculous, that he’ll be in town a few days, at most, he agrees. It’ll be nice to pretend, even if it’s just for the afternoon.
The bakery is small, cozy, and impressively clean. Books with long-broken spines are stuffed into a bookcase in the corner, and the mishmash of furniture is well-worn. But the floors are spotless and there isn’t so much as a fingerprint marring the bakery case.
A stocky woman with burnt orange hair piled haphazardly on top of her head emerges from the back when the bell above the door sounds.
“Welcome in,” she says, and her voice is rough but warm. “We’ve got a special running on cinnamon—oh! Hi, Gon! I didn’t realize it was you.”
“Good morning, Jorey! I wanted to introduce you to my new friend, Killua.”
Killua nods, and gives his best approximation of a smile.
“Pleased to meet you,” Jorey says, returning the nod before shifting her attention back to Gon. “Now, you tell me what’s going on. You’ve got a look on your face.”
“A look? What do you mean? This is just my face!”
“It’s the look you get whenever you have a new harebrained scheme. You know, the ones that you think are divinely inspired and everyone else thinks are downright nuts.”
“I don’t have ‘harebrained schemes,’” Gon shoots back. “In fact, I’m about to make your day!”
“Is that so?”
“It is! I’ve found you a new assistant!”
Gon gestures to Killua with a dramatic flourish. Jorey’s stoic expression doesn’t waver as she looks him up and down.
“You want to work here?”
“I do.”
She pauses, thinking it over.
“It won’t be easy. Believe me, I’ve worked with enough slackers to last a lifetime, so you’ll have to work hard. And your shift will start at four-thirty every morning except Sunday.”
Killua nods.
“I can handle that.”
Without a word, Jorey comes from behind the counter, and Killua’s proud that he doesn’t flinch when she takes his hands. She lays them out flat, first looking at the back, running a thumb over his scarred knuckles, and then flips them over to inspect his palms.
At last, she nods. Whatever she was looking for, she must’ve found it.
“Hm. Alright. Go get an apron from the back, then.”
Killua looks to Gon for more guidance, but he's busied himself with selecting a cinnamon bun from the bakery case, and merely gives Killua a cheerful parting wave before heading back out the door, bell chiming.
Jorey shows Killua around the bakery, focusing on the kitchen, because according to her, Killua won’t have to work directly with customers very much. She really just needs an extra set of hands in the back.
“All you’ve gotta do to succeed here is follow directions carefully,” she tells him. “If you don’t understand something, ask me, and I’ll be happy to clarify it. What I don’t want you doing is taking a stab in the dark, guessing wrong, and wasting supplies. I don’t mind questions. I do mind very avoidable mistakes. You get me?”
“Yes to following directions and asking for clarification. No to stupid mistakes.”
Jorey nods, clearly satisfied, and starts Killua on kneading some bread dough. She shows him just how to dig the heel of his hand into the pillowy dough to exert the most strength, and the exact point at which to stop kneading and allow the bread to rest. And before Killua knows it, he’s kneading dough and putting it in greased bowls to proof like he’s been doing it all his life.
Killua likes baking. He likes the calming rhythm of kneading dough. He likes the precision of measuring out ingredients. He likes the sweet aromas of simmering fruits atop the stove and the warmth when he opens the oven.
He’s content.
The realization strikes him into immobility for a moment, and he freezes with a tray of cookies halfway between the oven and the counter. Killua thinks back on his words to Gon last night, that he was running away from something more than running towards anything specific. They had come so naturally to him then because they were perfectly true. Killua couldn’t ever fathom a future worth looking forward to. Life was simply something to be endured, one unbearable moment to the next. The thought of the future, day after day after agonizing day, sometimes overwhelmed him to the point of nausea if he dwelled on it for too long.
But now, he sees a future he might want. A job he likes, a friend nearby, and yesterday’s wounds already beginning to close from where Gon had dressed them.
For the very first time, Killua has a glimpse into another life. One where he might even stand a chance at being happy.
When Killua returns back to Gon’s apartment that evening (not “home;” he can’t let himself think of it as home), Gon’s just emerged from the shower, scrubbing his hair dry with a towel.
“Welcome back!” he says brightly, hurrying to the kitchen, towel slung around his shoulders, and filling the kettle. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yeah,” Killua says softly. “Tea would be nice.”
Gon smiles like there was a correct answer to that question, and Killua had just provided it.
“How was your first day?” Gon prompts, selecting mugs from the cabinet.
“It was really good. I think I’ve got potential as a baker.”
“Of course you do,” Gon says, as if it were a given. “Would you prefer black or green tea?”
Unbidden, an image of Gon’s lifeless corpse flashes bright before Killua’s eyes. He tries to blink it away, but the afterimage lingers. Gon, his eyes wide and betrayed. Gon, pale and limp on the kitchen floor. Gon, his blood crusted beneath Killua’s fingernails for days, no matter how hard he scrubs at them.
“Killua?”
Killua breaks from his reverie, and Gon’s giving him a keen, curious look, his eyes eventually coming to rest on Killua’s hands.
“You’re clenching your fists,” he says softly. “Are your hands sore from all that work today?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah,” Killua lies.
He assumes that will be the end of it, that Gon will return to making tea, but instead, Gon invites him to sit down at the kitchen table and takes one of Killua’s hands in his own, palm up.
“Is it okay if I massage them just a little? People don’t realize how many muscles are in your hands, but there are a bunch and they can get tired, too.”
Not trusting his voice to stay steady, not with Gon so close and his skin so warm, Killua merely nods.
Gon’s pressure is firm but gentle, and he has an uncanny knack for finding sore spots on Killua’s palms. He spends an especially long time rubbing the tension out of the base of Killua’s thumb, and it’s all Killua can do not to slump forward onto the table from how good it feels.
Killua knows it’s undeserved. If there’s any part of his body that the world should hate, it’s his hands. His hands have crushed bones, broken necks, torn out hearts, slashed throats. Over and over again, these hands have wrought nothing but violence and destruction.
But Gon doesn’t know that, and so he treats Killua’s hands with something close to reverence. He’s gentle and focused and so, so kind. If Gon truly knew what Killua’s hands had done, he couldn’t bear to touch them. Killua wishes he felt guiltier about the deception, but the careful pressure of Gon’s fingers, easing the tension out of Killua’s palms, feels too good for him to manage it.
And that night, back in Gon’s spare room, Killua does something for which he should feel even guiltier.
Killua
10:42 PM
Big brother Illu,
I’ve located the target. However, the warnings were right—he’s far too formidable an opponent to face head on. Despite concealing my presence, he was able to find me while I was observing him yesterday. I think I’ll have to switch to the infiltration method.
The infiltration method is one Killua rarely employs. To do it successfully, he has to assimilate into the target’s life to gain their trust, and then strike when their defenses are lowest. The method, while sometimes necessary, is time consuming, inefficient, and not without risks. Illumi in particular dislikes it.
Killua waits, hardly daring to breathe, for his response.
Illumi
10:44 PM
Very well. How long do you anticipate the job taking?
Killua gnaws on a fingernail, thinking it over. What’s the longest he could possibly get Illumi to agree to? How long can Killua live in the only happiness he’s ever known?
Killua’s never been an especially good gambler, but he’ll try his best. Don’t aim too low or too high. Something nice and safe, right in the middle.
Killua
10:51 PM
Three to four months should be enough
Illumi
10:51 PM
Authorized
Killua lets out a long, shaky breath, easing himself slowly into a chair in the corner, his knees going a little weak..
Three to four months. That’s the extent of this respite. Of warm meals, a soft bed, and not a drop of blood on his hands.
Of Gon.
Three or four months.
As Killua climbs beneath the sheets that night, he swears he hears the far-off ticking of a clock, his time disappearing second by second.