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Killua points at the menu, voice rising as he informs the waitress that he wants a banana parfait and a strawberry gateau and a custard tart and a chocolate brownie. The waitress’ expression remains impassive, but the green pen in her hand moves rapidly across her notepad. Gon is surprised rivers of steam aren’t flying from the nib. He nudges Killua gently. Killua breaks off with a scowl and Gon says, “Killua, you can’t only order desserts.”
“Who said anything about only ordering desserts, idiot?” The last word tumbles out in Killua’s prolonged drawl. Swivelling back to the waitress, Killua demands six mains and four side dishes. “Don’t put any anchovies in the pasta,” he insists. “They’re gross!”
The waitress nods. She skirts away without asking if the boys would like anything else.
Settling back in the velvet booth, Killua casually scans the room. He’s assessing the potential exits again, Gon thinks, working out if it’d be faster to leave through the kitchen or windows in case the tattooed, bald guy a few seats away attacks them with his chair. Personally, Gon’s more concerned by the old lady who’s currently hacking into a T-bone steak: there’s a chance she could turn her knife on the pair instead. Killua grimaces at a painting of Yorknew City hanging on the opposite wall, then says, “The grub here better be good. Oh – Gon. I didn’t ask what you wanted.”
“Huh? But you told the waitress already. I’m eating shrimp rice and a burger and pasta.” Gon sticks out his tongue. “I don’t like anchovies on pizza, either.”
“That’s my food,” Killua grumbles. Gon stares, incredulous. A moment later, Killua huffs, “F-Fine! You can have a little bit, I guess.”
“Yay! Thanks Killua!”
“Whatever.” Killua shrugs and briefly closes his eyes, a practised pout conveying his disdain. Gon beams. Killua is always so cool. Then, Killua’s attention snaps back to Gon and he asks slyly, “This is why you keep saying all that embarrassing stuff about being best friends, right? So I treat you?”
Weird. He sounds almost… hopeful. “Nope,” Gon answers, reaching for the salt and pepper pots. The seasonings are housed in identical glass containers, greasier to the touch than Gon had anticipated. He frowns, tapping the pots together. “I say all those things because they’re true. You’re important to me.”
Killua snatches up Gon’s napkin. He smooths it out on the table before folding the cloth into a bird. When he’s finished, Gon applauds, impressed. Killua passes his own, yellowing napkin across and spend the next few minutes talking through the steps.
The fried chicken wings arrive first, along with a small bowl containing spicy sauce. Killua dips his pinky straight into the maroon liquid. “Not bad,” he says, licking his finger.
“That’s good,” Gon replies, demolishing his fourth chicken wing.
There’s a ruckus as Killua shoves the heel of one hand in Gon’s face. Gon squawks and flaps his arms, blindly reaching for Killua’s collar – he grasps the tablecloth and tugs hard, trying to get himself upright. A terrific clatter rings around them. Killua springs away. In an instant, he catches the food flying through the air: the plate laden with chicken wings lands on his shoulder; garlic bread, neatly arranged on a wooden tray, rests in one upturned hand. He’s cradling potato wedges in the crook of one elbow.
“Oh. I guess they brought more stuff.”
“I guess.” Killua sets the items down. “If Kurapika or Leorio were here, they would’ve made us get salad.”
They grin at each other, impervious to the other diners’ murmured complaints. The waitress hurries back and forth, delivering and collecting dishes with each revolution. Killua’s chatty as he eats. He skewers hunks of cheese while telling Gon about the incredible meals he’s had in the past. His eyes shine when he details a candy heist from a few years back (Gon thinks it’s a miracle Killua still has all his molars and incisors and whatever else). In return, Gon tears the burger in half and reflects on Aunt Mito’s best creations – the fish head soup that still bubbled when it was cold and the pickled eggs he’d collected in Snakebeech Forest that had filled him up for three days.
Killua doesn’t look too keen.
Thinking about Whale Island makes Gon think about Ging. He trails off, traipsing down a muddy track that meanders through the dense undergrowth. Killua works on his brownie and lets Gon be. Gon’s grateful. There’s something satisfying about watching Killua eat. It’s soothing just to know Killua exists.
Gon is sure he’ll finally catch up to Ging under dramatic circumstances. They’ll meet on the ocean floor, perhaps, while simultaneously latching onto a scaly sea serpent. Or, conversely, their paths will cross on a sky highway, their hands nesting in their respective Spider Eagles. Maybe he’ll find out Ging was actually a shapeshifting Kiriko the whole time.
He gasps at that last possibility.
Killua responds by shoving vanilla ice cream in Gon’s mouth. Gon blinks and Killua sticks his nose in the air. “Alright, don’t act so pathetic! You can have two or three bites!”
Gon shifts down the booth and they plunge into the parfait. Killua gives Gon the strawberry. Gon doesn’t touch the last layer of fudge.
When he does meet Ging, he’ll start with a greeting. Then he’ll grab Killua and drag him forward because Killua will be slinking in the shadows, as though it isn’t his moment as much as it is Gon’s. As if he hasn’t given so much to their cause over the past however long it’s been. “Look,” Gon will say, loudly, so that Ging definitely pays attention, so that Ging understands. “This is Killua, my best friend. We’re going to stay together forever.”
“You can have one slice.” Killua quarters the custard tart. “Only one, mind you.”
It doesn’t matter if he finally meets Ging Freecss five or ten or even twenty years from now: Killua will still be by Gon’s side.