Chapter Text
--
They get a new transfer at the tail end of June. Campus is all-a-buzz with the news; new students are already rare, because Hunter Academy is notoriously proud of its by-the-book prestige. To have an entering student in those last heady weeks before summer’s out is an event without precedent. Kalluto overhears Mrs. Nostrade whispering about it before lunch break: “but it’s so unusual, isn’t it? This late in the year?”
Killua’s already waiting when Kalluto leaves the classroom, tapping his foot impatiently. “C’mon,” Killua scowls his usual scowl, turning on his heel without waiting to see if Kalluto follows. “If we hurry we can catch the ice cream truck before mom goes crazy and thinks we’re missing.”
Mama doesn’t like them eating dessert before dinner, so Kalluto nods even though Killua can’t see it, focusing on the straps of his shoulder bag. He’s so intent on keeping his head down that he bumps right into Killua where he stands stock-still in the hallway, ice-melt eyes alert, pale hairs on end.
At first Kalluto thinks he’s scared, but then –
“Hi!” says a bright, sparkling bubble of a voice that lights up the fluorescent hallway, bathes everything in a sweet, honeyed glow. “I’m Gon. What’s your name?”
--
The new boy’s name is Gon Freecss, and he’s in Killua’s year, two ahead of Kalluto. He transferred because his Auntie Mito moved them inland for a change of scenery after the death of his Uncle, and he joined school at the very end of the year because the district said he couldn’t enroll at the high school for fall unless he had prior on-campus attendance, and Gon was homeschooled most of his life.
Kalluto knows all this because Killua offers to let Gon join them on their walk home, and even though he walks a full ten steps behind them Gon’s bright voice carries and he can’t help but overhear. Gon is a chattering, buzzing wonder, so full of energy that he hop-skip-jumps every two or three steps, and Killua is so enamored he forgets all about the ice cream truck. Killua, who sits in the very back of his classrooms and only talks to tell the teachers when they’re wrong; Killua, who answers Mama’s questions with grunts and scowls more than he smiles.
Kalluto’s never seen his brother act like this, bracing his hands behind his head and laughing loudly at every little thing Gon says.
Maybe that’s why, two days later, Mama doesn’t protest at all when Killua informs her he’s added an extra block to their route. Walking to Gon’s bus stop takes them ten minutes out of their way but Kalluto suspects she’s so ecstatic Killua has a friend that she’s willing to overlook it; she offers to invite Gon to dinner, and that’s how Kalluto ends up sandwiched between Gon Freecss and Milluki at 6 o’clock that Friday. Gon chirps hellos and thank you so muches and this is delicious, Mrs. Zoldyck! that make Mama flush and flutter her fan modestly, and when Gon’s fingers brush against Kalluto’s when he’s passing a plate, Kalluto feels a zing! of static that makes his hands fumble.
“Kalluto!” Killua barks from across the table as cubes of mizu yōkan go tumbling into Gon’s lap, splats of sweet gelatin sticking to his shorts.
“I – I’m so sorry,” Kalluto mutters, avoiding Mama’s eye when he pushes back his chair to fetch a dishcloth. “I’ll get you something to clean it up.”
“That’s okay,” Gon’s laughing, “it’s just a little bit sticky.”
Killua scoffs and Father’s breath comes out sharp, a reprimand without speech. Illumi watches Kalluto rise shaking from his chair with furrowed brows.
“Really, it’s alright,” Gon says, sending a bright smile around the table. “I can get it myself! Could I use your bathroom, though?” He tilts his head like a puppy.
Mama simpers, “yes, of course, dear! Kalluto, show him.”
Kalluto can feel Killua’s glare on his back as he leads Gon out of the room.
--
“I’m really sorry,” Kalluto says again, once he’s led Gon to the nearest bathroom, gesturing for him to sit on the marbled edge of the bathtub while he soaks a washcloth.
He wrings the cloth and brings it over, then kneels in front of Gon, looks up to find him watching curiously. He wipes the cloth over Gon’s knee.
“Your parents are pretty strict, huh?” Gon ventures, fingers tapping on the bathtub – even now, he doesn’t seem to be able to sit still.
“Something like that,” Kalluto finds himself saying, concentrating on rubbing the scatter of spots on Gon’s shorts. “It was an ungracious way to welcome you to our home.” Kalluto rises, squeezing the sweet-scented cloth in his fist. “Sorry, again.”
“We were never introduced properly, were we?” Gon’s gaze is sweet and earnest, golden-warm. He holds out his hand. “I’m Gon.”
Something warm pulses in Kalluto’s gut. “Kalluto,” he replies, and takes it.
--
Once Gon’s gained Mama’s resounding approval, they settle into a routine on their walks home. Killua waits for Kalluto, like usual. Then he and Killua walk to the gym, where Gon’s last class is, and they’ll all walk to Gon’s bus stop together, the two older boys chattering rapidly about the upcoming summer while Kalluto trails behind. Sometimes, Gon will try to include him in their conversation, but Kalluto doesn’t have much to say – he has the same plans as Killua, after all – so Gon mostly just nods along until Killua steals his attention back by regaling him all the raunchy school gossip he missed out on, coming so late in the year.
One Wednesday afternoon the air is so muggy that they’re let out early, and Killua takes his chance to herd them towards the ice cream truck without the prospect of punishment. Kalluto lingers on the sidewalk, watching; Killua’s got his fist tucked into the pocket of Gon’s jacket and a glare that threatens violence if Kalluto tries interrupting. So he won’t.
He doesn’t really mind. Gon’s wearing denim shorts again.
Killua gets something in an oversized cone that looks like it’s been drowned in chocolate, chocolate syrup and chocolate sprinkles and then chocolate again, and Gon chooses something foamy that comes in a cup. Gon pulls out his wallet and Killua flushes and lets him, even though Kalluto knows just the spare change in his pockets is more than enough to cover it.
Killua goes to get spoons from the window and Gon’s about to put his wallet away, but then he sidesteps to the menu on the side of the truck again.
And he glances back at Kalluto.
Killua’s brow furrows in confusion and Kalluto feels light, like the wind.
Gon’s walking over before Kalluto quite knows what to do with himself, whether he needs to rustle through his shoulder bag for change.
“Here, Kalluto,” Gon offers, holding out one calloused hand. “For you!”
Kalluto looks down at the ice-pop, six inches of frozen pink lemonade melting already. Behind them, Killua watches and scowls, wiping chocolate from his face with his fingers. Gon beams, amber eyes gleaming earnestly as the treat sweats in his hand.
Kalluto reaches out, wraps his fingers carefully around the wooden stick, feels his cheeks heating up when their fingers brush. “Thank you.”
He slurps a bite off the top. It’s tangy, sweetly sharp. “’ll pay you back,” he starts to say, mumbling through the mushy ice in his mouth.
“Don’t worry about it,” Gon laughs, stepping back towards Killua on the pavement. He wipes his hand on his shirt and rubs the back of his head. “’s my treat!” He waves one last time, and then Killua’s tugging on the crook of his arm with chocolate hands, whining something about video games and dragging him off.
Kalluto has to sit down right there on the curb, feels melty like his popsicle. He’s grateful for the ice as it slides down his throat and chills his overheated chest, sticky-sweet syrup coating his insides.
--
Gon, Kalluto thinks, is a summer child, in so many ways; from his hometown on the coast, far across the country where gulls talk and cliffs crumble into salt; the way his laughter dips low and high and low again like waves; the black bristle of his hair, spikey like sea-urchins.
He comes alive in the heat, like all the winter-hardened amber melting to honey.
He wears the same heat-inspired flush that would turn Kalluto’s skin lobster-red so well, like now, slumped against the white iron chair with Killua beside him, melting so finely against the warm metal with his elbows on the table and his cheek drooped against his shoulder.
Are they high? Kalluto wonders, watching the smoky way Killua draws a finger up in the air and back down again, laughter thick, like he’s breathing in jell-o.
The grass beneath their toes is neon-rich, so deeply green it rivals the garish cotton of Gon’s shorts, sweating around their bare feet. Kalluto watches with envy the way their feet roll in the soft grass; the tree-bark under his palms is hard and itches, fragrant with the spicy scent of peppercorns that makes him repress a sneeze.
Kalluto can hear faint snaps of conversation down below. Killua has started wiggling his toes, testing their “dexterity”, some weak argument about squeaky limbs and melting in the heat. He holds his foot aloft for Gon, under the table, presses his toes carefully to the inseam of Gon’s thigh.
Gon tips his head back and laughs with hazy, warm delirium, placing both hands on Killua’s outstretched foot. Killua squawks with alarm and kicks out, laughing, and Gon untucks the tank-top from his shorts, pulling the fabric out and over Killua’s foot, bracing it to his chest, grin lazy and bright.
Gon keeps Killua’s foot pinned with one hand, reaches out to the table with the other. Mama brought them glasses of iced tea half an hour ago, patterned with cherries in bright, tacky red. Gon picks up his glass and presses it to his temple, sighing.
Kalluto shivers. Sweats, up in his perch - it’s been hours since he had something to drink. He tilts his head and watches Gon, the sweet mist of condensation dripping down his forehead.
Killua is watching, too; fixates on the dewy column of Gon’s throat with greedy eyes. Kalluto scowls. Killua doesn’t deserve to look.
Kalluto tilts his head, crawls along the branch until he’s suspended nearly above the little white-iron table and observes the aristocratic curve of Killua’s foot.
Killua has what Mama calls a ‘high arch’, perfect for dance; Illumi does, too, and so does Mama. Mama had always wanted to dance but couldn’t afford to; dance was a symbol of wealth, of grace and status, everything that Mama didn’t have growing up. But when Father swept her off her feet and married her, she gained the prestige to compliment her natural beauty; sweeping gowns, a columned mansion, glistening jewels for her hair and fingers. By then she was far too old to dance - so her children would learn in her stead. Illumi, her first, was gifted, had the fortunate genetics and wealth that predisposed him to life as a ballerina. Tall, naturally graceful, high-arched feet, and all of their mother’s beauty to accompany a Zoldyck birthright.
Perfect, until he wasn’t.
Kalluto remembers helping when Illumi would come home, feet wrecked, limping with toes crushed and toenails blackened and bruised. Mama would send him to fetch ice and he’d bring it in buckets, cup-sized little play pails painted with pink and butterflies, and she’d make pockets out of thin dishcloths and press the bundles to her eldest’s bruised toes for ten minutes at a time, three times an hour, while Illumi sat motionless on the chaise, foot elevated, staring at nothing.
“Illu-chan was always so graceful, that’s why we put her in ballet, she was meant for it, for the stage,” she told Kalluto, escalating with Illu-chan’s dreams that weren't really Illumi’s at all. Her hands were always cold, but they were frozen then, from the ice, pressing down hard on Kalluto’s outstretched palms.
“So graceful,” she sighed, fingers clamped tight. “But Illumi, you’re better than bruises.” Her tongue clicked. “You’re already so far behind.” Her hands must have been cold on Illumi’s cheeks, too, but he never acted like he felt it.
The reason Killua and Kalluto don’t dance is because Illumi broke his ankle during a performance, cracked the bones so they leaked marrow through his tights. She’ll never dance again, said the surgeon. On purpose, said Grandfather.
Illumi is graceful still, of course, years of training keeping his back straight and his chin high, but he walks with a limp that makes Mama’s lips tremble.
Kalluto wonders what it felt like, to fall under all those lights. To tumble down, even if it was on purpose; especially if it was on purpose; was Illumi not nervous? He must’ve been, in front of a whole theater audience, Mama and Father and Grandpa Zeno, and Milluki, and Killua and Kalluto and Alluka, all watching from the wings.
He thinks that for all Illumi’s planning, it must have been similar to now: the panicked adrenaline when you first start to slip, the hot rush of injury slamming up to meet you.
Kalluto’s foot slips. The branch slides through his fingers and the sky is robin blue as he reaches in vain for upended branches and touches the clouds like wisps as the world tilts and falls; new buds and weeping green twigs snag in the fabric of his hakama as he tumbles to the ground with a crash, rustle, whimper.
The scent of summer undergrowth fills his nose; sweating leaves and dirt and rotting blossoms. Kalluto’s head spins and his ears fill with the rustle of hot grass. His fingers curl in the warm damp earth.
“Kalluto!”
Fingers on his chin, his jaw, hot palms checking for blood on the sun-warm back of his skull. Gon’s yell is thick with worry and through the dizzy ringing in his head like bugs he can feel the thump-thump-thump of feet pounding on the grass.
“Shh, don’t move, stay down,” Gon recites, and Kalluto’s the one moving through jell-o now, sticky-limbed and wobbly, arms trembling when he raises himself up. He pushes the ground forwards and the earth moves with him, spinning slowly.
“I’m… al – l… right,” Kalluto says, slow and cotton-tongued. Gon’s warm gentle fingers are under his chin again, tipping Kalluto’s pupils up to the light.
“You hit your head,” Gon says, worried. Kalluto shakes his head from side-to-side and the air whistles, shrieking.
The colors are starting to un-blur in his head; the buzzing slows down and dulls to a hum. “I think – I’m okay now,” Kalluto says and starts to sit up. He anchors one hand harder in the grass, curling his middle and index fingers around Gon’s wrist. Gon’s eyes are big and lurid and amber, and he’s dripping sweat like sunlight.
A shadow falls like a mountain and dulls the sun. Killua’s glare is glacial.
Kalluto slips his fingers into Gon’s and smiles his prettiest smile and ignores his brother’s frothing anger. “Thank you…” he says, as Gon helps him to his feet.
“He was spying on us,” Killua spits, “again, little freak.”
Kalluto stumbles.
“Killua,” Gon admonishes. His fingers are warm, so warm, both calloused and soft. “Can you walk? Do you want us to help you back to the house?” He’s moving before he finishes speaking, pulling Kalluto’s arm over his shoulder and looping his own around Kalluto’s waist.
Kalluto bites his lip as he takes a cautious step forward. He thinks he hears Killua mumble “he’s fine,” but he’s too dizzy to chance a glance back to see.
He settles for pressing his free hand behind his back and flipping Killua the finger. Falling was worth the satisfaction of hearing Killua’s squawk of rage.
--
Not long after he fell, Illumi had explained, “I don’t always like my body.”
Kalluto had looked up from where he was perched on Illumi’s desk, flipping through an acupuncture book. Illumi’s ankle was still healing and he wasn’t allowed out of bed except for the bathroom, so Kalluto came to sit with him sometimes after meals.
Illumi shifted to face Kalluto so his bright, neon pink cast was diagonal on its elevated stack of pillows. “You know how only girls danced en pointe, at the studio?”
Kalluto nodded. He remembered watching the bright, twinkling flashes of gemstones-on-tulle: Illumi dancing on satin slippers.
Illumi tapped the ends of his cast, absently stroking the rubbed-raw skin just below his kneecap. “I’m not a girl. That’s why I don’t like my body.”
For a moment, Kalluto was confused. Then he nodded. “Okay. Does Mama know?”
A shadow flitted across Illumi’s brow. “Father and Grandfather know, but mother pretends she doesn’t.”
“Okay,” Kalluto said again. He didn’t see why it mattered; he’s a boy, but Mama dressed him in flowing robes and layered skirts sometimes, anyways. “Can we nap? I’m tired.”
Illumi nodded and Kalluto hopped off the desk, crawling into the open space on Illumi’s left and squirreling beneath the duvet. He waited until Illumi settled his hand on Kalluto’s head before asking, “Should I call you niisan?”
Illumi didn’t smile often, but Kalluto thought he could hear one in his voice. “Yes.”
--
After falling Kalluto isn’t allowed to play outside for a whole week, and he’s stuck inside for the best days of summer – the humid afternoons pass into lurid evenings, and cool, sweet wind rushed through the open windows in gusts, sending the curtains billowing into shapes of gauzy circus tents. Kalluto hunches under them, watching glumly from the window as Gon and Killua roll laughing down the grassy knoll of their lawn and have water fights with Milluki’s squirt guns. How can they have so much energy? He despairs, slumped against the wall and exhausted from hours of nothing but glares.
Occasionally Killua will look up at the open window – somehow he always knows when Kalluto’s watching – and stick out his tongue.
Kalluto scowls and throws down pieces of Alluka’s dolls.
Gon never sees – he’s too busy being a bundle of energy, darting to and fro across the grass, balancing water balloons and soccer balls and cords of waxy jump rope.
One evening, when Gon’s staying over for dinner and he and Killua are grappling over who kicked the soccer ball out-of-bounds, Killua bowls them over with a yell and they go down hard, hands bunched up in Gon’s oversized burgundy sweatshirt.
Gon’s giggling too hard to notice, but Kalluto sees the look in Killua’s eyes turn all at once contemplative and sly. “Say, Gon,” Killua says slowly, and Kalluto straightens up where he’s been resting listlessly against the window frame. “Can I wear your sweatshirt?”
Gon quirks an eyebrow, golden hour sparks dancing in his eyes. “Sure, but don’t you have your own? I’ve seen your closet,” he teases, “you’ve got far fancier stuff than me!”
Kalluto can’t believe what he’s seeing; his brother, Killua, king of family-freeze-outs, begging to borrow someone’s sweater in the throes of summer.
“Yeah, but my stuff’s not comfortable,” Killua’s pouting, and Gon relents. “Oh, alright, Killua,” he smiles, and Killua grins blinding.
“You’re gonna be hot,” Kalluto finds himself saying.
Of course, neither of them hear him, and once Killua’s pulled the top of the sweater over his head Gon grins and his eyes are sparkling.
“That’s a good color on you, Killua,” Gon says, wide and earnest. “You’re really pretty!”
Kalluto’s heart stops in his chest as color bleeds into Killua’s cheeks. Crimson, like the sweater. Bloody, he thinks viciously, like guts.
“Shut up, idiot,” Killua mutters, shoving Gon’s laughing face with his palm. “Acting like you’re some Casanova. Go get the soccer ball.” And Gon’s off, jogging across the sun-drenched field, hunting for their ball where it’s rolled beyond the tree-line.
Kalluto watches the way Killua hugs himself, the slow smile spreading on his cheeks.
Kalluto’s stomach hurts.
--
Father was never one for home remedies – when Milluki or Killua or Alluka or Kalluto got sick, he encouraged them to push through it, sending them to school with face masks and ice packs to help cool their temperatures.
Illumi was the sole exception. There were a couple days a month that he wouldn’t come down for breakfast, and Kalluto would watch Mama wringing her hands and fretting at their silver teakettle until it whistled, and then he’d help her put together a tray laden with chocolate and toast and other rare treats to bring up.
Kalluto envied Illumi those days, until once he crept upstairs to steal a piece of chocolate and found his brother clammy and pale, curled on his side with a heating pad pressed tight against his stomach, eyelids veiny and translucent with sweat, waiting for the heat to soothe him to sleep.
Later Kalluto learned that that sort of thing won’t happen to him, and he felt a sharp pang of relief that he’d never have to experience that kind of agony.
Now Kalluto lies flat on his back and stares at the ceiling, thinking about the way Killua lights up when Gon’s in the room, and thinks: that’s what this feels like.
--
“Can I have the heating pad?”
Illumi looks at Kalluto in surprise, face aglow from the dim light of his laptop screen. It’s late; they’ll be in trouble if Father finds them awake. “Why do you need it?” He makes to get up from the bed. “Are you still hurting? Do you want Tylenol?”
“No, that’s not it,” Kalluto assures him. “My stomach... didn’t really agree with dinner.”
Illumi stares blankly in that way he does for long enough to make Kalluto squirm before nodding and shifting the computer off his lap, rising gracefully from the bed and padding over to rustle through the dresser. Kalluto takes that as an invitation to enter; he sits on Illumi’s vacated spot on the bed, observing the photographs Illumi has tacked up to his bed frame. There’s only a handful, and each one features Illumi and a tall, regal man with a rainbow of hair colors that Kalluto recognizes from the ballet. “That’s your danseur.”
“Hisoka,” Illumi supplies, crossing the room to plug the heating pad into the outlet beside the bed. He hands it to Kalluto before shutting his laptop and dropping it on the floor, then crawls onto the mattress.
“You’ve never brought him home before.” Kalluto presses the flannel pad to his stomach, grateful as heat starts to warm his palm.
Illumi turns to lie on his back and draws the thin top-sheet up over them both, Kalluto curling like a cat against his chest. “He’s my boyfriend,” Illumi explains, voice gone soft. “I can’t.”
“Oh,” Kalluto whispers. Understands why that might have been acceptable before, but not now. “He’s pretty.”
Illumi makes a noise that might be a snort. “He knows.”
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
Illumi’s breathing stills. His hand skims the top of Kalluto’s head. “Of course you’re pretty,” he says, surprise emanating from his soft tone. “You take after mother.”
“You do, too. Did,” Kalluto amends.
They fall silent. For a while then, Kalluto drifts; drowsy from the heat and the comfort of another body, Illumi’s fingers combing idly through his hair.
“Your bangs are getting long,” Illumi murmurs, sometime later, when Kalluto’s walking that honeyed gap between dozing and wakefulness. “Mother will want you to trim them.”
“I don’t care what Mama thinks,” Kalluto says, just as softly.
Illumi hums. “Sometimes, I think…” He trails off. “I think… she’s trying to turn you into me. What I was supposed to be. We look more alike, more than Milluki, or Killu.” He hesitates. “Or Alluka.”
Kalluto’s stomach twinges. It’s true, he thinks; Milluki and Killua and Alluka take after Father, wide features and broad shoulders. Kalluto and Illumi are both narrower with slender hips, Mama’s delicate cheekbones; her silky, straight hair.
“I don’t want to be you,” Kalluto says, tilting his chin up, squinting at the shape of Illumi’s jaw in the inky blackness. “I want to be me.”
“I want to be me, too.” Illumi tweaks his cheek, gentle. “And I want you to be you.”
“I want Gon to think I’m pretty,” Kalluto whispers. It comes pouring out, sudden, like a rush of foaming seawater, and that ache in his belly stiffens and constricts, squeezes around his organs.
“So that’s what this is about,” Illumi murmurs. “Killua’s summer boy.” Kalluto doesn’t know which he means: that Gon is Killua’s first friend to stay the summer, or the way that wherever Gon goes he brings a flush like sunburn to every person’s skin, even Mama, like they can’t help it; like Kalluto can’t, either.
“Killua’s,” Kalluto mumbles, and Illumi doesn’t say anything after that.
--
The last days of school pass in a wave of heat. Kalluto exits class with a tinny-gold certificate tucked safely into his shoulder bag and finds that Killua hasn’t even bothered to wait for him today, so he walks home alone, kicking aimlessly at the hot cracks in the asphalt.
He’s sitting on the back porch, scratching moodily at the pinkish-red scrapes that have just started to heal, when he hears raucous, Killua-like shouting beyond the treeline. Now that he looks he can see Gon’s backpack and Killua’s skateboard leaning against the tree trunks.
Kalluto bites his lip and looks back at the house. Illumi’s sitting at the dining room table, flipping through a magazine and nibbling at a plate of crackers. He never told Mama what he was doing, when he fell - only that he got his clothes caught while climbing - but after that night in Illumi’s room, Kalluto’s felt his older brother’s eyes follow him closely.
He hasn’t seen Gon all day, though. He wants to at least say, ‘happy summer.’
Kalluto gets to his feet with purpose, following the faint noise of Gon’s laughter somewhere up ahead. Hearing it makes bubbles spark in his chest like soda pop, and he hurries towards it, unable to keep from smiling.
When he sees them, the sparks fizzle out and sink down through his chest, filling his insides with smoke. His heart thumps rapidly in his chest. Like he’s the one being kissed.
He’s the freak little brother, spying.
Killua and Gon are curled up against each other, Killua’s back to a tree, his converse tucked into the grooves under the roots and his hands tight on Gon’s shoulders. Gon’s arms are hanging in the air like he doesn’t know where to put them because Killua pulled him in so sudden.
Kalluto can’t breathe through the smog in his lungs but he can’t look away, staring. So he sees Gon’s shoulder blades relax. Hackles down, palms up, moving to cradle Killua’s cheeks.
Sees Killua’s eyes open and stare right back.
Gon doesn’t notice. Gon doesn’t see any of it.
Gon doesn’t even see Kalluto at all.
Finally, Killua’s lashes flutter and close. Finally, Gon pulls away with a slick-wet sound that makes Kalluto want to vomit and tucks a snow-white strand of Killua’s hair behind his ear, gentle. And Killua laughs, breathless and earnest, because for all of this Killua does like Gon, desperately.
Maybe even loves him.
“I’m really glad I met you, Gon,” Killua says, soft and sincere.
“I’m glad I met you, too,” Gon says, without an ounce of hesitation.
Killua knocks their elbows together. Gon steps back, rubs the back of his flushed neck. Starts to jog backwards with a little spring in his step. He pokes his tongue out. “Race you back!” He calls, grinning that sweet, honey smile.
Killua yells an insult - but he’s slow and unbothered and dripping satisfaction, frosty edges all melted in the dappled sunlight. He rolls his shoulders, spins around and looks right over at where Kalluto crouches, words stuck in his throat.
“Eat your heart out,” Killua mouths, hands behind his head.