Work Text:
Snip.
The sound of scissors, barely heard above the hiss of a respirator, the beep of machinery.
Snip.
Metal sliding against metal, methodically cutting.
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Locks of black hair, falling to the ground.
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Plastered together. With.
Sweat.
Blood.
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If he focused on cutting that hair, he didn't have to think.
Snip.
Another curl of hair.
Snip.
If he focused on cutting that hair, he didn't have to think.
Snip.
Didn't have to think that Gon was dying.
Snip.
The loose strands stuck to his fingers. They were.
Wet.
Snip.
Tears.
Dripping to sink into black hair as he cut, and cut, and cut.
Snip.
He couldn't stop the tears.
Snip.
Louder than the whispering sound of the scissors, the respirator, the beeping.
Snip.
Sobbing.
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If he focused on cutting that hair, he didn't have to think.
Snip.
If he didn't have to think, he wouldn't break down.
Snip...
The last lock of hair fell to the ground, silently. Killua stared at it, stared at the feet and feet of hair that he had slowly cut away. He wanted to look at Gon, to look at his face and see him smile and know that everything was okay, everything was fine and would stay fine.
But when he looked, all he saw was bloody bandages.
If he cut the hair, when he was finished, things would have changed.
They kept him bundled away under thin hospital sheets, wrapped in bandages so thick that it was hard to make out his features. No matter how much they changed them, blood seeped through those bandages to smear against white sheets.
And Gon wouldn't wake up.
All they'd let him do was cut away that hair.
If he cut the hair, when he was finished, it would be different.
And now it was gone.
He was gone.
No. Not yet. It was still there. He was still there. He wasn't done yet.
The floor was covered in hair. He'd cut it all away. There was nothing left for him to do, nothing to keep the screaming in his mind at bay. The chair he'd been sitting on was falling away. His knees hit the floor, scissors skidding away with a metallic screech. It wasn't important. It didn't matter.
The hair. If he just cut the hair, when he was finished, it would be okay.
His hands scrabbled at the hair. Scraped it together, into a pile. Black hair. Gon's hair. Curls and curls, thick, long strands of hair. Stuck together. Coated in crusty, congealed blood.
His tears softened it again, blue blood and red blood both. He gathered the hair in hands that shook, and didn't even hear the way he wailed. Bundles and bundles of hair, clutching it to his chest.
He couldn't hold Gon. This was all he could do. This was the only part of him he could touch.
He didn't realize it was happening, until Leorio had burst into the room and grabbed him by the shoulders. Others came with him. They were dragging him, limp and livid, and all he could do was grasp at the hair he had cut away and scream, cry. If he fought, he couldn't hold on. Couldn't do what he needed to do. They couldn't take him away. Not yet. He wasn't done yet. They couldn't take him away from Gon. Not again. He couldn't leave again.
He had to cut Gon's hair.
If he cut Gon's hair, when he was finished, he would wake up.
Gon would come back.