Chapter Text
Target: Gon Freecss
Age: 24 years
Compensation: 8,000,000 J
Notes: Target is a high level Hunter, caution advised
Killua crumples the small piece of paper into a tight ball and shoves it deep in his pocket. Besides the picture, those four brief lines are the only information he has on the person he’s been assigned to kill. That sort of thing used to bother him--it seemed so horribly cruel, killing a person without knowing the first thing about them. He used to feel like he owed them more than that, like he should at least know something --whether they had any brothers or sisters, maybe, or their favorite color, or if they’d ever been in love, and with whom--before taking their life. But twenty-four years of killing after killing, twenty-four years of pain and misery and unbearable loneliness, have worn Killua away almost entirely, and there’s nothing but bones left. He can’t bring himself to feel any despair or horror at ending the life of another stranger. He just doesn’t have it in him anymore.
All Killua knows about his target is that he’s an up-and-coming Hunter, quickly rising through the ranks of the Association and garnering international renown for his work, and that someone wants him dead. And that’s all Killua cares to know. In the end, Gon Freecss is just another assignment. Killua can’t let himself think beyond that, or he’ll never be able to do the job he’s been given.
Killua tracked Gon to a small village in the Kakin Kingdom, found his apartment, followed him throughout the afternoon, and now simply has to wait for the right opportunity. He’ll heed the warning provided in the assignment description--it’s rare for anyone to suggest Killua be careful, especially given his abundance of experience, so if this target calls for caution, he must be incredibly strong. Killua doesn’t want to rush into a fight without every possible advantage.
But as Killua follows Gon along the rooftops of nearby buildings, watching him through his binoculars, he finds that Gon doesn’t seem formidable in the slightest. The day is rainy and grey, and as Gon heads downtown, he makes a point of jumping into puddles, splashing the water as high as he can with a shout of delight. He heads to the post office first--Killua imagines he’s running errands today--and when he leaves, he’s carrying a stack of packages for someone, appearing, even from a distance, to be making friendly conversation with her as he does.
At first, Killua assumes it’s a favor to a friend, but when they arrive at a nearby apartment building, she tries to hand him a crumpled wad of Jenny, which he waves off with a smile. Was it a stranger then? Did Gon really go several blocks out of his way in the rain to carry some packages for someone he’s only just met? Killua’s lived in this world long enough to know that selflessness is merely a comforting lie people like to tell themselves, jusy an imagined light they try and fail to use to illuminate the neverending dark. Gon couldn’t possibly have done that favor for a complete stranger, not without getting anything in return.
Killua tightens his grip on his binoculars, watching Gon with a renewed intensity. Surely with enough scrutiny, the cracks in Gon’s facade will start to show. Surely he’ll reveal the truth--the quid pro quo, the fundamental fact that no one gives something for nothing--soon enough.
But then, only a few blocks later, Gon comes across a turtle flipped on its back on the sidewalk and gently turns it over, picking a few leaves from a nearby dandelion and offering them for it to eat before sending it on its way.
Well, now he’s just being absurd, Killua thinks, more than a little ruefully. It’s like he’s playacting some caricature of kindness. How can Gon have lived in the world for twenty-four years--just as long as Killua--and have even a shred of goodness left? It should’ve been stomped out of him, swiftly and mercilessly, by now. Does he know he’s being watched, maybe? Is he putting on a show for Killua in some sort of desperate ploy for sympathy, as if a few good deeds would actually convince someone like Killua to spare his life?
But that possibility doesn’t seem likely, given that Gon buys some groceries at the local supermarket and then returns straight to his apartment. It wouldn’t make much sense for him to knowingly lead Killua right to his front door, would it? So maybe it wasn’t an act for a distant observer, then. Maybe all of it was genuine. Maybe there’s one good person left, one good person in all the world, and Killua is about to kill him. Maybe there’s one real light left, however small and however insignificant, and Killua’s about to snuff it out.
All at once, Killua is overcome with a powerful wave of vertigo, so strong he actually falls to his knees. He can’t name this desperate, frantic feeling clenching at his insides and sending his head spinning, but it’s sudden and overpowering. It feels like drowning, like that for all his efforts, he can’t manage to get enough air. He has to get off the rooftop where he’d been lurking--that much is certain. The height is only worsening the dizziness, and he doesn’t want to fall. So, far too quickly and more than a little clumsily, he leaps down off of the roof into the alley, knocking off a trash can lid with a loud clatter as he does.
There, it’s better on the ground, at least. It’s wet and cold and the open trash can smells foul, but at least things feel a little more solid than they did on the rooftop. Killua can just catch his breath here, compose himself for a moment, and then kill Gon and be on his way. He needs to breathe, is all. Just breathe and manage to get a goddamn grip. Breathe, he commands himself. In and out. In and--
“Are you alright?”
Like a wild animal, Killua starts, scrambling backwards against the wall of the alley, fingernails clawing at the brick.
“I thought I heard something fall, so I wanted to make sure everyone was okay.”
Of course you did, Killua thinks bitterly, hardly able to meet Gon’s wide, warm eyes. Of course you came to check up on the person who came to kill you. Your kindness is going to be the death of you soon enough. Trust me, I’ll guarantee it.
Gon looks different up close. Through his binoculars, Killua couldn’t get a good sense of his eyes--how deeply brown they are, or how brightly they gleam. He didn’t notice that Gon’s nose is just slightly upturned. And he hadn’t seen the smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, scattered like constellations on his skin. And then all at once, the vertigo returns, just as strong, and Killua stumbles, only just catching himself against the wall.
“Woah, careful there,” Gon says, reaching out an arm to steady Killua. Without thinking, Killua flinches backward, hands flying up to cover his face and chest heaving up and down with frantic breaths.
Immediately, Gon drops his hand and takes a step back. For a brief and inexplicably terrifying moment, Killua thinks he’s about to leave, but he doesn’t turn around. Killua isn’t sure why that feels like such a relief.
“You must be freezing, out here in the rain,” he says softly. “Would you like to come in? I can get you something dry to change into, if you like.”
He holds out his umbrella with an oddly shy smile.
“Yes,” Killua says, before he has a moment to think. “Please.”
It’s the perfect opportunity. That’s what Killua tells himself, as he follows Gon into the building and down the hall. That’s the only reason for this warm, eager feeling squirming around in Killua’s insides. He’s being invited into the home of the person he was hired to kill--it would be harder to find a better opening than that. That’s why his heart squeezes so desperately in his chest. Because it’ll be easier to complete his assignment now, to kill Gon and be on his way. That’s all.
Gon’s apartment is cluttered, but not dirty. He has more than his fair share of knicknacks, and so many plants that he has to clear a place on the kitchen table to put down his grocery bags, but the place is well maintained nonetheless. More than anything, it’s cozy. Lived in. Killua’s accustomed to cold stone walls, vaulted ceilings, and empty, endless hallways, echoing with every footstep. His family’s estate is nothing like Gon’s apartment, with the blanket tossed over the back of the couch and the sky blue tea kettle on the stove.
“Let’s get you some clothes first, alright?” Gon says, heading into what must be a bedroom before Killua has the chance to reply. When he emerges, it’s with a fluffy green towel and a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants in his arms. When Killua takes them, he finds that they’re soft. Somehow, that feels like a revelation.
Gon shows Killua to the bathroom, where he strips out of his soaked clothes, dries himself off, and changes into the t-shirt and sweatpants Gon provided. They’re somehow even softer against his body than they were in his hands, and blissfully dry. Killua hadn’t even realized how cold he’d been in his soaked clothing until he got it off, but the dry clothes are close to euphoric. And when he returns to the kitchen, already feeling worlds better than when he’d stepped into the apartment, that blue tea kettle is whistling on the stove.
“Is tea alright?” Gon asks, taking the kettle off the burner and gesturing to two mugs. “I thought it might help you warm up some more.”
Killua can’t ever recall anything feeling this good before--a soft, dry change of clothes after a day spent shivering in the rain, and now something hot to drink along with it. Not trusting his voice to remain steady, he simply nods.
When the tea’s done brewing, Gon brings both mugs to the table, settling into one of the chairs, and, after just a moment’s hesitation, Killua takes the chair opposite him.
“I’m Gon, by the way,” Gon says, offering Killua his mug. “Gon Freecss.”
And just like that, the absurdity of the situation strikes Killua in full. They haven’t so much as exchanged names, and Gon’s already invited him into his home, giving him clothes and something to drink. Killua wants to demand an explanation. He wants to take Gon by the shoulders and shake him until Gon at last reveals where this supply of generosity is coming from, and how Killua can make it last as long as it can.
But he doesn’t.
“Killua,” he says instead.
“Killua,” Gon repeats, as if trying it on for size, and then nods. “I haven’t seen you around town before. You must be a traveler, right?”
Killua nods. It’s a convenient story, and Gon was the one to suggest it, so there’s no reason to disagree.
“Got a destination in mind?” Gon asks.
Killua takes a sip of tea, just to have a moment to think of an answer.
“I guess I’m running away from my old life more than I’m running towards anything in particular,” he says at last.
It’s not a bad lie--vague, for one thing, and close enough to the truth that it doesn’t require too much fabrication. Killua would like to run away from all of it, from the killing and the cruelty and the pain, if he had the chance. But after enough failed escapes, and enough of the consequences that inevitably followed, he’d given up that hope entirely.
Gon regards him for a moment, eyes searching Killua’s face, and then smiles, slight but warm.
“Well, at least stay for dinner and a decent night of sleep. You look exhausted, and it’s no use heading back out in the rain just as you’re getting warmed up. I have a spare bedroom, too, with clean sheets and everything. Is curry alright for dinner?”
It’s all Killua can do not to outright gape at Gon. He can’t decide if Gon is impossibly kind or impossibly stupid. Or both. But regardless, he’s playing right into Killua’s hands. If Killua spends the night, all he has to do is sneak into Gon’s room and slit his throat in his sleep. For all the warnings about Gon’s strength, the job is going to be swift and largely painless. That’s something, at least. He doesn’t want Gon to suffer any more than he has to.
“Curry’s fine,” Killua says. Perhaps he should feel guilty about accepting a meal from someone who he’ll have killed by morning, but in truth, he’s too hungry for that sort of consideration. It’s been days since he’s had much to eat, so he can’t bring himself to care about the ethics of it all right now.
Gon doesn’t try to make conversation as he cooks, which Killua’s grateful for. Exhaustion has overtaken him suddenly and completely, and he doesn’t have the strength to try to keep up appearances right now. He’s just achingly, crushingly tired, in more ways than one. He simply wants everything to be over and done with, for Gon to be dead and for the memory of this brief, fleeting kindness to be so distant and hazy that it hardly hurts to recall anymore.
The only time Gon speaks is to ask Killua how spicy he’d like the curry. The question is so strange that it takes Killua several moments to respond. He’s been fed poison for as long as he can remember, has felt that unmistakable acrid burn eat away at him from the inside out more times than he can count, and Gon wants to make sure the curry isn’t too hot for him? It’s almost laughable.
“I don’t mind either way,” Killua says at last. “Just make it however you like.”
“I’ll make it medium, then,” Gon says brightly. “I like mine extra spicy, but I want to make sure you’ll enjoy it.”
For a brief, strange moment, Killua finds himself wanting to shout in utter bewilderment--maybe that would stop his head from spinning so badly. But he just isn’t sure he has the strength for it even if he tried.
By the time Gon brings the curry to the table, Killua’s hunger has reached a crescendo. As the rich smell of meat and spice filled the small kitchen, he became painfully aware of how empty his stomach was and how weak his body felt, and so the moment Gon places the plate down in front of him, Killua grabs the spoon and scoops as much as he can into his mouth.
It’s good, but that doesn’t matter much right now. All Killua cares about is that it’s hot and filling and that he can have as much of it as he wants. Distantly, he imagines that he should be embarrassed for devouring his meal like a starving animal, but he can’t find it within himself, not when he’s this hungry. Besides, he’ll kill Gon before sunrise, so why should he worry about minding his table manners around someone who’s as good as dead?
Mercifully, Gon doesn’t try to talk while they eat, either. All he does is offer more when Killua’s plate is empty, which Killua accepts twice. And it’s only then, after three plates of curry and rice, that the frantic, clawing hunger abates. At last, he’s satisfied. Killua can’t recall the last time he was able to eat his fill like that, and he doesn’t know when he’ll be allowed it again. That thought is far more devastating than it should be.
“This might sound strange,” Gon begins, as he clears their dishes, “but I’ve got pretty sharp senses, and I can smell some blood on you. A lot, actually.”
All at once, Killua flushes hot, heart leaping into his throat. What is Gon meaning to imply? Is the blood on Killua’s hands, the violence marring his past, truly so obvious that Gon can sense it only moments after meeting him? Has he already found Killua out, and is this how he means to confront him about it? Beneath the table, Killua shifts his left hand into a blade, elongating his nails until they’re sharp enough to kill. He’ll fight his way out of this if it comes to that. He doesn’t have another choice.
“Are you injured?” Gon continues, softly. “I can treat your wounds if you’d like.”
Oh.
That’s all he meant by it, Killua realizes, softening his hand and allowing himself to relax. It wasn’t some preternatural sense of the sins Killua’s committed. Gon must just have an extremely keen sense of smell, and he meant blood in the literal manner. He’s not wrong, either. Only a day before he’d left home, Killua’s family had subjected him to an especially brutal round of training. He wouldn’t be surprised if some of his wounds had reopened while he’s been traveling.
“Yeah, I might be bleeding,” he mumbles. “I’ll bandage them, if you’d like. You probably don’t want me bleeding all over your clothes.”
Gon’s brow furrows.
“No, Killua, that’s not what I meant at all. I just don’t want your injuries to go untreated. That’s far more important than an old t-shirt. Why don’t you come with me to the bathroom so I can have a look, okay?”
More than a little confused, but not quite sure how to turn him down, Killua follows Gon to the bathroom.
Gon gestures for Killua to sit on the closed toilet lid, then rummages around beneath the sink for supplies, emerging with a rather impressive assortment of bandages, gauze, antiseptics, and analgesics. Killua shouldn’t be surprised--as a Hunter, Gon must find himself with his fair share of injuries, and he no doubt has experience with first aid. That thought is strangely but immediately calming. With Gon, Killua is in good hands.
“Where’s the worst of it?” Gon asks gently.
“Uh, my ribs and back, I think.”
Before he has a chance to think better of it, Killua pulls his shirt off over his head. He allows himself a cursory glance down at his torso--it’s worse than he’d expected, actually. Some of the lacerations have indeed reopened, and are beginning to ooze blood. Angry, raised welts curve around his sides and the mottled bruises are a deep, inky purple. His back, he has no doubt, looks even worse.
But, to his credit, Gon doesn’t so much as flinch. There’s no gasping, no frowns, no tears welling in his eyes. Killua’s grateful for it--it’s humiliating enough to reveal how badly he’s been beaten. It would only be worse if Gon started making a scene.
With gentle, steady hands and not a moment of fuss, Gon turns Killua by the shoulders so he’s sitting sideways on the toilet lid, giving Gon better access to his back. For a moment, he’s still---Killua imagines he’s surveying the damage.
“Tell me if it starts to hurt too badly and you need a break, alright?”
Killua nods, although the request is absurd. He’s been trained to withstand unimaginable pain for as long as he can remember--he won’t be overwhelmed by the sting of antiseptic.
And as Gon begins to clean and bandage his wounds, his offer becomes even more unnecessary. Gon is so gentle and so careful, as if he were doing everything in his power to avoid causing Killua any more discomfort than he needed to. The thought makes Killua’s throat tighten painfully. Gon’s doing his utmost not to hurt him. Gon doesn’t want him to be in pain. When in Killua’s life has anyone ever tried to spare him anything?
It actually becomes pleasant, after a while. Yes, the antiseptic stings a little, but it’s far outweighed by the irrepressible relaxation. Gon’s movements are so slow and soft and predictable that a warm glow begins to expand inside Killua’s chest. He likes being looked after like this, however much he knows he shouldn’t.
“It’s not just these injuries,” Gon says at last, breaking several long minutes of silence. “You’re covered in scars underneath them, too. Someone must’ve hurt you. A lot. For a really long time.”
Killua shrugs.
“You don’t have to sound so worried over it--it’s fine. I probably deserved at least half of them, anyway.”
“ What? ” Gon demands. “No, Killua! You didn’t. You didn’t deserve a single one of them.”
Killua turns around so that he can look Gon in the eye, and he finds, to his surprise, that his face is shining with a strange ferocity.
“You can’t know that,” Killua says slowly. “You don’t know the first thing about me. You don’t know about anything I’ve done. How can you possibly say that with confidence?”
Gon’s determined expression doesn’t waver in the slightest.
“It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, Killua. You didn’t deserve to be hurt--I know that for a fact. Because no one deserves that. Not ever.”
Killua sits in stunned silence. There are a thousand rebuttals he could offer, an endless list of the harms he’s inflicted on the world he could enumerate. Would Gon like them chronologically, or alphabetically, or in order of greatest brutality? But facing Gon’s utter conviction, his total certainty that Killua didn’t deserve the pain, no matter what he’s done, the words die in his throat. The way Gon speaks leaves no room for argument. Killua didn’t deserve to be hurt. The way Gon says it, there isn’t any refusing.
And when Gon turns back to the wounds curving around Killua’s ribs, dabbing the antiseptic, with sure, steady hands, Killua comes, for just a second, perilously close to believing him.
Killua isn’t proud of it, but as soon as he’s alone in the guest room Gon made up for him, door closed and locked behind him, he starts to cry.
It’s his stupid sentimentality, that constant defect his family never managed to beat out of him, no matter how hard they tried. In just one evening, Gon’s shown Killua more kindness than he’s experienced in his entire life. He gave Killua food to eat, something warm to drink, a dry change of clothes, and a bed to sleep in. He tended to Killua’s wounds, gently and carefully, and swore with the whole of his being that Killua didn’t deserve a one of them. Even in his wildest fantasies, the ones he’d imagine late at night, pillow clutched tight to his chest with trembling arms, he’d never hoped for even half of what’s Gon done for him this evening. He could never so much as fathom kindness like Gon’s shown him.
And Killua has to kill him.
The wave of desperate resistance that bubbles up in his stomach is so powerful that he worries he’ll be sick. He doesn’t want to kill Gon. He doesn’t want to feel the warm rush of his spilling blood, or watch the light drain from those kind, bright eyes. Something deep within him screams out in equal parts terror and fury. No. Please. I don’t want to. I don’t want him to die. I don’t want it to be by my hand.
But Killua’s wants have never mattered before, and there’s no reason they should start now. He’s been hired for a job. And he hasn’t failed to complete one before. He doesn’t want to imagine what consequences he would face should he spare someone he was hired to kill, but no doubt they’d be bloody and merciless and unfathomably cruel. After all the pain he’s endured, Killua would never knowingly invite more. Of that, he is absolutely certain. Avoiding pain is the closest thing Killua’s ever found to a purpose. Avoiding pain is the only thing that matters. So if killing Gon is what he has to do to spare himself more cruelty, he’ll do it, however much his very soul cries out in protest.
The best Killua can ask for now is to enjoy a good night of sleep in a warm bed and then finish the job tomorrow.
Tomorrow. He’ll kill Gon tomorrow.