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It’s quiet, eerily quiet. He’s grown accustomed to the usual screams of the house. Whether it be from training, tourture, or Kikyos banshee-like meltdowns. He doesn’t like noise, but he can deal with it. The silence is unsettling, so is the darkness. He can’t figure out where he is, he can feel rough sheets beneath him, and near silent beeping. His body aches. He feels completely aware yet disassociated from the situation, “What the hell is happening?” he thought.
The butler tries to recall the moments before this, the memories are choppy, but comprehensible. He was driving Killua and Alluka to “save” Gon, he knew little of the details, but he did what he was told. There was a man- Leorio, yelling at him. He didn’t like that. Then the car crashed, caused by Illumi…
What happened after that?
Why couldn’t he remember?
He feels like he can’t breath, like the oxygen is evacuating out of his lungs. It would make sense since his brain seemed very vacant at the moment. He tried to collect his thoughts, a scramble of words and fear.
Fear was near constant in the Zoldyck estate. He would like to think he was a necessity, but he knew- just like all the other butlers- he was completely dispensable. The one clear thought he had was of Killua shouting his name before the crash, ”Gotoh!”. The word rung in his head. Quite possibly the only reminder who he was.
He stayed in this dreamlike state for what felt like years, that same exclamation playing on repeat like a bad pop song on the radio. It was oddly comforting, despite the anxiety it caused him it grounded him. A reminder of the fact he was still here, wherever here was. He heard voices floating about beside him. The jingling of keys and the beeping of pagers. He was in outer space, a black void of nothingness, a world unexplored and unknown. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… For a reason unbeknownst to him, he finally found the motivation to open his eyes.
Ok, he was in a hospital room. It was bright and the windows were open, welcoming a pleasant breeze. Finally finding consciousness cleared his brain. In a stroke of pure genius he pressed the “help” button on his bed. He inspected the IV running into his arm and felt the unpleasant pinch of a catheter. From what he could guess he had been in a comatose, the only problem was he had no idea for how long.
He wondered if anyone had came and visited with his unresponsive body.
Who was he kidding?
He laughed slightly
He felt like his freshly renewed mind was already slipping from his grasp.
A team of doctors and nurses came rushing in, keeping a professional energy in the room. “Hello” the doctor mused as he checked Gotohs vital signs, making sure he was in a state to be awake. After being prodded at for a few minutes the doctor deemed him fit enough to be informed of the situation, “ok, first things first, what is your name? You had no identification on you when you were found so you been the local “John Doe” for the last three years-“ Gotohs eyes widened at the information, “Three years?! I’ve been in a coma for three years?” His mind blanked, his heart was racing, what the actual fuck. He knew the injuries he sustained with Hisoka were bad- but bad enough to be Triple-year slumber?
The doctor rambled on about how he was a medical miracle and how his esophagus being severed should’ve been the end for him. But in the doctors terms “if there’s a will, there’s a way”. Gotoh knew he had a will of Steel, over the years his heart had morphed from a exquisite piece of golden jewelry to impossibly hard stone. He wondered if silver had bridged this gap. Apparently a Good Samaritan had been going for a walk in the woods where he was laying, he could start to piece together the memories. He remembered how his throat burned as if Lucifer was choking him, the nauseating senation of his lungs burning the same way they did as a child, surrounded by the smog in meteor city. Blood caked his upper half, tears ran down his face. He had turned on his side to try and get up, a wave of sickness hit him and blood came pouring out of his mouth from his stomach. His hands shook, dropping his beloved coins. An ambulance had been called at some point, his saviors clad in uniform wheeling him away to a hospital. He was in surgery for 43 hours. Repaired like an antique cloth doll. Sewing up the layers of tissue that had been sliced during his match with Hisoka. Apparently his body’s will to survive had won the doctor some sort of award, his pain had been the solution to a the medical mystery of partial-decapitation. He should be happy that his own misery brought about a cure to certain death. But instead he felt nothing, well, maybe anger.
He would have to wait two weeks to leave. A fortnight to ponder whether he should return to the Zoldyck family. His brain said yes, they gave him protection and power, sprinkle in some decent pay and it was a good incentive to return. It was the reasonable option. But the other option plagued him, they thought he was dead, for all intensive purposes he was dead. He knew this by the texts he had on his phone from Canary,
Canary: come back.
Gotoh I need you please
Why did you die?
Come back.
He could tell they were spur-of-the-moment messages, grief seeping out of every word. He couldn’t help but ponder the seemingly impossible possibility. He could empty his bank account and rent an apartment here in Yorkshin. He could choose any career. He could have a life. He began shaking at the thought. He had covered up whatever personality he had possessed before when he became a butler, he remained stoic in every situation. He was the sturdy pillar everyone needed.
He wondered what would happen if he cracked.
Eventually he was released from the hospital with some medications and a therapists number in hand. He wore a simple pair of jeans with a turtleneck the hospital had given him out of the lost-and-found. He had made up his mind- well he didn’t really use his mind for the decision. He knew, logically, that the Zoldycks took better care of him than he ever did himself, but there was this part of him that caused his chest to burn whenever he considered going back. He loved killua, and he loved Kikyo, and he loved Canary, But he could recall all those nights in his quarters. He could dig his nails into his porcelain skin until the crescents bled. He could rub the knots out of his own shoulders until his back was a splotchy art piece. He could bite his lip until it bruised and gushed his dynasty, he could tug at his hair until he was immobilized with a headache, he could murmur words of true love to himself at the witching hour. He could pretend as much as he liked. But he knew these marks weren’t left by a lover. He knew there was no one to grip his biceps as they held each other, he knew there was no one to massage the stress out of his shoulders when he was defeated after a long day, he knew that no one would dare mark him and bite his bottom lip until he bled, he knew no souls would pull his hair while they made love. Not a single person on this earth could gush about his beauty, whispering and kissing his neck as they praised his every move. He had no one. He has had relationships, not lovers, though. Sad, lonely, emotionless hookups that left him feeling more empty than before. They didn’t mumble ancient love poems, they didn’t stay awake all hours of the night to pour out their hearts. They didn’t hold each other until they were overheating. His parters had instead called him a slut, they put up their walls the moment they pulled out, left and never came back. He would never admit it out loud. But he was one lonely son-of-a-bitch.
He stepped into a cathedral, feeling heartbreakingly out of place in the divine building. He has swept his devotion under the rug for so many years. Unable to face god after the atrocities he’d committed. He came face-to-face with a priest. The dam broke. A decades worth of tears ran down his gaunt face as the sins he’d so mindlessly committed cursed the ears of the church leader. He got down on his knees and begged for forgiveness, begged for the priest to let him join the congregation. And god bless the elderly man, he turned to face Gotoh. “In the name of the father,” he pressed an aged hand to the pathetic man that kneeled before him, grazing his forehead, “son,” he pointed at his chest, little did he know the heart trapped inside was racing, “and Holy Ghost.” He completed the cross, blessing the black-haired man before him.
He felt another wave of anger as he left the building, how had those Zoldyck kids taken so much for granted? They were divided into Catholicism and Judaism. They could worship however they pleased. They could drop to their knees at any time and scream the lords name as loud as they desired. They could dawn whatever religious attire they so pleased. But this was all a given for them. Spoiled since birth, raised to believe they could do anything. While their servants suffered in silence. Who had been the one to dry young Ilumis tears after a rough day of training, who listened to Millukis endless ramblesabout some obscure anime figurine? Who loved Killua like they shared blood just to have him run away? Who stilled though the isles with Kalluto as he picked out a new kimono? It was him.
He dedicated his life to make their lives a slight bit more comfortable. They could easily preform all the tasks he was hired to do, they were capable, functional human beings. But all he was to them was a robot who provided clean living spaces and occasional comfort. He was a background character, a NPC in their gory game of life. Life is a clock with no hands, ticking constantly. You never know when it will strike twelve so you must make the most of your day. Well Gotohs day started with poverty and starvation, in the middle was a string of crimes followed by what he thought was a merciful job offer. Then he thought it had finally hit midnight when the the boys who he cared for and loved for so many years told his psychotic husband to break the clock.
He was fed up. The Zoldycks could go fuck themselves. Silva and Kikyo could continue their loveless marriage, Illumi could get fucked by Hisoka all day every day, Milluki could stay sad and horny in his room all day. Killua could be in the run until he dropped off the edge of the earth, and Kalluto could rip his expensive clothes while he disgraced the name of god with the Phantom Troupe.
After his curse of the Zoldycks family name he felt better. There was still a hole in his heart that they filled, and another that had been vacant for years. But he had time to fill those later, for how he checked into a cheap motel and ran his hands though his now grown out hair, about to his clavicle. He noted that it was curly, he never knew that. Gotoh kept it buzzed due to haircut regulations at the estate, another rule that the spoiled assassins needn’t follow. He searched the room for scissors and found an old, beat up pair. But they would do the job.
He contemplated chopping it off at the root, he knew curly hair was hard to maintain and he didn’t have the time for that- actually, he did now. He layered and trimmed until it was close to something an indie singer would wear. He wondered for a moment if it suited him. He had never judged his features before, only making matter-of-fact observations. High cheekbones, strong jaw, ever-so-slightly downturned eyes, lush lips that also turned downward in a frown. Straight nose with a slight bump. All so factual it was hard to judge the statements. He stared in the mirror until his face started morphing into something sinsister. He stripped off the donated clothes and gazed at his nude form. He was thinner, but still had the same build. Sturdy and reliable with wide shoulders and hips, then came the delicate curve of his cinched waist. Again, all so factual it hurt. He felt so inhuman, he was unable to even judge himself.
He sulked as the water ran for his bath, sitting (very much naked) on the edge of the tub. He had zoned out looking at his slightly knobby knees. He had gotten much thinner. He thought of Killua, how had he handled Gotohs “death”? Did he mourn like a normal person or did he go out and kill Hisoka brutally? Yet this was the least of his burning questions about his supposed demise. He finally turned off the tap and slinked into the small tub, submerging himself in the scalding water. His skin was red from the force he used to clean himself. The calloused skin on his fingertips soon started to wrinkle, signaling his sign to get out.
He cleaned up and hopped out of the shower. He had picked up some Necessities from a grocery store, hygiene, underwear, meal replacement shakes. Stuff he needed until he found an apartment. He had picked up a few sets of clothes. Winter was approaching with the color of leaves slowly becoming warmer. He had a couple pars of jeans that were just a little to big for him and more tight fitting turtlenecks. He picked up a trench coat and Doc Martin oxfords. He had drained his bank account which was beautifully full. He had been saving for all the 16 years he had worked at the estate, only spending here-and-there. He had well over a few million Jenny.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
He was well off for now. He could take his time to heal, both emotionally and physically. He made plans to start going to the gym again, attending church every Sunday. He was even able to get in contact with his old friend Tsezguerra. He was still angry, he still cried, he still wished the damn scar of his throat would just go away. But he knew that the pain made him feel so real. He felt so human. He never knew acting like a person with real emotions and feeling could be so fulfilling, even if it does cut like a sword.
……………
He was meeting up with Tsezguerra for lunch today, at a small cafe close to his new apartment. He was working on decorations. He hated the sad beige minimalist style that has taken the world by siege, but he equally despised the mess that was “cluttercore”. He settled on a Victorian Era-esqe style with a lot of plants. His wardrobe was simple. Baggy pants, tight shirt, baggy jacket/coat. He welcomed his hunter friend with a warm hug. They grabbed coffee, neither of them were very hungry. And walked on a secluded trail in an ancient, overgrown park. They walked and talked, catching up on all the messes in their chaotic lives. Tsezguerra had met Killua and Gon in greed island, wow. They laughed and reminisced on their childhoods in meteor city. Gotoh felt that numb, tingly feeling in his legs and his stomach felt like it was rising into his throat. They had been talking for months, little touches and flirtatious texts. But they had yet to go this far. He breathed slowly as he took hold of Tsezguerras hand, intertwining their fingers. As they were about to part ways Tsezguerra haphazardly grabbed Gotohs shoulders and kissed him. It was short, but Gotoh almost cried. All those years cooped up where hellish. After a lengthy conversation Gotoh was unable to control himslef and dragged a willing Tsezguerra back to his apartment, they crashed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, the guitar in his room sitting idly as it witnessed this passionate act of love. And Gotoh couldn’t help but think, “ I can’t wait to meet myself “