Chapter Text
“And with one final reminder to choose your own destiny, even if it seems like the riskier choice, Robert Frost solidifies himself as one of the most famous poets of all time. ‘The Road Not Taken’ reinforces the idea of forging your own path in life, the idea that one choice could make a world of difference.”
This gets a snort out of Killua, the idiocy of the statement bringing him back into full consciousness.
Professor Netero raises his eyebrows and gestures toward Killua. “Is there something you’d like to add, Mister…?”
Oh, great.
“It’s Killua. Zoldyck,” Killua replies, suppressing a yawn. Day two of the semester and already half-falling asleep in class isn’t the most ideal scenario, but it’s not like he’s really enthralled with the topic of American poetry anyway, so what’s the problem with catching up on a few REM cycles here and there?
He rubs one of his eyes, straightening out his posture and letting out a soft chuckle. “Sorry, Professor, it’s just, that’s not the point of the poem at all.”
“Oh, God,” the girl next to Killua mutters, slumping back into her chair. The girl in question, Killua’s longest friend, Palm Siberia, had told Killua that she didn’t think that he would make it even two weeks into the semester without getting on another professor’s shit list. Two days, though, was almost impressive.
Something flickers in Professor Netero’s eyes, too quick to be overtly noticeable, and a subtle smirk grows on his face. “Would you care to share what is, then, the point of the poem, Mister Zoldyck?"
Killua’s surprised; not at the question - that was to be expected - but at the sincerity with which Professor Netero asked it. Not a hint of bitterness to be found, not even satirical in tone. An actual, earnest question.
Weird.
“I mean, Frost fully admitted that this poem is satirical,” Killua starts. “The idea that one single choice can ‘make a world of difference’? He’s mocking it. He doesn’t think that’s true, and he’s making fun of people who overthink everything and think that they’re special by going against societal norms. This poem is just his long-winded way of saying, ‘Yeah, cool, you think you’re making all these life-altering decisions every day, but no one decision is really all that special. Also, neither are you, and you think you’re taking a unique path, but about half of all people who have faced this same decision have taken the same path as you, so the path isn’t really less traveled after all.’ He literally says this, like, halfway through the poem, that both roads ahead of him have been worn about the same.”
The class is silent, save for the sounds of some students hurriedly scribbling notes into their notebooks or the keyboard clicks of others who, like Killua, also don’t care about being here.
Professor Netero chuckles to himself once, twice, the second time closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Well, you’ve both saved you and your classmates a several-assignments-long lesson and forced me to come up with a replacement lesson for this for the first semester in twelve years.”
Murmurs fill the classroom and Killua scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “Sorry, what? Why?”
“Because for the first assignment of this course, I usually ask students to rewrite ‘The Road Not Taken’ in their own, more personal, words. Next, we review those rewrites and analyze the differences. The situations that students write about often resonate with other students in the class, which leads to the second assignment: Rewriting the poem from the perspective of someone who has already walked down that same ‘less traveled’ path and is looking back, encouraging the person at the crossroads to choose their path.” Professor Netero stands, starting to walk across the front of the classroom to more broadly address the entire class.
“Next class,” he continues, “we read those over, and the situations have expanded; again, students often have written about similar situations, so at this point, we’ve heard perspectives from students faced with the same decision but having made different choices. So, the next assignment asks to write once again from the perspective of the person who has already walked down the writer’s chosen path, but this time as if they are speaking to someone who has gone down the other path, and this time as more of a narrative than a poem. At this point, some students catch on before the next class session. We reconvene and compare the progression of the poetry. We discuss the question of how the two people who took two different paths are able to have a conversation. Where do they meet? What positions are they in? Did the paths really lead them down such different roads? Are there others with them? If so, can we really say that one of the paths has been tangibly less traveled, or that the decision is all that groundbreaking? And we arrive at the conclusion that you’ve just laid out, just several weeks and assignments later.”
Palm stares at Professor Netero with wide eyes and mouth agape before shifting her gaze to Killua, whose eyes are still narrowed.
“So,” Killua starts, “you lied?”
“About?”
“About Frost’s message by writing the poem. About how one decision can make a world of difference or whatever. You lied?”
“I shared a guiding lesson, albeit a misconception often taught in a majority of analytical poetry courses involving this poem. But, in essence, I suppose I delivered it in the traditional and misconceived way for the purposes of greater discussion and understanding across a longer timeframe.”
Killua scoffs, partially out of disbelief but partially out of sheer impression. “Nice. Well, sorry for screwing your lesson plan, Professor.”
Professor Netero smiles softly. “No need to apologize. It’s been a while since I’ve been forced to learn something new in my own classroom.” He pulls up his wrist to check his watch. “With that excitement, class is over. You can all thank your classmate Mister Zoldyck for the absence of an assignment this week. I’ll see you all next Tuesday.”
The class begins to file out of the small lecture hall, several students clapping Killua’s shoulder or giving him quick “way to go, man”’s as gratitude for saving them a few hours of work. Killua grabs his bag from under his seat and goes to throw a strap over his shoulder when Professor Netero speaks up again.
“Mister Zoldyck,” he starts, and Killua looks up to see him putting a stack of papers into his briefcase at his desk. “Nice work today. And, if I may be so bold as to make this assumption, you don’t need to use the honorific when addressing me. I find it far too formal at times and I get the impression that you agree. Isaac would be just fine.”
Palm snorts and Killua juts his heel into the side of her ankle, making her wince. Killua chokes back a laugh.
“Oh, yeah, sure. Isaac it is. And thanks. And, uh, same. I mean, same like you can just call me by my first name. ‘Mister Zoldyck’ reminds me of my father.”
Isaac smiles gently as he clasps his briefcase shut. “Killua it is. Have a great week, you two.”
Killua gives a tight smile, riddled with internal discomfort, and U-turns out of the classroom to make a quick exit. Palm hurries after him, laughing loudly once they’re out.
“So, Mister Zoldyck, any other poems you’d like to analyze? Maybe I can show you some that I wrote about your brother when I was a kid and you can break them down into their deepest meanings for me.”
“Palm, I’m going to kick you again, and it’s going to be in the shin, and it’s going to hurt. Bad.”
Palm laughs as Killua swings open the door in front of them both, exiting the humanities hall and making their way toward the campus center. Finally catching up enough to walk side-by-side, Palm jests, “I think Netero is probably the first professor I’ve ever seen not be immediately pissed off at you within thirty seconds of you opening your mouth in class.”
Killua deadpans, “It’s one of my many talents,” and hangs a tight left around the quad, narrowly avoiding a rogue frisbee. It’s the last full week of August and students are taking full advantage of the nice weather while it lasts by playing pickup sports outside, tying up hammocks between neighboring trees, and claiming spots to lounge in the shade atop comforters pulled straight from their beds (which, Killua imagines with a grimace, they’ll throw right back on, dirt and all, once the day is over). “I’ve gotta say, I was expecting him to give me some shit after class when he called me out. Wasn’t really expecting him to double down on a compliment.”
“Or ask you to go all first name basis.”
“Or that.”
Killua’s stride lengthens to keep pace with Palm whose legs measure a good three inches longer than his, but if anyone asks why, it’s because he wants to make sure he gets a fresh chocolate chip cookie from the cafeteria before they’re all gone for the day. “Why are you always walking so damn fast?”
Palm chuckles and seems to take this as a challenge, picking up the pace just enough to send Killua into a mild speed walk. “I’m just walking. Some of us have model-long legs that get us where we need to go, you know.”
“Too bad they couldn’t have matched them with some model-good looks.”
Palm scoffs, looking over (behind) at Killua to see a chuckle being held behind tight lips curled inwards and wide, faux-innocent eyes. “I’m texting Ikalgo to make sure there are no cookies left for the lunch rush before we get inside.”
Killua gasps - a genuine, “don’t people only gasp like this in tv shows?” gasp - and catches back up with Palm. “I’m sorry, you’re incredible, you’re amazing, you’re the best and most beautiful ex-girlfriend I have, and actually it’s so unfair that they made you so pretty because they definitely didn’t leave enough for all the other girls.”
“One, you’re correct, thank you. Two, I’m the only ex-girlfriend you have, but even that’s an exaggeration considering we dated for three weeks and went on one date chaperoned by Gotoh at the bowling alley. And three, learn to build me up without tearing other women down. It’s a turn-off.”
Killua blinks at her. “You’re legitimately crazy.”
“Four, don’t call women crazy!”
“I’m not calling women crazy, I’m calling you crazy.”
“I’m a pretty good representative for all women.”
“Okay, then yeah, I am calling women crazy.”
Palm and Killua laugh as they walk into the campus center, welcoming the cool from the air conditioner surrounding them and making their way downstairs to the cafeteria level. They head towards their table and see Ikalgo already holding down the fort with three drinks already in place - an iced coffee for him, a green juice for Palm, and an entirely too-large cola for Killua.
“Dude, I need you to know that I am embarrassed every single time I get here before you guys and need to get your sugar juice,” Ikalgo says, wholly too serious, as Killua and Palm drop their bags at their chairs.
Ikalgo Kai was an early and welcome addition to Palm and Killua’s inner circle (more accurately, an inner line) at the beginning of college. Ikalgo and Killua had almost every general education requirement together during their freshman and sophomore years, so a combination of assigned partners and at-will study groups quickly resulted in the two becoming each other’s best friends. Surprisingly, Palm was ecstatic about Ikalgo entering the group; the two of them got along great, but more importantly, Palm was happy Killua had another friend to hang out with so that she could have more girl time.
“It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s just that sometimes I need to go have girl talk, but I know if I don’t have dinner with you, you’ll just eat by yourself in the dining hall, and that’s really sad,” Palm had said early in the second semester of her sophomore year, Killua and Ikalgo’s freshman year. “ And don’t worry, I won’t get jealous. He may be your new best friend - I get it, bros and all that - but I’m your longest friend, and that’s an indisputable title, bitch.”
An actuarial math major, Ikalgo was threateningly book smart and horrendously not street smart. It’s not that his social skills were lacking - he was quite good at befriending others and making them feel comfortable around him if his membership in YC’s most popular fraternity suggested anything - but drop him three blocks from campus without a phone and it was a real question whether or not he would successfully make it back to his room.
Thankfully, since a lot of Killua and Palm’s industrial engineering math courses overlapped with Ikalgo’s actuarial requirements, their schedules for the year had a healthy amount of overlap. But, more importantly, their sacred mutual lunch break each day stayed intact, as did their table.
Perhaps the least desirable table on the lower level of the campus center, the “Table for the Golden Trio”, as they so humbly named it, sat against the back wall. It wasn’t so far out of the way that students flocked to it to stay hidden and tucked into a corner, but it wasn’t the most accessible or easy to get to from the food area. That, and an enormous potted dracaena trifasciata plant sandwiched the table between itself and the wall, both essentially taking up a spot for a chair and restricting the table from really being moved in any meaningful way. Hence, the perfect table for three.
Hence, the Table for the Golden Trio.
“You’re so dramatic, Iggy,” Palm sighs before taking a sip of her juice. “You’re also not better than everybody else because you drink your coffee black.”
“Oh no, I’m for sure better than everyone else, it’s just that my drink of choice isn’t why.”
“Right, true, my bad.”
Killua takes a long sip of his soda, the fizzle on his tongue giving him a second wind for the day, before joining the conversation. “We’ve been doing this for, like, a majority of at least the last eighteen months. You think you’d be over it by now. Or at least be aware of the fact that not a single person is paying attention to your beverages of choice. I, on the other hand, don’t want anyone to think I have the flavor preferences of a sixty-year-old man when I have to get your coffee.”
Ikalgo rolls his eyes. “You just said no one is paying attention to what drinks you get.”
Killua smirks. “No, I said no one is paying attention to what drinks you get.”
“Oh, please,” Palm replies, standing to make the first move to get food. “No offense, but you have a knack for being unnoticeable.”
“Gee, thanks, Palm.”
“I said no offense!”
Ikalgo laughs as the three split off to grab lunch. Palm gets a chicken caesar salad with a side of fries, a meal she dubs “a classic example of womanhood”; Ikalgo opts for a fresh chicken pesto panini, extra roasted red peppers; and Killua indulges in the Tuesday cafeteria specialty, chicken stir-fry, with a handful of chocolate truffles for dessert because, of course, they were already out of cookies.
“I seriously don’t understand how you aren’t at least sixty pounds heavier than you are,” Ikalgo jokes between bites.
Killua, not having the same courtesy to wait, says during a bite, “I have the metabolism of a god.”
“He is unfortunately not lying,” Palm comments, dipping a fry into the side of caesar dressing. “When we were kids, he ate even more sugar than he does now. His parents could not get him to eat a vegetable to save his life. Meanwhile, he stayed so thin that the breeze could knock him over.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
“Nah, I’m gonna choose to believe it,” Ikalgo says, prompting Killua to roll his eyes.
Palm, deciding she’s had enough of the topic of Killua’s metabolic prowess, changes the subject. “Anyways, Killua, don’t you have your meeting with Wing today?”
“The guidance counselor?” Ikalgo asks.
“Yeah,” Killua groans, unwrapping a truffle and popping it into his mouth. “In, like, fifteen minutes. He requested a meeting with me right before the semester started and gave absolutely zero context. He even spelled my name wrong in the email. I mean, am I supposed to feel confident about his guidance with that?”
“Dude, he’s the counselor for, like, the entire Shingen STEM College. He has hundreds of students to deal with.”
“Okay, then either leave me alone or spell my name right.”
“I’ve got to agree with him on this one,” Palm says, nodding her head toward Killua who is already noshing on his second truffle and unwrapping his third. “Spelling someone’s name right is, like, the bare minimum, especially when the name is literally in your email address.”
“Okay, yeah, that’s fair,” Ikalgo agrees. “You think it’s about you graduating early? Do you have to submit some form?”
“I did that over the summer and it already got approved, so hopefully not. That shit was so annoying to fill out.”
Palm laughs. “By that, he means it took him more than twenty minutes to complete.”
“Exactly. I could be doing so much other stuff with that time.”
“Like what?”
“Like not filling out the form.”
Ikalgo snorts and Palm shakes her head, smiling. “You’re an idiot,” she says.
“Thank you,” Killua replies, standing, trash in hand. “As much as I love being bullied, I should probably leave now since the guidance building is on the other side of campus.”
“Let us know how it goes!” Ikalgo says, tossing the foil from his sandwich onto Killua’s tray. Killua throws back a thumbs up as a reply before dropping his trash tray off at the drop-off counter and heading upstairs.
The few clouds in the sky had parted during lunch, allowing the sun to beat down more aggressively, and as Killua steps outside and puts his earbuds in, he feels the heat surround him and hopes he avoids getting a sunburn on the walk.
Pressing the play button on Mother Mother’s “Hayloft”, Killua puts his phone into his pocket and heads back across the quad towards the guidance building. More students have congregated outside, opting to eat their lunch in the fresh air, and Killua is actually grateful for the crowd of people sitting around since it means fewer students are running around and the odds of another frisbee near-incident are much lower.
Walking through the sea of people, Killua doesn’t notice any familiar faces that risk stopping him, and for that, he’s grateful. Palm’s comments on Killua’s noticeability weren’t exactly accurate; it’s not that other people don’t often notice Killua, but rather that Killua doesn’t often notice other people, at least not in the same way. Plenty of classmates in the past would sit down next to Killua, hoping to strike up a conversation or get paired together for an assignment, but whether through blissful ignorance or uncaring intention, Killua would get up, find another pair of seats, and drop his bag into the one next to him, either to save it for Palm or Ikalgo or just to give himself a buffer of space between him and anyone else.
It isn’t like Killua is anti-social, per se, but more anti-going-out-of-his-way-to-be-social. He had his two close friends and plenty of classmates who passed as occasional acquaintances, but if Ikalgo and Palm were busy, he had enough coursework to keep him busy until they weren’t.
Killua’s stacked semesters and workload weren’t exactly enjoyable, nor was his lack of ample free time like his peers had, but it was a small, temporary price to pay to graduate a year early. He was always comfortable with a small circle of friends; in his current case, his circle was a triangle, but it worked.
As Killua approaches the guidance building, he pauses his music and shoves his headphones back into his pocket before opening the door and, once again, being met with a wash of cool air. A quick look at the building directory, a trip up the stairs to the second floor, and a walk down the hallway brings Killua to a door adorning a plaque reading:
AOTO WING
COUNSELOR, SHINGEN STEM COLLEGE
CHIMERA UNIVERSITY AT YORKNEW CITY
Knock knock knock
“Come on in!”
Killua opens the door and is met with what is perhaps the messiest desk he’s ever seen. Easily over one hundred pieces of paper sit in multiple disheveled piles while folders and notebooks are stacked on top of each other, some precariously close to falling off the edge of the desk. In stark contrast exists the rest of the office which, sans desk, could serve as coveted inspiration for an organized academic aesthetic. The bookshelves are lined with books, trinkets, and potted succulents; the walls are adorned with photographs and canvas art prints; the coffee setup in the corner has cafe-caliber equipment and syrup selections.
“Welcome! You must be…” Mr. Wing trails off, hurriedly shuffling through some of the papers on his desk. “Killua Zoldyck, yes?”
Killua stares ahead at him, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. “Yeah, that’s me. Nice to meet you, Mr. Wing.”
“Oh, call me Aoto; if I wanted to be addressed by my last name, I’d have gone into teaching, not counseling.”
Killua has to laugh at this being the second time today this topic has come up. “Sure, Aoto works for me.”
“Great! Please, take a seat, and please excuse the mess. The beginning of the school year is always hectic, especially with all the new students.”
Killua sits across from Aoto in a cushioned, genuine-leather seat and wonders in the back of his mind how much counselors actually get paid, because damn, this is one comfortable chair.
“So, what did you want to meet about? Do I have to resubmit the form to graduate early or something?”
A look of discomfort flashes over Aoto’s face. “Ah, no, that won’t be necessary. We have the form. The problem is, it shouldn’t have gotten approved in the first place.”
Killua’s forehead scrunches in confusion. “Why not? All of my major classes perfectly fit into my schedule for the rest of the school year.”
“It’s not your major courses that are the problem. It’s your physical education requirements.”
Killua can’t help the look of ridicule that washes over his face. “‘Physical education requirements’? Since when are those a thing?”
“I understand this is a frustrating conversation to have-”
“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. Just, I guess, let me know what classes have availability and I’ll make it work.”
Aoto takes a breath to steady himself. “That’s another part of the problem. All the fitness courses for the remainder of the school year are already full, and for safety reasons, physical education courses are prohibited from accepting extra students above the course capacity limit.”
Killua can feel the vein throbbing in his forehead, the sheer ridiculousness of this situation giving him a headache. “So, what, I can’t graduate early because I’m not allowed to run around the track until next year? You want me to pay an extra year of tuition just to throw a ball into a net once a week or whatever? Can’t I just do some independent study bullshit and swipe into the gym on campus or something?”
“Trust me, I don’t want to keep you here another year for such a small requirement. Why I was hoping we could meet today was so that we could discuss some options.” Aoto starts shuffling through some more papers on his desk, looking for something. “And as creative of an idea as it is, unfortunately, no, you cannot get credit for scanning into the gym. One, you could be giving your card to other students. And two, you could just be swiping in and then leaving without doing anything.
Killua looks at Aoto in disbelief. “Does this school actually give a shit about my physical fitness?”
“On paper, yes. In reality, candidly, it’s a new regional requirement as of the beginning of the previous school year. The only enrolled students who were exempt were those who had already completed two years of university at that point so as not to cause any scheduling issues as they tried to fit it into their final two years.”
“But I’m graduating early. That is exactly what’s happening to me.”
Aoto finds the folder he was searching for and opens it, looking up at Killua. “I know. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. According to the university, you’re not exempt since you’re choosing to graduate early, so it’s technically your responsibility to make sure all requirements are fulfilled. However…” Aoto trails off again as he flips through some papers in his folder. “I did some digging into the requirements, and there is one workaround.”
Killua stops digging his nails into his palm and looks back at Aoto. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Just tell me how to sign up.”
“Are you good at any sports?”
“What?”
Aoto chuckles at the surprise in Killua’s voice. “Students who are registered and practicing athletes - so actually attending practice and games - on one of the school’s athletic teams for at least two semesters have this requirement deemed as ‘met’.”
“Is that seriously the only option?”
“That is seriously the only viable option at this point unless you want to take the gamble on students dropping out of physical education courses over the next week and add yourself to the waitlist, but it isn’t promising.”
Killua pictures himself breaking his ankle in any actual sport and starts thinking about what other, more casual teams this school must have.
“Do we have, like… a bowling team?”
“Full, unfortunately.”
“Ping pong?”
“Only a club sport.”
“I don’t have to do football, do I?”
Aoto laughs loudly at that. “No, you don’t have to play football; their season is already well underway, and they aren’t taking walk-ons this year anyhow. How do you feel about baseball?”
Killua stares blankly at Aoto. “I don’t.”
“Pardon?”
“I don’t feel about baseball. I have no opinions on it.”
Aoto laughs again. “Well, that’s better than distaste.” He pulls out a paper - specifically, a post-it note - and hands it to Killua.
PITCHER NEEDED | EXPERIENCE PREFERRED
CONTACT BISKY KRUEGER FOR DETAILS
“Bisky Krueger is the head coach for YC’s baseball team. She posted these up around the faculty building and campus center before freshman orientation week started, but…” Aoto trails off, gesturing to the note in Killua’s hand. “I don’t think she quite thought ahead about how well they would stick out, or stick to the walls at all, for that matter.”
Killua snorts. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a post-it note calling card on the activities board.” He spins the note between his fingers, thinking. “One problem, though; this says ‘experience preferred’. I’ve never played, or watched, a game of baseball in my life.”
“Right; it says ‘preferred’, not ‘required’,” Aoto emphasizes. “Ahead of our meeting, I spoke with Coach Krueger and said I might have somebody interested if she could pass along the details for how to get you to try out. She’s desperate for somebody and said, and I quote, ‘I don’t care if they’ve never picked up a baseball in their lifetime. Tell them to show up and try, and we’ll take care of the rest.’”
“That sounds like a vote of confidence if I’ve ever heard one.”
Aoto smiles. “I know it’s not ideal, but honestly, it’s one of your only options at this point. I’d really recommend at least showing up, talking to Coach Krueger, and trying it out. You might end up liking it.”
Killua has to actively keep himself from rolling his eyes at that. Sighing, he says, “I guess it’s my only option at this point. I don’t know whether to hope I make it, or hope I tank so that I can do something else.”
“That’s a fair feeling. But for your sake and my sanity, selfishly, I hope you make it.”
At that, Killua laughs out loud. “Fair enough.” He stands and grabs his bag, slipping the note inside. “So do I need to reach out to the coach for details, or…?”
Aoto claps, visibly startling Killua. “Ah, sorry. Yes, tryouts are this Saturday morning at ten AM. I’ll let Coach Krueger know that you’ll be there. As of this morning, no one else was planning on attending, so, you may not have much competition.”
“Well, thank god for fewer people I can embarrass myself in front of. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Sounds good. Good luck, Killua.”
Killua heads out of the guidance building, mind racing entirely too quickly to remember to even put his headphones in for the walk back across campus to his next class. He isn’t sure which he’s more nervous about: Acing the tryouts or failing the tryouts. Not that a tryout could be necessarily aced or failed per se, but to any end, his inner monologue only serves to stress that Killua really isn’t a baseball person, and really doesn’t even know what this process will entail.
As he’s walking into his lecture hall, all he can think of is how lucky he is that he no longer has American Poetry homework so he can spend that time researching what the hell to expect on Saturday.