Work Text:
Killua hates all of it.
The unceasing roar of the crowd, their shouts occasionally reaching a crescendo so loud Killua actually feels it in his teeth. The thick, stuffy air, the scent of sweat and blood strong enough to turn his stomach. The haze of the smoke and the harshness of the lights giving the whole scene an oddly nightmarish quality.
But for an ex-assassin with no formal schooling and the need to keep a low profile, a seedy underground fighting ring like this is Killua’s best shot at paying the bills and keeping a roof over his and his sisters’ heads. Beggars, as the saying goes, really can’t be choosers.
“Alright, listen up!” the referee shouts over the din. Although perhaps “referee” isn’t the right word for him; mostly, he’s there to announce the start of the fight and clean up any blood or hair or teeth at the end of it.
“We’ve got two undefeated fighters facing off tonight, so the stakes are high. Last call to place your bets!”
As a few spectators scramble towards the bookmakers, Killua and his opponent take their places at the opposite ends of the ring.
When Killua had imagined these fights — when he’d only heard talk of this place and hadn’t yet visited himself — he’d pictured larger-than-life theatricality. Colorful stage lights, big, showy athletic displays, and a crowd hanging onto the competitors’ every dramatic move.
But when he arrived, the lights were nothing but harsh fluorescents and the fighters were brutal and efficient. This audience wasn’t here for a performance.
They were here for blood.
Killua’s opponent appears to understand this perfectly. There’s nothing flashy about his appearance. Everything, from his nondescript black shorts to his worn, stained hand wraps was clearly chosen for function, not style. The only thing that Killua can’t quite understand is the young man’s bare feet, but he quickly puts it out of his mind, because the referee is about to blow the whistle and have them begin, and Killua needs to go to that quiet, vicious place in his mind where he spends all of these fights.
In that place, Killua is merciless and swift and little else. It’s the place he spent so much of his childhood, where he was too numb to care about pain—others’ or his own. It’s not a comfortable place, exactly, but it’s certainly familiar.
And, most importantly, it’s effective. When Killua becomes the weapon they raised him to be, not a force on earth can stop him.
By the time the whistle blows to start the fight, Killua is immersed in that deep, brutal place entirely, and his thoughts are simple, clear, and emotionless.
His opponent is stronger than him, but Killua’s faster.
He can land a hit to the ribcage if he times it just right.
The blow lands hard. It should’ve been enough to crack his ribs, but his opponent hardly seems to feel it.
His opponent is approaching him now with an obvious feint.
Killua ignores it, and watches for his right foot, dodging the oncoming roundhouse kick.
Killua aims for his opponent’s throat; better to end this quickly. After all, this audience didn’t come for—
Between one breath and the next, Killua steps on something unsteady—a beer bottle tossed into the ring during the fight—his foot shoots out from beneath him, and his stomach goes heavy and hollow as he falls to the ground.
His opponent is approaching him now, leaning down. He’s going to pin Killua to the ground, beat him bloody and senseless, and take the victory. It’s what anyone would do.
It’ll be Killua’s first loss, but it might be worth it for a few moments of quiet while he’s unconscious. Killua grits his teeth and braces for the nauseating crunch of his own breaking bones.
His opponent reaches out a hand to him, but the blow Killua’s expecting never comes. Instead, he merely stands there, arm outstretched and palm up.
Is he… trying to help me to my feet?
And the sheer shock washes over Killua like cold water, tearing him out of that inhuman focus and sharply into the present.
And only then does Killua finally get a good look at the other man. He has the muscular body of a well trained fighter, but his face is friendly and unguarded. From where he’s standing over Killua, his arm outstretched and the glow of the lights behind his head like a halo, he looks less human than divine.
Killua slaps the man’s hand away and clambers to his feet, his pulse now pounding hard in his ears.
“Are you stupid or something?”
The man blinks, uncomprehending.
“Seriously, have you taken too many hits to the head?” Killua continues. “The fight was yours!”
“No it wasn’t,” the man replies, and his voice reminds Killua of summer in the mountains—warm and fresh and clear. “You tripped because someone threw something. That wouldn’t have been fair.”
Killua shoves him in the shoulders. Not like an undefeated fighter, but like a cranky kid.
“What part of any of this is fair ? You think the sort of people who end up in a place like this have had a life that’s fair ?”
The man shoves him back, every bit as petulant.
“I don’t care! It’s not how I wanted to win!”
Killua stops dead. He’s aware, vaguely, that the crowd is growing restless watching their strange, childish argument, but he’s too frustrated and flabbergasted to care.
“Oh, so you are stupid. That’s not how you wanted to win, huh? Well, welcome to the real world—people don’t just get what they want.”
“Clearly, because I wanted to help you to your feet and continue the match, but instead I have to listen to your stupid lecture!”
Killua isn’t sure who starts it, or if they both move at once, but the next thing he knows, he and the other man are grappling each other and wrestling to the ground like schoolyard kids.
But unlike every other time Killua’s found himself in this ring, there’s no real aggression behind their blows. When his opponent immobilizes him for a moment, he doesn’t take the opportunity to snap Killua’s wrist. Instead, he releases Killua almost as soon as he’s pinned, a bright, ferocious smile on his face.
It’s play-fighting, Killua realizes suddenly.
He can’t remember the last time he played.
And, in spite of himself, he lets out a loud, whooping laugh.
In the end, the fight concludes without a winner, the bets are all returned, and both of them are prohibited from showing their faces in the club again.
Killua imagines they both would’ve left with more than a few broken bones as punishment for throwing such a highly anticipated fight, but given their skill in the ring, the referees and organizers know better than to cross them.
Outside, Killua gulps down the cool night air, eager to get the lingering taste of smoke off of his tongue. His former opponent shoots him a grin.
“You know, I should kick your ass for getting me banned from here,” he says, but there’s no malice in it.
“Excuse me, I didn’t get you banned. You got me banned,” Killua shoots back, just as friendly.
The man sticks out a hand.
“I’m Gon.”
Killua takes it.
“Killua.”
The rough calluses on Gon’s warm hand send a small thrill down Killua’s spine.
“Seriously, though,” Gon says. “I’m sorry about you getting banned. What you said about the sort of people who end up here is true; most of us don’t have a lot of other options. Let me make it up to you.”
Killua waves him off.
“Nah, it was every bit as much my fault as yours. I shoved you first, remember? And honestly, I wasn’t exactly fond of that place. I won’t shed any tears bidding it farewell.”
Gon shakes his head, his gaze insistent, as if Killua were missing something.
“No, Killua, I’d really like to make it up to you. What I’m trying to say is that there’s a twenty-four hour diner a few blocks from here with the best waffles you’ll ever eat. Let me buy you dinner. Or whatever you call the meal you eat at half past two in the morning.”
“Oh. Oh, okay, yeah. Two AM waffles. Let’s do it.”
Gon breaks into a wide grin and grabs Killua by the hand, dragging him down the sidewalk, and Killua is struck by the unshakeable feeling that this is exactly where he belongs. Hand-in-hand with Gon, walking with single-minded purpose towards something better than what’s behind him.