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The Zoldyck estate was (and is) large, expensive and gifted of intense fauna and flora. The gardens are separated into sections, neatly cut by bushes trimmed into symmetrically placed rectangles. Some sectors are wild and untamed, full of animals which the Zoldycks are all at one point or another taught to hunt, kill and skin with their bare hands. Some other sectors have a more decorative purpose, one of wealth portrayal, for the rare visit of an associate or client who comes by to discuss an especially important deal. There is a smaller quarter of the house down a hill built for that sole purpose, so that the butlers never get to take anyone all the way up, and so that nobody ever manages to figure out how the actual mansion is organized from the inside, or its layout. The Zoldycks are better safe than sorry, though they aren't ever sorry at all.
The decorative gardens are where children's parks reside. When he was tiny, Kalluto had his own swing-filled corner, like each sibling had their own small spot of preference. He didn't really do much there, he didn't even play on the swings, and boredom was a luxury he could no longer afford today. But at the time when he could, just for a little bit, he sat outside and found that something about watching the swings rock back and forth, and always come to him again like loyalty itself, was comforting. He couldn't quite give a name to this feeling that was unknown. Today, he can't even pinpoint or describe exactly how it felt anymore, because he can no longer recreate it under any circumstances. The swings have died. But he liked and still marvels at that familiar and expected motion, which he would follow the steps of in regards to everything in life, for a few years at least. Exactly how he thought Killua would too, when Killua eventually left the painful cocoon of their family for the first time. But that was much later, and the summer breeze had yet to carry Kalluto's newborn mind so far as to consider such thing ever happening. The clues were there from the beginning regardless.
Killua often played with Alluka in the center of the gardens, where there were sand boxes. Alluka was good at building things, a deftness that would prove to complete Nanika's destructive nature. Kalluto had sometimes been with them in the sun, because he liked to admire their respective capacities and skill sets. Illumi had said he should be inspired by them. He'd crawl around behind their heels when he was too weak to stand, but soon enough walk and run, because there was no time to waste on anything that wasn't an actual step forward. He'd stopped sticking with them at some point, he doesn't really remember when, because they didn't really teach him anything, or talk to him, or even look at him whatsoever. The swings came to him from all directions simultaneously. Similarly, his mother never wants him to leave her side.
Once Alluka and Nanika were put away, banished to their ever sunny realm, Illumi began taking out Killua to the garden for behavioral lessons. It was a place in which he felt calm and could easily focus, he associated almost exclusively fun and happy memories with it. It made teaching easier, and learning much more enjoyable. The sand occupied his hands as Illumi spoke, it stayed stuck under his fingernails afterwards. Later, in the year that followed, Illumi stopped taking Killua out there, so that he would be forced to focus everywhere equally, and at all times. No sand to pour out excesses of his energy onto, to crush in between his fingers or curl his fists around when he was annoyed. Nothing, no nervous habit that could translate meaning or emotion to a potential enemy, or multiple of them. No distinguishable patterns and no recognizable tendencies that could be used against him in combat, or as a spying tool. These were behavioral lessons, after all, and so, to behave he learned. Just an empty room, metal walls, bloodstains on the ground and a frail little chair were enough. Enough to ease Killua into silence through torture, until he died if that's what it took for a secret to be kept.
But, for a while, Illumi did let Killua have the sun to hold onto. He took in impressive quantities of information at a time as a toddler and child, and needed landmarks to follow along, or they would undoubtedly loose him for good. Wasting so much potential would be criminal. Neither of which really seem to be an issue to the Zoldycks however, since they are criminals. And waste potential as well.
In those moments, Kalluto, who was still tiny, would follow them out and stand nearby quietly, to listen and learn as well. He played with his hands, he tugged at his sleeves—a misconduct that would be corrected harshly on short notice. Though he'd never ever admit it, not even to himself, Kalluto had wished he could sit down beside his brother, in the sand. But Illumi liked for them to keep their distances, and his mother had taught him it was preferable to stand, even though Killua played with his nice and expensive clothes in the dirt. She said the fabrics Kalluto wore looked prettier when they were straightened by gravity, and he looked prettier with that somber stance of his. Killua looked good enough that it didn't matter, Kalluto could only hope to ever near such perfection when trying his very hardest. Like on any other field, Kalluto was vastly inferior to the heir, and it only made sense. What they respectively could and couldn't do, how they managed in side by side training comparisons, those were the ultimate proofs of it. Illumi urged him to catch up with the others.
Behavioral lessons took two sessions to be completed. The first was a talking session, a lecture built upon sophistry, where Illumi taught and Killua listened passively. Good Zoldyck that he was, Killua was not naturally the kind to question what he was told by the eldest—Alluka had proven to be a bit less gullible and impressionable, but she was no longer an issue. The lesson would be followed by an exercise in the dungeons in its continuity, failure leading to physical repercussions. Killua failed very little.
These kinds of two part ensembles would be repeated every so often, to keep the values and teachings fresh to the young, overwhelmed mind of an assassin in training.
Illumi taught Killua in that year about the charms and deceits of romance and sexuality. He was ten, Kalluto four years younger. He said sensuality was to be avoided by all means. He said that the only charm that could be beneficial to the family was that of Killua's youth, a glee that turned people's guards down. Of anything other than that, he was to beware. The gardens were littered in Daturas of a red-ish purple tint, butlers were in charge of their caretaking. Kalluto had thought they looked pretty when he saw them through his window in the early morning, so he wore a similarly colored furisode. Were the flowers something he should be wary of as well?
Killua's hair was silver in the way of the sun, but much less than it became in the night. From angles, it looked almost translucent.
Killua learned to not be fooled by charms, and not to utilize them too much, for results were hazardous and often unfruitful. He was taught to stay away from risks.
Kalluto couldn't quite get it.
Those teachings weren't thought for him. A lot of the principles upon which the Zoldycks were raised depended on which position they occupied (or rather, were to someday occupy) within the hierarchy of the family business. Careful hands took their sweet time on Killua's mold, because that's what it takes to build the heir. They had yet to teach him nen when he fled, because Killua was rebellious and thereby scary, but also and mainly because they'd decided to do that only once he reached the peak of his pure physical strength. To make him the very best, to push him beyond human limits. Every step of the way with him had been slow (and fast), cautious and thoughtful. He was the jewel of the family, the one to defeat them all in a hypothetical future, and nothing was allowed to come touch him or disturb his growth. Thus why Killua was taught to flee from danger; everyone else fought at the price of their own lives, save maybe for Illumi, who was still needed by Killua's side.
That sort of time and intent that it takes to make the heir, it was never put into the making of Kalluto. The other Zoldyck siblings were raised with one simple purpose: do their jobs. There is no point in being better than the rest, their business is no competition. They, in similar amounts of time, were taught all attack and defense skills, a few deceiving tricks, all things needed to flee discreetly after a well done mission. Then at about ten they all, but Killua, were initiated to nen and taught to comprehend it. Up to them to develop an ability from there, to grow in strength and power, as much as needed to hold up to the Zoldyck name. Not that they would be showcased as such, nameless soldiers for the company were nameless nonetheless.
Kalluto, even in comparison to the other average siblings, paled. In skill, in talent, in drive all equally. From as soon as she was caged, he was nothing but a replacement to Alluka, who was to become his mother's right hand. The little porcelain doll to walk around by her side, and be the face of the family. Kalluto thinks, now that he's seen her face again, that the first few years of her life which she spent in his postion, she can't help but wear them. To him, her face is uncanny and inexpressive. It doesn't seem so to anyone else—maybe he just knows enough to see more than she lets on. Or he's insane, who's to say.
Like his sister before him, and every single one of his siblings as well, Kalluto was born a boy. Still, he looked feminine enough to please the lady. Children are androgynous, by design, and for the satisfaction of a mother.
From there, he was raised to stand still and be pretty, such a prize-winning dog. He spent a lot of time in the domain down the hill, negotiating alongside his mother. His charms were useful, they convinced everyone. Even her.
He spent a lot of time training alone too, often as it was cold and dark. Failing alone and perhaps more painfully than with a teacher, so he wouldn't have to fail for a teacher's entertainment.
Out in the garden, Illumi taught Killua his family's love was the only acceptable kind, that nobody but them could ever love him properly. The Zoldycks were tied together in a way others couldn't quite understand. Blood on hands draws people closer than the blood in them does. It ties them to one another in a fashion that is so special and so unique, nobody in the world but them can even begin to imagine how it feels. Kalluto knows that very well. It is a core value shared within their family, coursing their veins. A general truth.
Kikyou has told and repeated it to her son countless times, so many in fact that he knows it by heart, it and the exact sentences she spoke it within. She sat him down outside and she pat his head and combed through his hair, occasionally tugging, harshly, to correct his posture. She'd said nobody but her was allowed to raise him, to teach him, to love him. To touch him. Compliment him. So he kept coming back to her for praise, which he never got.
Praising was reserved to Killua. Objects saw no praise. One doesn't thank something that was made to fulfill a purpose for fulfilling said purpose. One doesn't thank a chunk of oneself. An ear for hearing or a fist for tugging.
At times, they paced alone into the frigid night air, exhaling clouds, and Kikyou took sudden halts in her walks. Kalluto remembers standing by her already, as he was four and petrified. His mother's face was pale as ever and she stared at the big moon, the one, unusually silent and turned to the sky. There was a subtle twitch to her lower lip, something he'd seen her do sometimes. When she turned to him and began talking, he knew where her speech was heading. Tonight is no different.
Kikyou would force the little frame of Kalluto's infant body against hers, and she'd comb out his knots with rough, sharp fingernails. She was stronger than she let on. She'd whisper into the air like a madman. The gardens were littered in bloodshot carnations, white turned silver by the dead of the night and the glint of the moon. The same glint that turned black the edges of his vision, and made her teeth seem sharp when he dared look up from his few apples of height. It made her looks as though she was smiling—which, of course she wasn't. There was no reason for her to be. Kalluto knows she could not have been smiling. Or grinning, or smirking, or anything adjacent. He knows waking up in a cold sweat to that image burned withing his eyelids is illogical.
Yet from then on, Kalluto kept his gaze down, and a frightened shiver at bay. Showing alarm could kill a wild animal.
Kalluto's job in life was often to guide her out of those secondary states. Kikyou rode very high on emotional rollercoasters. It was obvious to all that she'd grown up somewhere else, that she couldn't be a Zoldyck by blood, so much so that her contact with her youngest children was controlled and restricted by Illumi, who had judged her closeness to the heir detrimental to his development. It drove Kikyou mad, because of which Silva had allowed her to have more children which they didn't need, whose abilities they could neglect, so they could stick by her side. Kalluto would be forever thankful for his father's kindness. Without it, he wouldn't have lived.
Kikyou lost her calm and, via physical feedback, Kalluto brought her back to herself. The way in a typical relationship a father could help a mother, if he were to stand her. It made Kalluto feel privileged and special, to be that person, the only one with such role. His mother rushed to Killua whenever she could, but at the end of the day, she swung back to him for comfort. He was the favored one, let it be at the cost of his bodily image.
Once older and more defiant than ever, whenever Killua walked past, he looked at him with that haughty stare of his, a half judgemental half questioning recipe only he had the ingredients to. Kalluto knew his brother was skeptical of his attachment to their mother, and he wondered why. He owed her life, the chance to be apart of this business venture. He owed her any kind of love he'd ever know.
Maybe Killua simply didn't know love. The heavy touch of his mother's hand on his shoudler, he tended to avoid it like a plague. He is spoiled, Kalluto thought. But Kalluto wasn't, and so he took the touch, as expected of him, and it felt good for a moment. He'd wait for later to regret, vaguely, distantly, the way it would feel if its intensions were different (and better, because anything is better than this, be it torture, be it death). He'd, even later, wonder why it wasn't as fulfilling to him as it seemed to be for his mother. Why it wasn't fulfilling at all, if he was handling his role so correctly. This was the one thing he was ever thanked for, of a gentle pat on the back. And still, he wasn't content. Why? But the answer was right there, really.
Kalluto was broken.
He and Kikyou stand by a tree, that he knows to have been planted sometime close to his birth. The tree has yet to mature, Kalluto finds he's proud of how grown he is in comparison. Then he stops, wide-eyed, to think of his own ridiculousness. Finding reassurance in the slower growth of a tree, that is sure to be more sturdy and last longer than he ever could. Kalluto will likely die young, he is not afraid of it. He awaits that relief. That's what happens to the average Zoldyck. That's why Silva has no brothers. Not anymore.
Killua has fled the mansion for the third time, now with Alluka. Kalluto was left behind. He was never loved by Killua, that thought makes him frown. It goes against his personal beliefs, those inculcated by his blood. The so-called general truths.
Maybe Killua is such a good murder machine because he knows no love, not even for his own blood. Or his love is twisted, and it involves no choking hugs, no unwanted kisses, no harsh tugs of his hair, and no heart-to-hearts where only one party speaks. Kalluto has a poor grasp of Killua's person, and he knows it. He will get better at understanding his family, he promises to himself. Though it's not at the top of his list of things to get better at.
Kikyou seems troubled.
She turns to Kalluto like she often has in the past, pacing his way, like she often has in the past. Kalluto can't help the slight shiver that runs down his spine. He doesn't like what comes before, the anticipation that builds up and fizzles like champagne inside his head, renders him immobile, slays any thought behind his pink eyes. The little mole on the left side of his mouth trembles visibly. Its dark color is a dead giveaway to whenever his skin twitches.
The moon bears witness to Kikyou's senseless claims of possessiveness. She makes Kalluto promise, swear to, contrarily to his sibling, stick with her. Kalluto doesn't know what to say, not that he's in any state to think. He's been gone in the past, and his plan wasn't to linger at the estate. He will go away and get Killua to return.
Those high pitched screams that are so typically hers bubble out of Kikyou, whose hot hold on Kalluto's shoulders does not loosen. He's shaken around. He's glad not to be held by the hair this time. Still, she's ruffling and tearing holes into the clothes that make him pretty, and it's like Kalluto can feel himself be disfigured.
Kikyou, in a state of pure dismay, is not rare when the foundational matter of the crisis is Killua or, by extension, Silva. Neither listen to her, so she finds refuge within Kalluto. He, the good boy, always behaves. He listens to whatever she has to say.
She always makes him take sides. Hers, to be specific. Kalluto thinks inwardly that there's no debate to be had. He's always heard only her side, and that side has become as familiar as his own. He is his mother's second half, a counterpart. The one that looks the way she wished she could. He was built piece by piece to complete her, and only lacks bits in things Alluka had already taken. He feels irreal and incomplete, but he is her favorite. If that's not worth all of it, who knows what could be.
It does raise a few questions, however. Kalluto's place of honor. Why is it that Killua's departure afflicts Kikyou so much, then?
Kalluto pauses. Isn't he all she needs? Seriously, what's Killua even ever done for her? He is the heir, though. That's just one of those stupid questions of his. They need Killua to come back, he must return, and take his father's spot.
But won't he come back anyway? There aren't any other options, why panic?
Kikyou whines a while longer, her debate with her son is (as often) one-sided. This time though, Kalluto isn't listening, and soaking in her opinions. Kalluto has spaced out.
His mother keeps reaching out the heir again. Killua keeps pushing her away. Kalluto has held her hand. What is it that she finds repulsive then?
Maybe it's something more. Maybe because Killua is the heir, he's like his father, and would be better at Kalluto's postion by Kikyou's side. Maybe he's not good Eno for this either, this, that he's given all he is for.
Everytime this happens, everytime his mother falls back onto him for a shoulder to cry on, she ends up saying something that feels off, whatever it be. Something that diminishes the love she has for him, the love she proclaims at any given occasional, or if they're alone in a room anyway. Today, the whole subject of her breakdown is frustrating to Kalluto. He can only contain himself so much.
Eventually, after dramatic movements and unending monologues, Kikyou has fallen to the floor. She uses Kalluto as support to take a nap, and get her blood pressure to stabilize. She is so frail and weak, it's almost as if she's passed out. Her head lays slowly upon his legs, her hair falling about where it has slipped out of her coiffure. Agitation does no good to one's appearance.
She's supposed to be on her guards still. The Zoldycks always are. But Kalluto's eyes are opened, and she trusts him to such extent that even when his heartbeat fastens and his body heat grows, and his palms feel sweaty, Kikyou doesn't stir. She relies fully on her son.
Kalluto is frozen by a cold sweat and intense nausea, a violent pain in his head. His body trembling, his hand twitching, his fan begging for release. She has so much trust in his loyalty, it's almost as though he is nothing but an extension of herself.
Kalluto has never felt so incredibly complete. So complete, it is honestly too much. Which is... positive? He thinks so. Maybe.
It's funny, how hyper aware of his body it had made him. His hands are at a surprisingly small distance from her neck, his legs could help bend it at an abnormal angle front or back, or both, just for the sake of it.
There's something pure and animalistic about it, about the thought that occurs to him next. It's like looking at a baby, one you love so much, you wish to squeeze the day out of it. Kalluto's wish is more visceral and less controllable, and his pulsions are more intense, but they come from the same place, he thinks. And Kikyou is asleep.
His thought-to-action filter is surprisingly loose that evening, and his fingers are surprisingly tight around warm flesh.
He's been staring for too long, his throat grows dry, a stark contrast to his mouth. He's forgotten to swallow the accumulated saliva there, so much so that when his lips naturally fall apart, it's with a loud clicking sound. For the first time ever since as far back as Kalluto's memory goes, he is no longer on his guards, following his mother's model. Even if only for a fleeting moment, Kalluto feels safe, alone, with a corpse that could easily cost his life. He's betrayed them all, himself included. The wind washes his skin where it's been touched.
Kikyou's remains will fertilize the gardens. She is of no more use to Silva, he will leave her there. Maybe a butler will do something about it.
Fleeing the Zoldyck estate to go anywhere and everywhere, Kalluto feels lightheaded and confused. A weight has been lifted off of his shoulders, a weight he'll find again in stress from the situation he's just gotten himself into. It isn't the moment to worry about it yet, though. The ecstasy following the end of a bloodlust as strong as the one he's just gotten rid of deserves its own flowers, and make them a bouquet of cowslips. In the weeks, months and years that'll follow, Kalluto will sourly regret his deeds. He knows it already, that fact is nagging at him, at the back of his brain. But right now, he'll be free for a while. Even for just a little, and he will be bored, and enjoy that time. If he's meant to die in it, then so be his end. He would rather have this mess end here.
Is this it? Is this what it takes to be fulfilled and whole? Kalluto was a second part of his mother, a dead chunk of her brought back to life, and maybe there was a proper reason it had first died, maybe the earth only wants so much of her. Kikyou, to fix this problem, had attempted to fusion the two of them and make them one. Kalluto had picked a more egoistic option, and he still doesn't know how to feel about it.
The hand on his shoulder pushing him down, though under a less concrete forms, shall soon return. For now, Kalluto walks lightheartedly down Kukuroo mountain. The sky is pitch black, his breathing is laboured and unusually loud. The wild heart of the forest is covered in wormwoods.