Kitlattes - he/him

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Whirlwind is too slow.

The blast rings like a church bell, full and resonant, before it all goes quiet. The sky is bright white before it all goes black.

In those moments, before the before but after the after, he recalls something he said a long time ago on Whale Island. That during the journey to find Ging, he would decide what he wanted to do.

One thing Killua’s decided since then is how he wants to die tonight.

It wasn’t a quick process. In fact, it was a careful assessment, and then an acceptance, and then a deliberation. He thought of every variable, every detail. He used every death he’d seen and caused. He laid awake in his bedroll making his choice. He’d even revisited the hazy half-memories of that cave with the dart ants, where he laid in a pool of his own blood. It hadn’t hurt at all, only a mild chill, like a dozen snowflakes melting on his bare skin. The numbness crept in gentle and slow.

Death had always been something that happened to other people. Useful and terrible, it was something he could afflict for entertainment or for relief or for convenience. Always a tool in his arsenal, always lingering in his fingertips and never in his head. But in the dreary, destroyed halls of East Gorteau’s palace, Killua finally decided how he wants to die.

He wants to die in the grass. He wants to die exhausted, with the remnants of electricity kissing his hair and making it stand up even as it stuck, matted in red, to his scalp. He wants to die in that gentle numbness again, feeling nothing except for warmth in his palm, right elbow angled 210 degrees. On his back. Looking at the night sky.

His body, flung through Peijing’s forest, slows to a stop in it’s own little crash-site cradle. As expected, he feels nothing. But he’s not dead because he’s alone, crumpled here, and his right arm is dislocated. He’s not dead because despite everything, Killua can’t accept it like this. He wants so bad his heart aches, and for once he won’t let it slip through his fingers.

So he turns over, and he picks himself up, and he pops his arm back into place. One foot in front of the other, an incline rolls his ankles fierce and his footsteps crunch like bones. Undeterred, he heads down into the newborn crater.

Of all the things he wants to die doing, Killua wants to die holding hands with Gon the most.

It takes a crawling, agonizing amount of minutes to reach the epicenter. The dirt is charred and churned, and there’s no grass for miles, but that’s okay. There’s bits of aura still clinging to the ground and the dust in the air, twinkling like stars. It’s cloudy, so maybe this can be the night sky.

Gon is there in a heap—there in the middle. The sun in the solar system. His long hair spills like ink, his form shrunken into something recognizable. He’s facing up, eyes closed. Distantly, Killua thinks Gon looks peaceful like this. Probably the most peaceful he’s been in months.

His knees make a dull thud against the ground and the rest of his body falls, heavy.

They’re side by side. Like that long time ago on Whale Island, when they talked about deciding what he wants to do. They said they’d stay together. They’d promised. It’s the most important thing Killua’s ever done.

When he reaches blindly for Gon’s only remaining hand, he brushes against the wrist. Something faint flutters.