A War Worth Fighting |DISCONTINUED|

Chapter 10: Fraternizing

  4135 words.

   Gon always relied on his feelings. They never failed to exterminate a troublesome matter at hand. He has resolve, as people call it, but Gon didn't fully understand what that meant. He has an impulse, and he acts upon it—nothing unduly complicated. Sure, it's preferred by the general audiences of society to use a common morality in deciding what's ethically correct, but instinct hasn't failed him thus far, so why bother?

   Yet here he is, facing the repercussions of a simple mind because this time, his feelings were conflicting. A feeling of twisted betrayal brawling at thoughts of endearment—and all towards a certain mage: Killua Zoldyck.

   Gon sat lonesome at the local bar, calloused fingers tracing the tethered rope that hung from the marble countertops of the bar. He tapped the tips of his leather soles on the rusting, golden pole which stretched horizontally right to left. It was quite early in the afternoon, so only a few committed customers sat at tables, distant apart with unapproachable scowls.

   A young bartender leaned over the counter, his billowing white shirt appearing cream under the yellow-tinted light. "Would you like anything to drink, sir?"

   Gon, reluctant with his answer, replied with a courteous no thanks.

   He returned to his previous action, which was doing absolutely nothing. Bored. Clueless. Is this what it all truly measured up to? Gon considers himself far fetched from dependent, but something told him he wasn't independent, either.

   Everywhere he traveled with the mage, he'd always get comments saying, 'you two fit perfectly together,' and Gon didn't disagree. He's positive they could both have a wordless conversation based on expressions or tiny gestures alone. If Killua's hair prickled, he's irritated; if Killua hid his eyes beneath snowy bangs, and his hands tucked in his pockets, then he's relieved, happy...or loving; if an uncontrollable zap of static gingerly raised the hair on the back of Gon's neck, then Killua's most likely embarrassed— all of these indications, they meant something, didn't they?

   Yet, a barrier of the strongest magic stood in the way of proper communication. Insecurities piled upon insecurities upon insecurities, questioning was like walking on thin ice that already cracked, and Gon tried to move carefully at the appropriate pace, praying to reach the other side rather than falling through. But attempt after attempt, he falls, and Killua remains as distant as ever.

   Gon snapped his attention towards a couple that entered the bar, laughing and pushing each other around...and, merely a few weeks ago, that was himself and Killua. Betrayal. His stomach churned. Anger boiled his blood. He clenched his fists.

   But then he'd remember Killua's laugh, his compassionate nature towards those he cared about, and his eyes, irises that carried so much emotion —sadness, admiration, curiosity, thoughtfulness, adoration— all at once.

   Whatever these contradictory feelings he felt towards Killua were, he knew one thing for sure. Killua...no one should be in procession of that book. It needed to be burned, destroyed, drowned in the depths of the dark waters.

   After all, his aunt would be alive if it weren't power-crazed sorcerors that plagued these lands.

   When Killua returned from camp covered in blood, Gon's first reaction was to stare. His heart dropped as the mage wobbled with weakened limbs. He needed to heal Killua, but what held him back?

   His discovery.

   Merely hours prior, his curiosity got the best of him. Gon's fingers caressed the sheets of golden paper. "Why was he hiding this?" The druid mumbled to himself. He flipped past the decorative cover, "Studying the Arcane Arts...Chapter one: Summoning the Nightwell-" Gon dropped the book as if it caught fire. His blood ran cold, mouth agape. He- he...Killua Zoldyck wielded the book, the spells responsible for the massacre of all the druids-- the slaughter of his aunt.