Archive of Our Own

Gon’s not sure what he’d expected about peace talks between the Padokean Empire and the Kingdom of Saherta. The 405th Infantry had been in a battle less than a week ago against the same Empire they’re supposed to parade with tomorrow, to play nice as though the countries had had a minor disagreement and not a years-long war. It’s a sort of negotiation that Gon could really care less about, so long as his people get a break from dying pointlessly. As the captain of a mercenary group hired by the 405th, Gon has had to deal with his share of negotiations, mostly bickering over payments to his people and being forced to do math. But that never forces them all to be nice.

His people aren’t nice. Well, Zushi is. Gon’s second in command is one of the nicest people Gon’s ever met (and he doesn’t say no when Gon makes him do salary calculations). Spinner’s group doesn’t reach for their guns or swords unless they’re in battle, making them reliable in heated moments. But Leorio’s take on medicine often comes with a lot of well-intentioned griping, both Pokkle and Ponzu are too crotchety to care about what anyone else thinks, and Palm will stab rather than bother with being nice. At least tomorrow during the big peace parade, all they have to do is stand with the rest of the 405th and look clean. Gon will be the one wearing the fancy hat, to his intense annoyance.

But most of them like drinking, and they all like fighting. So Gon doesn’t mind that they all ended up at the Liquor Spring, a boxing ring with a tavern around it. Run by virulent royalists, it’s the sort of place where visiting soldiers and local residents mix for drink and arguments, but mostly fights. Even before the war, any Imperial sympathizers had been run out by angry drunks. Not that it’s an easy place to find for strangers. The tavern is tucked away in a poorly run part of the city, buried in smoke and fog. The candles and lanterns scattered around the bar make it hard to distinguish faces from drinks—a problem that often leads to impromptu fights in and out of the ring.

The fighting is why Gon likes coming here: when Kite had run the company, he’d made sure everyone who wanted got a shot at fighting. He’d thought it was better for a group to trust each other, to know where everyone’s strengths and weaknesses were in a fight. Most of a decade after Kite’s death, Gon is happy to follow tradition. Tonight, though, it seems like the fighting is staying where it’s supposed to be: a wide ring made of packed dirt, a low rope marking where the tavern ends and the fighting begins.

They’ve done pretty well tonight—Palm knocked out two people before being escorted to the bar by the fightmaster, and Pokkle had a few good rounds before getting his ass handed to him by Zushi. Then again, Zushi beats pretty much everyone once he gets over his nerves and steps up to fight—everyone but Gon. Their record has Gon in a solid lead, but there’s always a chance Zushi could get a good shot in. With how tired everyone is, there’s a better chance Gon will make a stupid mistake. But that also makes it more exciting.

Gon’s fists itch with challenge. But before he can jump into the ring himself, a pint drops in front of him, some of the foam sloshing over the glass and onto the table. “You stay and you don’t move, Captain,” Leorio says.

Gon pouts. He’s known the medic for years, long before either of them joined Kite Squad, and Leorio still treats him like a little brother. It would be annoying, except Leorio treats almost everyone he likes like a younger sibling. Gon doesn’t mind it. Most of the time. “I’m fine!”

The medic’s glasses flash in the dim light. “I didn’t spend all morning patching you up just for you to immediately ruin it. At least wait until after you have to stand on ceremony to re-break your collarbone. You’re lucky it was a clean break this time.”

Gon rotates his arm in a circle, ignoring the little sparks of pain. “See? You fixed me.”

Leorio’s eyes narrow. “Because I put the patch on barely ten hours ago. Padokea’s emperor might not leave his hidden palace, but his stand-ins are going to be right there, and you’ll be right in front of them. And the King of Saherta! You have to look presentable.”

“But Leorio—”

“You have enough painkillers in your system to keep half of the squad down. Wait til tomorrow, because everything is going to be sore.”

Before Gon can argue that if he’ll be sore tomorrow anyways he should fight, the tavern erupts in shouts. The fightmaster is yelling at the crowd to stand back, and Palm is shouting furiously about cheating. Leorio jumps to his feet, using the height advantage Gon doesn’t have to look around. His glasses flash in the oily light.

“What’s wrong?” Gon asks.

“Someone’s taken a hard hit,” Leorio shouts back. “I think—God’s blood, Zushi’s losing.”

“Really?”

Before Gon can ask more, Leorio takes off to the ring, bodily shoving the crowd aside to let him through. Gon follows close behind, gnawing at his lip. Zushi knows the risks of fighting just as much as anyone else in Kite Squad. But if someone is beating Zushi hard enough to worry Leorio, then…

They clear the edges of the crowd just in time to see Zushi throw a haymaker. Gon’s been on the receiving end of Zushi’s punches more than once. When they hit, they hurt. Whoever Zushi’s fighting, a white haired man nearly Zushi’s height, blocks the blow effortlessly, bare feet dancing across the packed dirt of the ring like he weighs nothing at all. Both he and Zushi are stripped to the waist with rough bandages wrapping their wrists, but while Zushi has his uniform trousers rolled up to the knees, the stranger wears straight-legged trousers turned up at the ankle. Gon’s never seen him before: he’s not part of the royal army, at least not the battalion Kite Squad’s affiliated with, and Gon knows he would’ve seen him before if he were a local. His pale skin is speckled with a collection of scars, so there’s little chance he’s nobility.

Then the man dodges a flurry of punches as though they aren’t even there, and Gon knows he’s new. Because Gon would have fought him a long time ago.

“Look out!” Leorio screams as the white haired man launches a high straight jab, almost too fast for Gon to see. Zushi doesn’t even see it coming. If it hadn’t been for Leorio’s warning, he would have taken the blow right between the eyes. Instead, the man’s fist clips the side of Zushi’s face, sending him stumbling onto his heels. An angry bruise blossoms on Zushi’s tanned skin, his cheek swollen and bleeding. Zushi uses the bandages bracing his wrist to wipe off the blood, thick eyebrows coming together in frustration.

Zushi will be okay. He’s been in worse fights than this.

Maybe.

“Leorio, did you bring your kit?” Gon asks.

“Why would I—”

Gon crosses his arms over his chest. If his shoulder twinges a little, Leorio doesn’t need to know. “Zushi’s bleeding.”

Leorio gives him a side-eye. “I’m not using it on you.”

The fight starts up again. The white haired man looks bored, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his fists loose at his side. He’s confident he’ll get them up again in time, and that Zushi’s not going for the obvious opening means he’s right. Rather than go for the first hit, Zushi lowers his stance. Sturdy, steady, and immobile—he might not be the first to hit, but once Zushi’s like that, it’s hard to put him down.

Then the stranger moves.

There is no telltale sound of feet digging into dirt, or the thud of skin cutting back and forth. But for a split second, it’s as though there are two of the stranger, then three, then four, reverberating in the air like echoes.

Gon knows that move. He’s seen it before. But when—?

“Zushi!” Gon yells, but it’s too late.

And then Zushi’s on the ground.

The tavern explodes once again, the crowd around the edge of the ring undulating as people try to shove their way around. Leorio’s already at Zushi’s side, waving away the fightmaster as he rifles through his travel kit until he finds what he’s looking for. Zushi blinks blearily up at Leorio, one eye swollen shut and the other unfocused.

“Hi, Dr. Palad—Padali—Le’ro,” Zushi says. “An’ Cap’n! You gotta figh’ ‘im.”

“Is he okay?” Gon asks.

“Concussion, I think.”

Zushi tries to push the medic’s hands away, but Leorio is stronger. “He didn’ hit me har’ nuff.”

“And I need better light for his eye.” Leorio carefully does something to Zushi’s eyelid that makes the fighter wince. “That asshole did a number on him.”

The stranger drops onto a stool at the edge of the ring and takes a gulp from a pint someone had put there as his winnings. He unwinds the fabric from around his wrist with brisk efficiency, wincing a little as he pulls on a cut or a blister. Despite the clear win, he frowns deeply, displeased about something—a few knuckles are swollen, bright red against pale skin and off-white bandages, as though he’d hit a brick wall with his fists. Whatever he’d done to take down Zushi had to hurt. The rest of his skin is clear of injury, the few bruises pale or fading against pale skin.

“Gon,” Palm says from his shoulder.

He nods back at her, not taking his eyes off the white haired man. “Did you fight him?”

She shakes her head. “I had been barred from participating for the night.”

“What happened?”

“That man arrived some time ago and asked to fight. He put down a few of the regulars before defeating Pokkle in two blows.” Her growl of frustration is barely audible over the tavern’s noise. “I thought nothing of it at the time. Even Ponzu has little difficulty defeating him when she wishes to join us in the ring. But then Zushi…”

“Yeah,” Gon says. Now the stranger is glancing around the crowd, face set in bored wariness. But he catches Gon’s eye for a moment, lingering as Gon stares right back. It’s easy to see he wants to challenge someone, anyone, but is waiting for the right moment. The right fight.

Gon wants to be that fight.

Palm jabs Gon firmly, and he turns up to her. She shakes her head, long dark hair fluttering around her like a wraith. “You’re challenging him,” she says. It’s not a question.

He looks back, hoping to catch another sign, but now the white haired man is staring down a trio of angry-looking soldiers, who are busily acting angry with anyone but the man in the ring. Gon says to Palm, “I am.”

“Leorio is opposed to you putting yourself in harm’s way with your injury, I assume.”

“I’m still fighting him.”

“You want to fight?” a lilting voice calls, accent faint but distinctly not from here. The white haired man raises his pint at Gon, a challenge in his eyes. “Better be more of a challenge than him.”

Gon nods at the stranger’s hands. The right one is mottled and bruised, like he’d hit something so hard his bones had cracked. “I think Zushi hurt you more than you thought.”

Pale eyebrows scrunch together in annoyance. He smacks a small patch of cloth on the back of his hands before rewrapping his wrists, too fast for anyone else to get a look at the injury. Once he’s done, he flicks his hands back and forth like a magician performing a trick. By the time Gon gets a good look at the skin again, it’s pale and unblemished.

“Like I said,” the man says, and stretches his arms overhead. Lithe muscles move under his skin with clear strength, a smirk twisting his lips. “I need a challenge, and was told this is the place for it. But the others here haven’t been close to enough.”

“Maybe not. But I am.”

“Captain—” Leorio barks, but Gon’s already shrugging out of his uniform jacket.

The white haired man grins, a vicious flash of white teeth, and pushes to his feet in a single fluid motion. He doesn’t even look winded, Gon realizes, like he doesn’t have that bone-deep ache that’s lived in every inch of Gon’s body since the war started. There is no chance he has been fighting anywhere near the front lines, not with regular people. But there’s something in his eyes that matches the rest of the soldiers and mercenaries, an exhaustion Gon recognizes from seeing it in too many of his own people. Some days, he sees it in himself.

Why would someone like this stranger, who radiates confidence with every movement, have that?

“I’m next,” Gon says again, and the crowd around the dirt screams loud enough to make the whole room shake.

The fightmaster glances between Gon and Leorio. “We clear, doc?”

Leorio wipes his hands off, and the cloth comes away red with Zushi’s blood. “Palm, help me get Zushi to the bar. And Captain—”

Gon braces for another round of guarded advice or warnings, and Palm’s already opening her mouth to protest. But Leorio’s glasses flash in the light. “Drive this catty bastard into the dirt.”

“So? We doing this, Captain?” the man says as Gon wraps his wrists tightly. The stranger’s accent catches on the vowels, clipping them slightly. He sounds Padokean, but not so much to be out of place in the Saherta Kingdom’s capital. Like how few people can place Gon as an Islander, lost in the shuffle of Kite Squad’s diverse voices. They’re both out of place here in a sea of royal accents, enough that Gon’s curious.

“First to yield, loses,” he says. “Stakes?”

“You survive longer than your friend there, you choose.”

Gon matches him grin for grin. “Deal.”

The fightmaster glances between the two of them, face blank. “You begin on my count. Three, two—”

Gon doesn’t even hear the countdown finish. His fists come up into a defensive block pounded into him by years of fighting, from what Kite taught him years ago to sparring with faster members of Kite Squad during their downtime. That repetition is all that keeps the stranger’s fist from going through his face. As it is, the blow glances off his forearm with blistering force, ricocheting past without space for an opening. There’s enough time for a quick jab at the stranger’s side, before Gon’s forced to dance backwards. The stranger presses, blows raining sharp and rapid as he tries to keep up: one two three, one-two-three, onetwothree, onetwo—

The last series ends with an open palm smashing against Gon’s jawbone. The world turns white, like an explosion going off in his ears, and his foot skids out from under him. It’s only instinct that keeps him from tumbling to the dirt—and then there’s another blow coming at the other side.

Rather than stand and get hit, Gon ducks.

The stranger’s arm goes sailing over his head, and Gon comes up from the crouch to return the blow to the face with one of his own. The hit reverberates down his arm and through his collarbone, making his whole right side tingle. It’s worth it for how astonished the stranger looks. His eyes are blue, wide with shock and edged with growing excitement.

Taking advantage of the break, Gon rolls out of range and resets himself, shaking the tingling out of his joints as he bounces up and down. Outside the ring, people are shouting, and it sounds like Palm is yelling something obscene. But Gon barely hears any of it.

The stranger studies him for a long moment. A bruise is already blossoming where Gon hit him. Pale skin’s probably terrible for fighting—Gon’s hidden more than one stupid injury thanks to his brown skin and freckles. But before he can really consider questions of skin tone and fighting, the stranger throws a clear feint at his side. Gon slaps it away with an open palm, using the same hand to block the real punch, a counter aimed at his face. But the move leaves him open, and the stranger slams Gon in the collarbone, right where Leorio had patched him earlier. Red light sparks across Gon’s vision, pain sharp enough to taste and arm tingling with near-numbness.

So Gon tosses him over his hip.

The white haired man hits the ground with a heavy thud, and the tavern erupts in cheers. The fightmaster steps in, checking to see if the stranger is alright. But he’s on his feet instantly, shaking his head at whatever the fightmaster says. Despite that, they’re signaled for a break—bets, probably, or maybe to get Leorio.

Gon downs a mouthful from the waterskin Spinner hands him, flashing a grateful grin at her, and trots over to the stranger. “Can we make the bet now?” he asks, and holds out the water.

The man raises his eyebrows. “You’re not half bad,” he says. He takes a long pull, splashing some of the water on his head and wincing when it gets into a cut. His curls plaster against his forehead, making his eyes seem bigger and brighter. “Make your bet, because you’re still gonna lose.”

Gon grins. “I win, you join my squad.”

“What makes you think I don’t have one already?”

Gon leans in close. The man looks like he wants to do nothing more than jump away, but he stays perfectly still, down to the strained smug smile. In a voice just loud enough to be heard over the tavern din, Gon says, “You can’t be in the king’s army if you’re from the Empire.”

“Maybe I’m in the Imperial army,” he says. “Think about that?”

Gon taps his bare foot against the dirt. “Maybe, but you’re not.”

“And how do you know?”

“Just a feeling.”

“A feeling, huh.”

“Yeah. And the Empire doesn’t use mercenaries.”

The white haired man pauses long enough that Gon starts to worry he’ll try something new. But then his lips twitch with an amused snort, and he rolls his shoulders to shake out the laughter. “You’re something else,” he mutters. Behind them, the fightmaster has finished collecting bets and is motioning for them to get started. The stranger nods, grin turning reckless. “Sure. You somehow manage to make me yield, I join your squad. But when I win, you do what I want for 24 hours.”

“Done!” Gon says.

“Don’t you want to—” the stranger starts to protest, but Gon’s been ready to fight for what feels like years.

He darts towards the stranger as fast as he dares, throwing a straight jab. The stranger doesn’t even flinch, ducking under the punch and to the side. In the time it takes Gon to turn the punch into an elbow jab, he’s already weaving away, as though he knew it was coming. But rather than completely dodge like before, he uses the movement to whip back to Gon with a backfisted strike. Gon blocks him and counters. Nothing special, but sometimes the best response is a straightforward punch to the face.

And then the stranger vanishes.

For most of the tavern, it probably looks like he takes one step and simply appears with his fist striking Gon. He’d used the same move against Zushi, moving in a way that it doesn’t even sound like he’s moving. But he is, weaving in such a way that it looks like there’s two of him, then three, then four, all moving so fast most people wouldn’t even see the echoes.

Gon’s not most people, though, and he’s seen this before.

Because he knows what’s coming, he waits until the last moment, a split second when all four echoes are about to strike. Then Gon drops to the ground.

The stranger tumbles over him, barely catching himself with an open hand before flipping back to his feet. He boggles at Gon, jaw slack. “How did you—”

Gon doesn’t let him finish. He pulls in close and returns the earlier combo directly to the stranger’s torso, the last blow clobbering him on the cheekbone. The stranger physically shoves him away, shock morphing quickly into a bloodthirsty delight that transforms his whole face. For a moment, the stranger looks alive, and Gon’s blood sings with it.

Gon slides out from a jab, and it comes together harder than a punch. The white hair, the the soundless steps, the movement he can’t track with his eyes—he’s seen them before. The most recent was a woman who only reached him because he was curious to see who sent her. She hadn’t managed the echoes, her attempt cut short by Gon resorting to correcting her form before she struck. Spinner had been pissed—she’d accused him of toying with the assassin rather than giving her a clean death.

But this man is more than a pale copy. He’s just like the people Gon had seen during the Old War, when the Empire had sent two of their best to work with Kite.

This stranger’s not an Imperial upstart looking for a fight. He’s not nobility, and he’s definitely not from the army.

He’s so much more dangerous.

Much more interesting.

Gon pulls up and the white haired man nearly trips over his own feet. But when the inevitable attack doesn’t come, he stomps forward, eyes narrowed almost to slits. “Fight me!” he snarls.

“I know who you are!” Gon says with a grin.

The stranger freezes. “What?” he splutters. “No, but—How? No!”

“I do!” Gon says, and bounces with an energy he didn’t have before. “The way you fight, that cool thing where you move so fast there’s two of you? You’re a Zoldyck! You’re the emperor’s—”

Gon doesn’t get a chance to finish because the Padokea emperor’s assassin clobbers him across the face, and then he can’t really think about anything other than black.

Leorio’s standing over Gon when he wakes up. “I distinctly remember telling you, no fighting,” he says, replacing the damp rag on Gon’s forehead with another, cooler one. “You’re lucky the skin patch I put on this morning didn’t snap. Your collarbone’s already a mess without everything else.”

Gon tries to smile reassuringly around the throbbing in his shoulder. Leorio’s conveniently forgetting how he’d been cheering like the rest of them, but the medic had warned him. Gon doesn’t regret it, though. That was the best fight he’s had since before the war between the Empire and the Kingdom started. Maybe even since the Old War. “I’m fine, Leorio!”

The look he gets is sour enough to curdle milk. “I already gave you a draught for the swelling, so you’ll be back to normal by morning. The only reason I did was because you’ve got a parade, or I would’ve left you with the headache.”

Right. The peace parade. It’s almost enough for Gon to wish himself back to sleep, so he doesn’t have to worry about being in lines or following orders. Almost any other time, he and his troops could be anywhere else, but the enemy is in town, and if he doesn’t show up, he’ll get courtmarshalled at best.

Besides, there are other things to worry about.

“What about the fight?” Gon asks.

Leorio’s sour look turns to vinegar. “That white-haired asshole? He put you down with some underhanded thing while your guard was down. You did a number on him, at least. He’s got some nasty scars under the bruising. But he brought you all the way here from the tavern, so I guess he can’t be all bad.”

Gon nods slowly. Padokean Imperial assassins aren’t exactly known for civility in warfare. Then again, they aren’t really known for much of anything other than murder. The Zoldycks the left hand of the emperor, a man with no name who never leaves his throne and whose voice is never heard. They don’t have emotions other than duty and brutal efficiency.

But Zoldyck had wanted a fight for the sake of fighting someone who’d punch him back, and he’d loved it. There was no blankness, his emotions clear as bruises on his face.

And his eyes…

Leorio’s looking at Gon funny. “You know who he is?”

Gon doesn’t bother answering. The answer isn’t important. “Where did he go?”

“He was in the front area, but he left when you started waking up. I don’t know who he thinks he is, but—”

Gon hops out of bed, scooping his jacket back up from where it had been carefully laid on one of the chairs. “He only left a little while ago, right?”

That earns him a scowl. “You are not fighting him again, Gon, promise me!”

Gon completely ignores the warning. “Thanks, Leorio!” he says, and darts for the door before the medic can scramble out of his chair.

The city’s dark outside, and the air tastes like storms and refuse. There’s never enough light in this part of town, Leorio’s family clinic the only place with regular electricity in the whole area. Some people whisper the medic’s got underworld connections to keep his place safe even while he’s on duty with Kite Squad, and they’re not exactly wrong. But everyone knows that Leorio treats anyone, no matter what, so no one bothers him too much.

And just down the street, coat collar tucked up to his ears against the chill and white hair luminescent in the hazy lantern light, is Zoldyck.

Gon doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s a terrible idea to chase down the emperor’s assassin after having punched him in the face multiple times that night. And Zoldyck is a murderer. Gon’s a mercenary, a good one, so he also kills people. But he doesn’t kill just because someone tells him to. It’s why Kite trusted him to lead the squad, even if they’re supposed to be under the thumb of the king. It’s also why he’s been trusted in the stupid parade that should keep more people from dying in a useless, pointless war.

Maybe Zoldyck’s like that too. Why else would he have gone all the way down here, just for a fight?

There’s a flash of movement in the darkness, and Gon’s fingers close over Zoldyck’s wrist, narrowly preventing a blade the length of his forearm slicing open his throat. If there’d been any doubt that Zoldyck is one of the best assassins in the Empire, the smoothly brutal movement says more than any words. “What are you doing?” Zoldyck hisses.

“I never yielded,” Gon says.

“I knocked you out!”

“So I never yielded,” Gon says again slower, carefully enunciating his words to make sure that the assassin understands.

“You want to fight me here? Now?”

“Yes!”

Zoldyck’s eyes sharpen dangerously, gleaming with the same light as his blade. “You think you know who I am.”

“You’re the emperor’s assassin, of course I—”

“Keep your voice down!” Zoldyck hisses. “Or I will kill you and leave your body where no one can find it.”

If there hadn’t been a knife at his throat, Gon would have shrugged. “I don’t think so. Not with the peace parade tomorrow. If you had wanted to kill someone, you wouldn’t have been in the tavern beating up my men.”

The blade digs in enough to draw blood. “No one has to tell me to do anything,” the assassin growls.

“I’m not. Whatever you do, it’s up to you.” Gon presses firmly against the assassin’s wrist, using brute strength to shove the blade a few breaths away from his skin. Gon has good instincts about people, especially about people who smell like blood and danger, but it’s still a risk. Even more a risk to tilt his head back, grin wide and reckless. “I want to fight you. And you want to fight me. Right?”

Zoldyck stares at him as though trying to figure out if he’s serious. “I would, but the old t’vali you have for a medic made me promise not to fight anymore tonight,” he says.

“Leorio’s not that bad,” Gon demurs.

Zoldyck visibly tries to not laugh. “He told me not to let you fight, either.”

Gon takes back any defense he made of the medic. “That doesn’t mean we have to stop!”

Now Zoldyck is laughing, a burst of bright noise that the night fog can’t completely muffle. “You really are something else,” he says. He sheathes the blade that had been at Gon’s throat, tucking it back into the sleeve of his coat, and shoves his hands back into his pockets. “What’re you thinking? I’ve got all night.”

Gon steps back into the assassin’s space, close enough that he can feel the warmth of his skin. He tilts his head up a little to smile, and Zoldyck’s throat bobs. “I’m sure we can think of something,” Gon says.

Zoldyck doesn’t have any response to that, not at first. But a cold hand finds his, fingers digging into split knuckles. Zoldyck seems to be looking everywhere but him. “I have a…I’m only here for a little while, so I rented—” His cheeks color, and not from the chill. “There’s a boarding house near here. I have a room.”

Gon’s smile widens enough to hurt, and Zoldyck’s skin darkens further. “Do you want to go or not?” he demands.

“Let’s go,” Gon says, and lets himself be dragged off into the night.

“Don’t you want to know my name?” Gon asks.

Zoldyck doesn’t look at him when he replies. “You know enough about me.”

“But I’m—”

Now Zoldyck stops, so abruptly Gon nearly runs into his back. “No,” he says. The word is too biting for how tight he still holds onto Gon’s hand. “Not tonight. I can’t know.”

“Why not?”

They start walking again, ducking down an alley and around piles of trash that Zoldyck barely seems to notice. “If you tell me who you are, then I can’t run away.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

He laughs humorlessly. “Let me be ignorant for one night. Please.”

They stand in a small room in the boarding house, an arm’s length apart. Gon can see Zoldyck forcing his breath to stay steady, like he’s on the verge of jumping into a fight. And Zoldyck studies him with clear blue eyes, unaware or uncaring about the brightly colored bruise spread across his cheek.

It’s not like Gon hasn’t done this before, but it’s been awhile—being at war doesn’t help much for finding a good partner. He’s not that picky, no matter what Palm might think, but he doesn’t usually want to fuck anyone. Gon undoes the ties of his jacket, dumping it in a heap next to the lamp. The loose shirt he’d worn to the tavern goes next, tugged over his head swiftly and leaving him barechested to the chilly air. Zoldyck doesn’t move except to cross his arms, watching Gon with bright eyes that deliberately trace the muscles of Gon’s chest and arms. It’s like he’s trying to find a weak spot, somewhere he can dig in a knife and pull out Gon’s liver, or his lungs. And maybe he likes what he sees.

There’s no point in worrying about the risk now. Gon drops onto the chair, trying to unlace his boots. Someone—Leorio, probably—had tied the laces with tight knots, and Gon’s hands feel clumsy and useless against them. The bruises on his knuckles ache, and his fingers seem swollen. Normally he could kick his boots off in a pinch, but they’re so tight he’d probably twist his ankle.

After a few moments of struggling, Zoldyck sighs. “Let me,” he says, voice turning the suggestion into an order.

Gon frowns. “I can do it.”

Zoldyck stifles a laugh. “Evidently not,” he says, and gracefully kneels in front of Gon. His fingers are long and lean, but Gon can make out a collection of tiny scars across pale knuckles as he struggles against the laces. His forehead creases almost immediately. “What sort of idiot tied these?”

A rush of something warm and unfamiliar runs under Gon’s skin. This isn’t what he expected. Zoldyck is haughty and proud, and it’s easy to tell he hates losing. It’s why Gon continues to demand he yield, why he wants to peel back the layers to find the man he’d seen in the ring, the one with the reckless laugh and the star-filled eyes. But the sight of the emperor’s assassin at his feet, one of the most dangerous men in the whole world with his neck bared to a mercenary not in submission but trust…

“What do you want from me?” Gon asks.

The assassin smirks. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he says, eyes dragging across Gon’s bare chest and lower.

Gon’s cheeks heat up a little, and the smirk widens into a toothy grin. He leans a little closer and white bangs fall across his eyes, and Gon can’t help but reach down to touch.

The other man freezes.

Zoldyck’s hair is really soft, thick white curls tangled and matted by dirt and sweat but otherwise well cared for, strands fine and strong as silk. As Gon runs his fingers through it, the other man’s eyes flutter, even as his whole body goes tense, like he can’t decide if this is good or bad. Maybe no one has ever touched his hair like this. Touched him, as something other than a threat, for no reason other than wanting to touch.

Zoldyck opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out but a quiet groan. The sound skitters across Gon’s skin like an electric current, and he can’t help but smile. The assassin blushes bright red. “What are you doing?” he says. His voice is strangled and quiet, the words forced out by sheer force of will.

“You haven’t told me what you want.”

“I—” Gon finger-combs the unruly curls as he thinks, and is rewarded when the assassin leans into the touch. “Why do you want to know? You already know who I am.”

“I know what you do, but I don’t know you.”

“That doesn’t—” make sense, he starts to say, but Gon’s fingers snag on a particularly nasty knot at the nape of his neck, and his whole body seems to tremble. An echo shivers down Gon’s spine, like the anticipation before battle.

“You don’t want to know about me, and that’s okay, but I know I want to know more about you. I think we can be friends.” Gon should be surprised—even with the peace talks, Imperial assassins and royal mercenaries are supposed to be enemies. But there’s more to Zoldyck than his ability to kill. Gon’s seen glimpses of it so far, in his prowess in the ring as much as his confidence or the shadows in his eyes. And he wants more.

“Tell me what you want, Zoldyck. Please.”

There’s a long silence. When he finally speaks, his words are slow. But there’s a passion in them that’s bright enough to burn in Gon’s veins, the promise of a worthy fight. “I want tonight. For me. Not my—not the emperor, not the war, not some asinine power play with seventeen different steps I don’t learn about until it’s too late. This is for me.”

With a movement so fluid Gon almost misses it, Zoldyck slices through his bootstrings in two sharp cuts. Then Gon has a lapful of Zoldyck. The light of the moon illuminates the same look Gon had seen in Zoldyck’s eyes during the fight in the tavern, that strange exhaustion that doesn’t come from too many bouts in the ring or too many days without proper sleep. It’s in people who should have stopped fighting long ago. He’s seen it in his own mirror after the old war, when towns had started dying around him—when Kite died and he couldn’t do anything.

Most don’t manage to come out of that exhaustion alive. Sometimes, Gon’s not sure anyone does.

Zoldyck has, and he’s still fighting.

Without thinking about it, Gon reaches a hand to cradle Zoldyck’s jaw. Pale skin is warm against his palm, skin turning pink under Gon’s calloused fingers. The only sign of nerves is how his blue eyes flutter down to Gon’s mouth and back up again. But it only lasts a moment, and he meets Gon’s smile with a grin sharp and bright as flashfire.

Gon’s breath catches in his throat.

“If I yield, it’s because I want to,” he says. “And I want you to try to make me.”

Rather than say anything—words don’t really have enough to say, not now—Gon kisses him.

For all of Zoldyck’s confidence, his lips are hesitant against Gon’s, mouth soft and impossibly warm. Gon’s hand slips around to the back of his head, fingers tangling in the curly hair at the base of his neck. It would be so easy to stay like this, kiss slow and exploring. They only have the one night, but Gon has a feeling this is more important than trying anything more. There are rules to these sorts of things, but Gon doesn’t like rules that make him hold off on things he likes. And he likes getting to know Zoldyck, even if it’s just how he tastes and sounds.

Gon has a feeling that Zoldyck hasn’t had a chance to break rules for a long time.

When they pull apart to breathe, Zoldyck shifts closer, arms looping around the back of Gon’s neck. “This is nice,” he says, “but it’s not convincing me to yield to you.”

Gon raises his eyebrows. “I want to kiss you, though,” he says.

Zoldyck turns bright red, and the only reason he doesn’t leap away is because of Gon’s hand on his back keeping him stuck. “That’s not the point!”

“It is!” Gon tilts his head up, and the smile on his face makes the assassin’s eyes widen. “Or you can try to make me yield?”

Zoldyck growls low in his throat, and smashes his mouth against Gon’s. This time, the kiss isn’t slow or quiet. The assassin kisses him like he’s trying to start a fight, teeth and lips working in bruising force. It’s hard to find space to think under the assault, to wonder about wants and needs. So Gon doesn’t bother. His hand works itself under Zoldyck’s shirt and against warm smooth skin, kneading along the spine and lower. Zoldyck’s back arches and he moans, sharp enough that he breaks away from Gon to smother the noise.

Gon takes advantage of the space to unbutton what he can of Zoldyck’s shirt. The fabric creaks as he tugs at it, a few buttons going skittering across the floor. “Wait—” Zoldyck says.

Gon goes still and pulls his hands back. “Are you okay?”

“You’ll rip my shirt.”

“You did that to my boots!” Gon protests.

“I don’t have another shirt!” Before Gon can try to help, the assassin stands to take care of the rest himself. His torso is covered in bruises from their fight earlier, and the arm where he’s blocked Gon’s punch is a mottled collection of reds and purples. It must hurt, but he's never once mentioned it.

“You’re just as bad,” he says when he notices Gon’s stare.

“Good.”

Zoldyck barks a laugh. “You are so stupid.”

Rather than let Zoldyck keep talking, Gon surges forward, lips back on Zoldyck’s and hands grabbing at his hips. Zoldyck’s not that much taller, but it’s enough that he nearly trips as Gon guides him backwards, landing against the wall with a thud. He tries to squirm away, to switch their positions, anything to retake control. Before he has a chance, Gon shoves a knee between his legs, and he grinds down instinctively.

“Captain—” Zoldyck manages, voice tight.

That gets him a quick kiss, enough to distract from Gon undoing his belt and reaching into his trousers to pull out his cock. He’s already half-hard, Gon realizes, whether from the kissing or the sudden move to the wall. It doesn’t take much to wrap one hand around him, dragging a fist from base to tip and back again.

Zoldyck shudders and curses, fingernails digging into Gon’s shoulders hard enough to pierce skin. “You are infuriating,” he laughs, voice ragged. He’s barely been touched, and already…

“I can go slow?” Gon offers, and nibbles at the pale skin of the other man’s throat. There aren’t any scars here, just long stretches of smooth unblemished skin that tastes like salt and drink. Plenty of people must have tried to kill this man, but he’s never had a blade where Gon is marking with his teeth. That’s a thrilling thought, that no one but Gon has managed to get this close.

Zoldyck’s eyes flash viciously. “Don’t you dare,” he says in a tone that says he is used to being obeyed.

Gon slows anyways, moving as patiently as he can with the assassin squirming against him and groaning in his ear. It’s distracting, and Gon zeroes in until his whole world is focused on Zoldyck, forcing him to the edge but never letting him fall. Trapped between the wall and Gon’s body, long legs trembling with the effort of staying upright, he’s still the cocky fighter from the tavern, one who met Gon on equal footing and still wanted more, now struggling between Gon’s hand and the desire to fight back. It feels like he could break free at any moment, if Gon slips up even a little. But Gon won’t. Gon wants to win.

With one hand still setting a torturous pace, Gon uses his other to wrap one of the assassin’s leg around himself. The shift in position has Zoldyck’s curses become harder to understand, broken by gasps and a language Gon doesn’t know. He tenses, drawn like a strung bowstring, and precum spills over Gon’s hand. “F-fuck, I’m… t’valii, ank—”

Gon stops entirely.

Zoldyck whines, a wordless demand that goes straight to the base of Gon’s spine. He grins against the mess he’s made of the assassin’s pale neck, red marks just below where a collar would end, and pulls back to look into clouded eyes with pupils so blown his irises are darker than the night sky.

“Yield?” Gon asks cheerfully.

Zoldyck blinks slowly. “What?”

“Do you yield, Zoldyck?” Gon repeats. He gently massages the tense leg muscles, close enough to Zoldyck’s cock to tease without touching, just to see what will happen. The assassin tries to jump away, more instinct than conscious thought, but Gon has him stuck. Unable to move, his head falls back against the wall with a heavy thunk, trying to steady himself. He takes a deep breath and mutters something at the ceiling.

Gon looks up. “Zoldyck?”

The assassin drags his eyes off the ceiling to meet Gon’s, and something in them makes his heartbeat jump. “My name’s Killua.”

A smile spreads on Gon’s face. “Killua,” he says. The name melts on his tongue like spun sugar, and the assassin’s eyelids flutter shut again, his cheeks dusted with pink. “Will you yield?”

Killua’s eyes fly open. The moonlight turns them mercurial, daring Gon to pin them to a single emotion. “Make me.”

It’s goading. Gon knows it’s goading. Gon could last forever, or at least until Zoldyck breaks and gives in. But Gon likes a challenge, and Zoldyck—Killua is a challenge that Gon won’t resist.

It’s surprisingly difficult to lift Killua off the wall. He’s squirms like a wet cat, a curse falling off his mouth and aristocratic demands to be put down wholly ignored. Gon navigates the small room to toss the taller man onto the bed hard enough that his breath leaves him in a laughing gasp. Despite that, as he drops to the bed, Killua’s recovered enough to drag Gon down the last few inches, smashing their lips together. Gon responds with equal fervor as his hands run down Killua’s sides, tracing scars and bruises that criss-cross pale skin. By the time he reaches Killua’s waist, the other man has to break away from their kiss to groan desperately, hips thrusting against Gon’s in a way that makes his head spin.

Holding Killua to the bed with both his hands, Gon kisses his way down Killua’s body, starting with the marks he’d left around the collar and tracing scars and old wounds across his chest and abs. Occasionally he’ll nip at the pale skin beneath him, and Killua stifles the noises with his teeth, glaring at Gon like he wants them to get on with it. By the time Gon makes it back to Killua’s cock, the glare is palpable, weighing on the air like sunlight on a breezeless day.

Gon slides down to his knees, tugging Killua’s trousers further down his legs to expose strong, lean muscle and even more scars. It also brings his cock back into range of Gon’s mouth, hips trembling on the edge of the bed. Gon doesn’t hide a smirk as he leans forward, close enough that when he breathes too hard the assassin’s cock twitches and hits Gon in the nose.

Gon raises his eyebrows, and Killua turns bright red and drops back against the bedsheets. “Fuck you,” he mutters.

Gon wraps a hand around the base of his cock, and Killua can’t hold back a moan. “Only if you yield,” he says.

Killua starts to respond, but the words turn garbled as Gon runs his lips down Killua’s hipbone, following the ends of scars like tree roots that skirt across his side and down pale thighs. From there, he makes his way back up Killua’s inner thigh, free hand pressing the assassin against the bed and not letting him move. But before he reaches his goal, he pauses, leaning away just enough that he can feel the heat of Killua’s skin through the chilly air. “Do you—?”

Killua snarls around a moan and pushes up, or as much as he can with Gon pressing his lower half into the mattress. He glares, frustrated and tense. “Kaor, I want this, dammit, why can’t you—”

With Killua’s eyes locked on his, Gon licks up the underside of his cock. Whatever Killua had been saying turns into a garbled moan, words tripping over each other with every flick of Gon’s tongue. By the time he gets to the tip, it’s hard to tell if he’s saying much of anything. Rather than ask, Gon settles over the assassin’s hips and slowly lowers his mouth over Killua, teeth scratching gently at the sensitive skin. Almost immediately, Killua thrusts up into Gon’s mouth. His cock hits the back of Gon’s throat and he pulls off, coughing hard.

“Too much?” Killua says, cocksure grin not matching how hard his cock is.

“Not enough,” Gon says, and kisses him hard enough to wipe the smile off his face. Killua presses back, back arching until their chests are flush against each other. Gon would be happy to stay like this, fighting to stay on top with nothing more than their hands and mouths. But that isn’t the challenge here. He won’t win with that alone.

When he pulls back, Killua tries to chase him. But he shoves Killua back down with both his hands and swallows him in a single motion. The assassin’s response is immediate, noise loud enough that the people next door must hear it. Killua doesn’t seem to care, though, words growing in volume and incoherence as Gon sets into a rhythm.

“Don’t stop,” Killua manages, and his nails dig into Gon’s scalp sharp enough to draw blood. “Don’t fucking—”

It’s flattering that Killua doesn’t last long. The only warning Gon gets is a sudden groan before he’s spilling into Gon’s mouth in heady waves, orgasm loud and relentless. Gon swallows as much as he can, not wanting to choke again, and pulls off to work Killua through the rest of it. The assassin collapses against the bedding, chest rising and falling rapidly and eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

He didn’t yield, but Gon’s okay with that. They’ve got all night.

Gon makes quick work of cleaning the assassin off. His own arousal is easy to ignore as he runs a cloth over pale skin, careful to avoid as many of the bruises as he can. When he’s done, he curls an arm around Killua’s waist and presses a soft kiss to the skin beneath his ear. The assassin stretches languidly against him, almost like a cat.

“Can I tell you my name yet?” Gon asks.

There’s a long pause, and Gon wonders if that means Killua will leave. But when he moves, it’s only to kiss Gon as thoroughly as possible. “Not tonight,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“I am too.” It’s hard not to be disappointed. He still wants to know more about Killua Zoldyck—wants to fight him again, to see what he’s like outside of the ring. And he wants to do this again, whatever that means. Gon hadn’t lied earlier: Killua is interesting, and Gon does think they could be friends.

If Killua doesn’t want to, though, then it’s not Gon’s choice to make. Not tonight. Gon had promised.

“But I can make it up to you.”

Killua crawls down the bed, fingernails tracing a line of fire from collarbone to crotch. When he hits Gon’s belt, he goes to work, nimble hands making quick work of the buckle. As he does, he mouths at Gon’s neck, teeth nipping at bruised skin. A strangled moan makes its way out of Gon’s throat before he recognizes what it is. “Killua, what—”

Night blue eyes peer at him through white bangs, and Killua grins. “I said, fuck you. You said yes.”

Gon’s eyebrows rise. “If you yield.”

A blush stains Killua’s cheeks, but he doesn’t look away. “You heard me,” he says. Before Gon can really consider what that means, Killua straddles his hips, an expectant look on his face. “So?”

Gon reaches up, a hand on either side of Killua’s face. The assassin’s blue eyes glow with challenge. “Fuck yes,” Gon says, and kisses him in case his yes wasn’t loud enough.

Gon wakes slowly before the sun rises. The room’s cold in the pre-dawn, but the bed’s much softer than the ground had been on march. Or even the rickety thing offered him in the officer’s barracks, a tiny room with barely enough room for his boots and a small sink. It’s even warm, the quilt thick enough to burrow into. An arm drapes across Gon’s chest, connected to a warm body that sprawls across the bed, even the parts Gon’s taken for himself.

The most feared assassin in the Empire snores. Quiet, not like Leorio, who snores like an angry bear crashing through the forest, but little huffs of noise as his chest rises and falls. Gon thinks it’s cute.

Killua’s cute. Little huffing snores, messy white curls, taking too much of the bed—all of it.

The first glimmers of dawn creak through the city, a reminder that Gon has to leave and is probably going to have to sprint back to the barracks. He has to be back before Zushi notices he’s gone, or Palm asks what happened to the asshole who’d beaten everyone to a pulp. Everyone including Gon, which should be a problem but Gon doesn’t care. Killua is worth it.

He’s pulling his trousers back on, contemplating how he’s going to explain the sliced laces of his boots to the quartermaster, when a warm body leans against him, forehead heavy on his shoulder. “’s early,” Killua says, sleep slurring his voice. “Come back t’sleep.”

Gon smiles. He wants to, so much it throbs like a second heart inside his chest. It would be so easy to curl up next to Killua again, bed warm and body warmer. But he has other things he wants, too. “I have to go.”

Blue eyes glance up at him, blurry with exhaustion but still haughty, like he expects the world to turn because he orders its movement. “Stay,” he says. A pale hand runs across Gon’s bare stomach, tracing an old scar across his hip and down. “We have all morning. I’ll make them wait.”

Gon has a sudden, vivid image of half the peace parade abruptly slaughtered by a white shadow, blade slicing through throats or ripping out hearts. It’s surprisingly touching. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

But before Gon can go back to his boots, a firm hand takes him by the jaw and turns him back. Even by morning light, Killua’s eyes are blue as the night sky, full of stars. “You’re not leaving,” he says, and he leans in close. “Not without this.”

Without the frantic buzz of sex and fighting, Killua’s lips are soft and pliant, parted just enough to taste. Gon can’t help but fall into it, until it’s hard to remember anything other than the nails digging into his skin and the sweat-drenched smell of Killua’s hair. He lets out a hum of pleasure, and he can feel the way Killua’s lips turn up in a smile. It echoes everything Gon had felt the night before, lost beneath the challenge of winning. Killua kisses him like this is their last chance, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do everything he can to make this a good one.

When they separate, Killua is still smiling, but it’s a sad smile, one built on far too much loss for one person. “Alright,” he says, and drops back into the blankets. “Have a good morning, Captain.”

Gon decides he wants this again. He wants to know why Killua looks like he does, with the same exhaustion and the same determination.

“My name’s Gon.”

“Captain—” Killua starts, but the glee lighting up his eyes says otherwise.

“It's morning,” he says. “I'm Gon Freecss. Of Kite Squadron. The Royal 405th Regiment hired us as a frontline strike force, and we’re staying in the city barracks for the next month and a half until the peace talks are done. Come see me.”

He can see Killua formulate protests, a thousand thoughts passing behind blue eyes. It was one thing to know Gon’s a Captain, that he’ll be in the parade today. Practically everyone in the the city will be there. But Kite Squad has a reputation, and it’s not limited to the occasional assassination attempt. Telling an Imperial assassin who he is and where he’ll be amounts to treachery, not just to the Kingdom but to his people. And then whatever the reason it is Killua didn’t want to know…

Gon doesn’t care. He has a feeling this is right.

He wants to see Killua again.

Killua grins viciously. “Gon,"  he says, and Gon knows he doesn’t care either. “I’ll find you again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

It’s inevitable that Leorio knows his instructions weren’t so much ignored as deliberately not followed. He corners Gon while he tries to bargain a new pair of bootlaces out of the quartermaster before breakfast, a challenge even when the squad medic isn't loudly yelling about proper injury treatment. Thankfully, it doesn't look like he or anyone else notices Gon wasn't around the whole night. The rest of the squad is just as wiped out, especially Pokkle (who never recovered from his fight with Killua) and Palm and Spinner (who apparently got into a drinking contest after Gon left). When Gon checks on Zushi, his second in command is only sitting upright by sheer willpower (and a hefty dose of Leorio’s draughts), so Gon doesn’t have to explain anything about Killua.

The general in charge of the 405th Regiment and the other militia gets them all lined up and paraded out to the city center precisely on time, and Kite Squad takes its spot in the honor guard with Gon at the head. Leorio takes Zushi’s place, because willpower isn’t enough to let the man march from the barracks. The whole city is as clean as it's ever been, avenues cleared and decorated with flags from both the Kingdom of Saherta and the Padokean Empire.

With everyone in their uniforms and Gon stuffed into the black and gold formalwear of Royal mercenary captains (and new shoelaces) they manage to make the march to the city’s center without anyone throwing up or falling out of line. They don’t actually have much to do either, just stand and look important until the nobility and Imperial snobs finish their speeches. Gon doesn’t pay attention. Nothing they say here has much to do with his day-to-day, unless they specifically call out Kite Squadron or the 405th. Even then, it would be up to Gon if he wants to lead his people anywhere.

The nobility finishes their speeches, and the Duke (maybe it’s a Duke? A Prince? Gon doesn’t understand the need for so many ranks for people who didn’t do anything to earn them) motions for the Imperial representatives to step forward. “We have today, for the first time, members of the Padokean Imperial Family,” the duke-prince says. “As part of the peace agreements, the Emperor has sent two of his own blood.”

Everyone in both armies seems to stand at brighter attention. Gon can hear whispers in the ranks—the Imperial Family never leaves their palace, let alone Padokea. Pokkle’s muttering how this has to be a joke, a prank by the Empire. But Gon doesn’t think so.

“A sign of the degree to which we wish for our two countries to work together,” a man with long black hair and empty black eyes says. He wears a pristine white uniform with strange metal signage. “Our Imperial Father has deemed myself to serve as advisor and spokesperson.”

The duke-prince-noble gives a loud and fake laugh. “And then who is this?”

The Emperor’s son gives a smile too wide for his face. “This is Our Heir to the Padokean Empire.”

The other man steps forward, dressed in an identical white uniform, save for a gilded sword on his belt. His formal cap is tucked under his arm, making it all too easy to see white hair slicked back from a pale face, icy blue eyes staring out across the crowd. He looks so different from the man Gon had fought last night, or the one he’d kissed this morning, whose laughter still echoed in his heart. There’s no emotion in his face, even the exhaustion. Nothing except empty duty.

“Captain,” Leorio hisses. “Gon.”

He shrugs rather than take his eyes off of Killua, a white shadow next to the dark-haired man speaking in monotone about peace and prosperity. “Yeah?”

“Did you know you were fighting the heir to the Padokean throne last night?”

Gon shrugs again. “I thought he was only an Imperial assassin.”

“You punched a Padokean assassin in the face!” Leorio looks like he's about to explode, his voice approaching high enough pitch to carry. "They don't leave anyone alive!"

Gon steps out of line long enough to poke the medic in the side until he returns to a very antsy parade rest. No one else seems to care. “It's okay, Leorio. Besides, Zushi fought him too.”

But Zushi didn’t win. He didn’t even come close. Gon’s the one who got Killua Zoldyck, Imperial assassin, heir to the Padokean Empire, to yield.

Maybe.

Killua never actually said if he yielded. And he’d been right, Gon was the one who got knocked out during the fight.

But last night…

Gon looks back up to the dais, and meets Killua’s eyes. For a moment, he stays as blank as the black haired man at his side. But when he sees Gon watching him, the edges of his lips turn up in the smallest possible grin.

Gon cannot wait to fight him again.