My (scrapped) 200-word ending for canary in a coal mine. I would share more of it, but then it gives too much away ehehe
Not *technically* spoilers because it’s not gonna happen? But I guess there’s some implications there idk
“Love was never in our cards.” Illumi said, onyx eyes almost brown in sunlight. He turned to his little brother with an unflinching determination. “You knew this, Killua.”
Killua swallowed back everything he wanted to scream. Why not? Why couldn’t it? Was it so wrong to want Gon, to want him every way that mattered, in every way Gon once promised him?
He wanted stupid mornings spent lazing around in bed, rolling and cuddling and horribly stinky morning kisses. He wanted to pass out bread to the people of Twelve and go to the markets to look for chocolate. He wanted to learn more Twelve recipes and spent evenings together cleaning up their experiments. He wanted sundown chats on the patio, old and wrinkly but hands tightly held as they rocked back and forth, back and forth on stupid fucking rocking chairs.
That was supposed to be his life, wasn’t it? Didn’t he deserve it, after all the blood, tears, the war, the vomit, the deaths, the roses, all of it. Didn’t he deserve a happy ending too?
“I wish it was, Killua.” Illumi murmured. “I wish love was in your cards.”
He wondered if Retz would get those mornings, those afternoons, those evenings. If Gon found her a pretty stone in the mines and asked her to be his wife in their garden of weeds and tomatoes.
“Let’s go home.” Killua said tiredly.
This was literally how I wanted to end it. Killua saying “let’s go home” and I’m gonna definitely still weave that in somehow because I had imagined this for a very long time, but I promise the real ending will be a happy one if I can force myself to write it haha
A long time ago I had a fic in the work about this concept and felt inspired to draw it. It was called “THE CATCH” and honestly I MAY have to go back and write it again…
Hey so I KNOW I made that poll and most of you want me to write the entire book first then post but icl… college WILL be kicking my ass soon with jobs and internships and clubs and ACTUAL school… ugh. No time to write… can imagine I won’t be doing any hobbies for the next couple months. BUT I do have 18k of words written and the ending point is actually a pretty solid place to stop without cliff hanger, so I can at least give u guys that. So hey um first chapter dropping sometime today or tomorrow!!! 💕
Hopefully 4 weeks gives me the time to write more too so you aren’t left waiting a lot haha mwah mwah love u guys
Release chapters every week after completing the entire book
Release chapters as I finish them (very spontaneous, no set completion date.)
Voting ended onJan 26
Pros and cons of both:
1. Pro: That way you guys can have a structured schedule for posting and know when to expect a chapter. Con: this will take a significantly longer time to release.
2. Pro: get chapters immediately when finished, getting content much faster. Con: would be infrequent and could go periods of time without posting
Guys I just realized tumblr has a follower count and WOW I didnt realize there were so many of u!! Gotta do a thank you or something, any drawing or short fics etc. reqs send them my way!!! Love u guys wowie 🥹🥹🥹🫶🫶🫶 I will try to be more active with drawings again SIGH
Hi! Sorry no fan-art this time, but for those who care here is the sneak-peak/first bit/prologue ish to my next work following fish out of water! Will not spoil the title yet 🙈
Don’t read if you don’t want any early teasers 🫶
Killua collected the frost on the tips of his nails, etching squiggly lines into the long windows that spanned his room. The air was cold and dry today, leaving icicles dangling from the roof and a light snow dusting the grass grey.
Everything seemed that way, these days. The pages he read from, the sheets of his bed, his own, tired eyes and ashy cheeks.
Winter was never his favorite season. It often got too cold in District One to go out; he had nowhere to hide except his room. But even that was too small, too closed off to escape from that awful feeling.
After six long months, Killua finally put a name to the sensation: dread.
He dreaded a lot of things: going into town, going to breakfast, going to lunch, going to dinner, going out of his room, calculated footsteps, long hair, Killu, cameras, planes, trains, fruit, snow, winter.
Winter marked halfway from July 4th. Halfway from July 4th meant bad things. Another reminder from the Capitol, more photos, videos, interviews, faces, eyes looking at him. He couldn’t even stomach the words to say it out loud.
He used to resent his brother for the way he changed. He detested the Capitol for making him that way—for stripping Illumi of his smiles and his jokes and his hair ruffles and everything that made Illumi his Big Brother.
But how could he now? After going through it himself, everything was so grey. He understood it now. The Games took away color.
“Brother?”
Killua snapped out of it quickly, looking away from the frost and back to the warmth waiting at the threshold.
Right, there were a couple things he didn’t dread. He liked weighted blankets, and the hot cocoa left at his door occasionally, and especially
Alluka leaned against his doorframe, her crystalline eyes reflecting sunny ocean waves and sweet wild blueberries. She gave a gentle smile before crossing over to him, sitting beside him at the window. “What’s on your mind, Big Brother?”
Killua sighed, returning her smile with a weak one as well. “You know.”
Her gaze softened as she reached for his hand and squeezed. “It isn’t for another week. You have a bit more time.”
No time would ever be enough, he thought distantly. He sighed again. “I know.”
“You’ll get to see him again too.”
“I know.”
“That’s something to be excited about,” Alluka insisted. “I’m sure he’s excited to see you.”
Killua thought back to the last time he saw Gon, getting on their respective trains while the rest of the world photographed it. Bright white flashes in their faces, laughter and talk behind the barricade. No privacy for goodbyes. Of course they couldn’t have that either.
So what? We’re not a couple, Killua told himself. Their relationship belonged to the public; each kiss was for a camera, each smile and whisper was meant to be speculated about, every promise to each other was an affirmation to the people.
He did it for survival. He had to act like a lovesick fool, that’s what the people wanted. How else would he have survived a broken hand and a stab wound? How else would he get a blanket if he didn’t act like he was freezing, or new sets of clothes if he didn’t cuddle up against Gon late at night? They wanted a coldblooded killer turned soft, a boy with everything on the line to give it up for another who had nothing.
He kissed Gon because that meant living. That was it.
“Yeah, I guess.” Killua said.
Alluka looked saddened by his bleak response, but he couldn’t bring himself to say more.
“He’s gonna be really sad if you’re not happy to see him,” She said softly.
“You haven’t even met him yet,” Killua shot back, giving her a look. “You talk about him like you already know him personally.”
“Well, he wasn’t exactly a closed-book during the Games,” Alluka recalled with a twinkle in her eyes. She cleared her throat and deepened her voice: “Oh Killua, I don’t want to win if it means losing you! Killua—”
Killua scowled, cheeks warming against his will. He shoved her away by her cheek. “I already told you to quit doing that!”
Alluka laughed louder, unable to stop. She latched onto his shirt as she howled loudly, slapping his shoulder and collapsing against him in a fit of snorts and giggles. Killua grumbled curses under his breath as she wiped away happy tears.
“Ah,” She giggled, “It doesn’t get old.”
“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Killua groaned, finally standing. He glanced back at the frosty outdoors, the light snow falling down. Alluka’s gaze followed his.
The Parade started in a week. Seven days exactly. Canary would come in six. Gon would come in three. He didn’t know if was ready to face any of them yet.
And even after that. Was he ready to face what’s after? He didn’t want to think about it. He really, really, didn’t want to think about it.
He preferred this little snowglobe he’d made for himself. Quiet, isolated, but peaceful. Some could see it as being trapped in a bubble, but Killua saw it as protection from the outside.
He didn’t have to think about who was watching him from a screen, or what type of smile he should be doing for the occasion. Should he act smooth and charming? Cute and naive? Cold and ruthless? Ugh. It was too much of a pain to think about.
“I think Dad bought that cocoa powder today,” Alluka nudged him gently, trying to lift his spirits. Ah, was he drifting again?
“Oh,” Killua said, trying to sound interested. “That’s good. We should have some tonight.”
Alluka brightened. “I’ll make it extra sweet.”
He almost smiled. The expression tugged at the corner of his mouth before he caught it and swallowed it back down. Sweet things tasted strange nowadays, like guilt coating his tongue.
Alluka straightened and tugged at his sleeve. “C’mon. Dinner’s soon. Mom keeps asking where you are.”
Killua groaned internally. Of course she did. While he loved his mother to some extent, her constant coddling was getting to him. “Let her ask,” he muttered.
“Killua,” Alluka said gently.
That was enough.
He let out a soft sigh and pushed himself to his feet. His body felt heavy and sluggish as he stood. He brushed his fingers against the frost he’d smeared onto the window, then turned away from the world of icicles and grey and stepped out his room.
Alluka took the lead, walking a few steps ahead of him. Killua followed, hands stuffed into the sleeves of his sweater. The hallway was warm but too dim, golden lights flickering in the old sconces lining the walls. Shadows stretched long across the carpet, swallowing his footsteps.
He heard the rest of his family before he saw them. Milluki and Mom were fighting about something rather loudly in the kitchen, pans and pots clinking obnoxiously. Kalluto was rocking back and forth in his chair at the dining table, waiting to be served like the spoiled little brat he was. Killua waved briefly before sitting across from him next to Alluka.
“MOM!” Milluki yelled, “ Why can’t Kil or Alu do the dishes?! They’re not fucking babies! I did them yesterday!”
“And you’ll do them today too!” Kikyo yelled back. “And don’t you dare curse at your mother!”
Milluki and Kikyo’s shouting continued, clattering in Killua’s skull like loose screws in a tin can. He groaned softly and pressed harder into the table, wishing he could melt straight through it.
“All of you are giving me a headache,” he muttered into the wood.
Kalluto glanced up from his slow rocking, eyes sharp. “You should rest more if you’re so fatigued, Brother. You’ve been very… delicate lately.”
“Don’t start,” Killua said without lifting his head.
“Delicate is not an insult,” Kalluto sniffed. “Just an observation. You get snappy when you’re nervous.”
Killua’s stomach tensed at the word. Nervous. Dread. He couldn’t deny that part.
Before he could fire back, the kitchen door swung open. Kikyo marched in with an apron dusted in flour and a wooden spoon clenched like a weapon, Milluki dragging behind her like a sulking mastiff.
“Oh, Killu! There you are.” Kikyo beamed, her smile a little too bright, a little too stretched. “I was beginning to worry you’d locked yourself away again.”
“I was in my room,” Killua sassed. “Not dead.”
“All the same,” she said, fussing with his hair, “it’s important that you’re present. With what limited time we have left with you, we should be spending it as a family.”
Killua stiffened. Alluka’s hand found his under the table and squeezed once.
The door at the far end of the dining room slid open quietly. Illumi entered. Killua sat up instinctively, tension zipping down his spine.
His eldest brother’s gaze swept the room, lingering on Killua just a second too long before he took his seat beside Silva, who had just appeared behind him. Their father placed a heavy hand on Illumi’s shoulder and then moved to the head of the table.
“Kil,” he greeted. “Glad to see you rejoining the family.”
Killua slouched deeper into his seat. Why did everyone in this godforsaken family have it out for him? They treated him like he was some sort of hermit. That wasn’t true.
Silva spoke their dinner prayer, droning on about something Killua couldn’t bother to listen to. His eyes stayed glued to the table. They said “amen” and lifted their utensils.
At the very least, Kikyo’s food wasn’t half bad. Mom could be a b-word from time-to-time-to-time-to-time, but she was consistently a good chef. He stabbed the ham slice straight in the center with his fork, chomping down obnoxiously. Sweet, with some sort of pineapple sauce.
“So, Kil,” Kikyo said, ruining the peace. “Tell us more about Gon. What type of food does he like?”
Killua grimaced, spitting as he spoke, “I don’t know Mom. We ate what we could.” He pondered longer, thinking back. “...he mentioned he liked miso, maybe. He doesn’t like sweet stuff much.”
Kikyo hummed, tapping her long nails against the table. “Then a traditional One meal would be a nice welcome, no? It’s settled!”
Killua barely made a sound of agreement, too busy eating. It was important to him to shovel as much food in his mouth before another family member ruined the peace.
“Killu,” Illumi said. Fuuuuuuuuuck. “You haven’t started packing yet.”
“I will, I will.” Killua muttered, poking at his broccoli. “I have a week.”
“Less than,” His older brother remarked. “If you take into account the time spent hosting and mock-interviewing.”
“Leave him be, Illumi.” Silva said gruffly. He turned to his middle-child. “Killua, he’s right to an extent. You can’t keep up this moping. You’re not in the clear yet.”
Killua placed his fork down, swallowing the last bit of broccoli stuck to his teeth. He glanced up at his father with a partial glare. “I know, Dad. I’m not stupid.”
“I never called you that,” Silva replied. “The problem is—as it always is—you’re letting your emotions get the better of you.”
Killua gritted his teeth. “I’m not.”
Illumi and Silva exchanged a glance in a way that made Killua want to foam at the mouth.
He pushed out of his seat, standing up abruptly with his plate.
“Kil!” Kikyo cried, reaching out to stop him. “You barely ate!”
Alluka gave him a worried glance, but he paid no mind as he trudged back to the kitchen to put his plate in the sink.
Emotions getting the better of him. Like hell they were. He scrubbed at his dish with a quiet fury, letting the almost-scalding water pinken the sides of his hands. He placed his plate in the dishwasher carelessly before taking the other exit out back to the hallway.
He thought maybe, maybe his father and brother might understand. Hey, we all went through a traumatic life event where we all killed at least nine innocent kids, how cool is that?
Yeah, but maybe Killua was the only one that felt bad about it.
Killua was back in his room before his mind could catch up, legs collapsing as the back of his knees hit the bed. He fell back into his plush bed, staring at the constellations of cracks on the ceiling.
Life was going to look much different come next week. He slapped his arm over his eyes and begged sleep would be kinder.
I totally forgot about tumblr, I haven’t posted here in a long time. I’m sorry guys, I’ve been busy lol. I haven’t done much fan art lately because I’ve been focused on a different form of content!
I wanted to come on here and (shamelessly) promote the fanfic I’ve been working on LOL. It’s been in the works since last year, so I’m super excited to finally be posting it. It’s a hunger games x hxh story where Gon volunteers for the Games. Gon volunteers from 12 while Killua gets reaped from 1. It’s entirely in Gon’s POV.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I personally think I’ve done a good job— I’m not a big Hunger Games fan (haven’t even watched the latest movie yet 💔), but I love the concept and I watched the movies like, 2 years ago and remember really liking them soooo. I had to do a lot of research to make sure it was semi-accurate. I’m very proud of it, though! I post 1-2 per week, and my goal is to finish before I leave for college. Thanks in advance if you give it a read! ❤️
Hi! This isn’t my usual form of media, but it’s a fan account no less so!! I will post anything and everything that is hxh!! I wrote a very quick, retrospective fanfic about Gon. It can be read through a romantic or platonic lens, but it’s arguably more platonic in my opinion. I might post it to ao3 for funsies, but I’m doing it here first! (I have no idea how to format this on tumblr…) Excuse typos or missed italics, I’m too lazy to double check.
“Eurydice”
No matter how fast Killua runs, he’s always one step behind Gon—until one day, he isn’t there at all.
Gon could never know Killua was behind him. He knew Killua would be, because—it’s Killua. Killua always followed him.
But belief isn’t proof. And technically, there was no way to be sure. Not without turning around. Killua’s footsteps were too soft for certainty—quieter than wind, lighter than breath, stealthy even when there was no need to hide. So quiet, Gon’s trained ear sometimes mistook him for a ghost.
He never asked about that. It was a strange habit of Killua’s, one he didn’t quite understand: always walking behind, never beside. He’d wondered why—but never asked. Killua was skittish, flighty; that was the kind of question he’d either dodge or lie about.
Still, it gave Gon a strange sense of pride. Or something close to it. Maybe that’s not the right word, not the right emotion—but he’s never been good with those, anyway. Still, yes: pride.
If he walked through the pits of hell—through fire, through ice—he didn’t need to look behind him to know Killua would be there. He had no anxieties, no doubts, no qualms. Because Killua was loyal like that. Too loyal. It had always taken so little for Killua to give so much of himself.
But looking back, all those years ago, maybe he should’ve turned around anyways.
He doesn’t remember the last thing Killua said to him. Not even the things he said in their last goodbye—because the World Tree was right there, and Ging was right there. Their final moment slipped by without being marked. No grand goodbye. No dramatic slam of the door. Just…
Gone.
He finds himself nineteen now, sprawled across his childhood bed. Legs tan and long and useless, toes grazing the floor, eyes chasing the constellations cracked into the ceiling paint. Wondering what happened.
It wasn’t always like that. They used to talk in a language only they understood—half-sentences, quiet snickers, stolen glances, sharp exhales. Gon used to think that kind of understanding was permanent. Like breathing. Like blood.
But maybe Killua was always a little out of reach. Maybe he couldn't see that, back then. Even now, he tells himself it must’ve been something else that pulled Killua away. Some trick of fate. Some external thing he couldn’t control.
Because the alternative is worse. If that wasn’t it, then Killua must’ve left because of him.
So he rewrites it, just a little. Tells himself stories in his head—little ones, harmless ones. Killua was always stubborn. And sensitive. Always took things too personally. Always ran when things got hard.
And Gon… Gon was just trying to stay focused. Stay strong. He didn’t have the luxury of falling apart when Kite died. Someone had to keep moving. Someone had to fight.
He remembers thinking Killua didn’t understand that. He said something, too. Something sharp, ugly. But not that bad.
Gon tries to picture the moment, the way Killua’s face fell. But the memory’s hazy, or maybe he’s making it up all on his own. He wants to believe Killua didn’t cry—not in front of him, at least. If Killua had needed him, really needed him, he would’ve said something.
(But maybe he did. Maybe Gon just didn’t hear it. Or didn’t want to.)
The thing is, Gon knows that’s where it all started to rot—right there in the heat and blood of the Chimera Ants. When Killua stayed, and stayed, and stayed, Gon kept slipping further away. He’s positive that’s where it must’ve changed. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But soft and subtle. Like footsteps fading behind him.
Still, what was he supposed to do? Kite died. Kite died. Gon couldn’t prioritize their friendship in the frenzy of the war. He had to beat Knuckle, find Pitou, and save Kite. But then the throne room happened.
That moment—fixed in amber in his mind—Pitou kneeling over Komugi, whispering things Gon didn’t care to hear. He remembers the sick heat in his blood, the way it roared in his ears. Everything else—Killua’s voice, the warnings, the silence—was muffled by the pulse pounding in his skull.
He hadn’t even looked at Killua.
Because this wasn’t about him. This wasn’t about them. It was about Kite. About holding someone accountable before the guilt swallowed him whole. He needed something to crush, something to hate, something to hurt.
Pitou had bowed their head. Asked for time. Begged for patience.
Gon had none left.
He was shaking. Not from fear, but from fury. It had no name, but it crackled through his bones like lightning. He remembers staring at Pitou’s hands and thinking they were too gentle. Too careful. How dare they be gentle. How dare they touch someone like that, like they understood care, like they could save anything after what they’d taken.
Komugi’s breathing had been shallow. He remembers that now, maybe. Or perhaps he’s adding that in—he doesn’t know anymore. All he knew then was that Pitou wanted him to wait a whole hour and Gon was half a second away from crushing the girl’s skull in.
And Killua—
He was right there behind him, like always. Killua had said something. He can’t remember at all what his best friend said, but the cadence of his voice was quick, panicked, and desperate.
Gon didn’t listen.
Not because he didn’t want to, but because it didn’t matter. Nothing could’ve mattered in that moment except what he felt. The fury, the betrayal, the hole inside his chest he needed to fill with revenge.
He remembers thinking, Why can’t Killua see that? Why is he trying to stop me?
He can’t recall what exactly he said in response. Only that whatever it was made Killua go quiet.
Gon can pinpoint this as one of those times. A moment when Gon thought Killua was still there. Like always. Silent, trailing just behind. Maybe hurt. Maybe angry. But there.
Killua’s footsteps were maddeningly soft. Softer than a whisper, softer than the space between syllables. There had been times Gon had turned around, expecting him, and found nothing. A surprise. And then—like magic, Killua would appear, having trailed him the whole time, popping around a corner or appearing beside him with a grin.
That was loyalty, right? That was devotion. That was Killua.
So he didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to.
Even when Killua went quiet, even when he didn’t hear him move, Gon believed with all his heart that Killua was still there. Behind him. Waiting. Watching. Following. He had no reason to doubt it. Because Killua always stayed, even when he shouldn’t have. Through pain, through fear, through every impossible, selfish choice Gon made—Killua was there.
So Gon hadn’t noticed his absence. Not right away. Not when the room felt like it was collapsing under the weight of his grief, not when Pitou was kneeling and pleading and lying, not when he was burning with something so dangerous it felt like it might split him in two. He had no room for noticing anything but himself in that moment.
Not the quiver in Killua’s voice, nor the raw, desperate way he had said Gon’s name, as if it was the last time he’d ever speak it. Nor the quiet way he disappeared.
Gon had a goal. He had something important to do. Something that mattered more than feelings, more than consequences, more than the people trying to hold him back.
So he tells himself Killua was there.
That he stayed, like always. Waiting. Watching. Following.
That Gon didn’t turn around because he didn’t have to.
There are many days Gon thinks about “turning around.”
Not literally, of course. It’s not like Killua’s behind him now, just waiting to be seen. This isn’t a fairytale. It’s not a myth. There’s no trick of the gods, no cosmic riddle he can outsmart. Just time, and distance, and everything Gon refused to face when it would’ve mattered. But the urge is there.
To reach out. And apologize.
I’m sorry Killua, he would say, and he would mean it. I was so angry, I shouldn’t have pushed you away when we needed each other the most.
But then what? What if Killua says he doesn’t want to hear it? What if he says Gon’s too late? What if he says nothing at all?
It’s easier to live inside the story where Killua already forgave him. Where he understood that Gon was hurting, too. Gon had to make those choices. The pain justified the damage, or at least explained it.
Sometimes Gon imagines Killua walking just a little behind him even now—still quiet, still gentle, still loyal in his own strange, stubborn way. He imagines him there in the corner of his vision, just out of reach, and tells himself he doesn’t turn around because he doesn’t need to. Because Killua will catch up, like he always did.
But sometimes, late at night, when Gon’s too tired to lie to himself, he wonders if he didn’t turn around that day because deep down, he knew.
When he did, Killua wouldn’t be there. And that would be worse than anything else. Worse than any type of guilt or regret.
Because it would be final. It would mean that when he needed Killua most, he didn’t ask. And when Killua needed him, he didn’t listen.
And finally, when the time came to prove he saw him—not just as a shadow trailing after him, but as a person, as a boy, as Killua—he looked the other way.
So maybe he keeps walking forward, chin up, heart heavy, not because he’s brave—
Because if he doesn’t look back, if he keeps his eyes forward, towards his next adventure, next goal, next dream, Killua is still there behind him; waiting, watching, and following.
🤪🤪😋😋😝😝😝😁😁😁😁 the end!!! if u made it this far thank u for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed it ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
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