shit fuck ahahaaha I'm not good at prompts and I don't know exactly how to write a prompt but I have an idea??? Lol idk if it's just like a line, or a quote, or something else but I'm just gonna say my idea (sorry for the rambling): Years after Gon and Killua parted ways, Killua went back to the family business (for whatever reason he had), and Gon sees Killua on a job
OOF GOING STRAIGHT FOR MY HEART, OW.
In retrospect, attending the Hunter Association’s yearly dinner was a mistake, but Leorio had begged and pleaded for Gon to go with him, to be his ‘wingman’ so to speak. As if Kurapika would jump at any chance to kiss the gangling doctor already. But he’d sighed and agreed to help Leorio preside over the whole nonsensical thing.
He played nice all night, shaking hands with all the rich people and greasy politicians that pretended to give the Hunter Association their approval. Leorio was very proud of him, as was Kurapika.
It was like they’d forgotten that his twenty-fifth birthday was rapidly approaching or something. Ugh.
But other than the sheer monotony of keeping up a polite façade the whole time, the evening was dull enough. The food was good, the hired musicians skilled, and Leorio and Cheadle’s speech was full of fluffy words that meant nothing in the long run. It was all just a formality to keep everything running the way it was supposed to be running. Smooth, with full treasuries, and minimal government interference. The prime minister came up and shook Cheadle’s hand, all fake smiles.
And then lightning flashed in the back corner of the room, a lightbulb breaking, the power flickering off for a single heartbeat.
At first Gon didn’t think anything of it. And then the man’s body sagged, the prime minister dropping like a stone off the edge of the stage, chest torn bloodlessly open in less time than it took to blink. Gon shot to his feet, inhaling deeply enough to smell ozone.
He looked up. There was a man at the back of the room, tall and pretty, wearing a crisp black suit with a rose pinned in the lapel, the only hint of color on his attire. White hair fell across his forehead, the familiar cowlick puffing the white curls out, and eyes like the unforgiving deep blue of unmelted glaciers of sea ice.
But the words died on his lips, and the rose fell to the ground, leaving stains of blood on the tile.
And Gon, for the first time since he was young and broken and fourteen, had something worth chasing again.
