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Killing people used to be Killua’s favorite thing.
He used to like it because it earned him praise, and then, once he got older, because it got him away from home and his family. Completing missions gave him the chance to experience the normal world where normal people lived.
Killua used to wonder how it would feel to be a normal kid, like the kind he sometimes saw when he was traveling for a job. They laughed and teased each other and played games and gave each other hugs. A part of Killua wished for that, for friendship, and a part of him looked down on them. He couldn’t ever stop himself from trying to imagine what that would be like, even though he couldn’t imagine.
Killua had found a new favorite thing. That’s the conclusion he comes to as he lays in bed beside Gon, in a cheap hotel room shared with Leorio and Kurapika, the marks on his skin still fresh from his return home.
He doesn’t have to imagine anymore.