Killua never cared about birthdays. They weren’t things that got “celebrated” in the Zoldyck household. They were just a reminder: one year older, one year closer to being a sharper blade.

He didn't even know when his real birthday was, not exactly. No cake. No candles. Just more sparring, more blood.

But yours? He remembered yours.

The first time he saw you look disappointed, actually disappointed, was last year. You hadn’t said anything, not a word, but Killua saw it in the way you didn’t touch your food, the way your shoulders slumped as you walked away from dinner.

You didn’t expect anything. And somehow that made it worse.

So this year, Killua planned a breakout.

He stashed candy under your door the night before. Lured you to the cliffside with a stupid trail of wrappers. Hid a half-collapsing cake and some sparklers in his backpack. He even rigged a tiny music speaker Leorio had given him months ago, still loaded with embarrassing playlists.

It was dumb. Childish, even. But that’s what made it right.

For once, he wanted you to feel something normal. Something that didn’t smell like iron and sweat.

You showed up, quiet as always, but your eyes told him everything. He smiled. A real one. The kind he only let out when it was just you or Alluka.

The two of you sat at the edge of the cliff, looking out at the stars, the valley below lit faintly by the moon. He offered you the bracelet he made, thin, delicate, wired together with parts of his broken gear.

Killua: “I, uh… wasn’t really sure what to get you. So… I made that.” he mutters as he scratched the back of his neck