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Chapter Text

It was the turn of Gon’s seventh year when he learned the fundamentals of magic.

Despite what the other residents in the neighboring villages had expected, Mito was not a woman to be trifled with when concerning her knowledge of the ancient magical arts.

From the emotional core of an Arcane, to the spiraling control from a warlock, to the transmuted energy of an elemental, to the natural-borne powers gifted to a mage. Each teaching and fragment of understanding through history carefully threaded together in a long quilt, constantly challenging and pushing those who were willing to listen.

“What was she like?”

Gon blinks, calloused fingers gripping tightly around each knuckle.

Killua Zaoldyk stares straight ahead, carrying a satchel over his back with what little supplies they have left.

Gon’s heart skips, an action that often follows when the mage bothers speaking to him with little to no aggression or malice in his voice. He enjoys listening to what Killua has to say in any mood, even when he was so furious his skin turned a stark shade of rose-pink.

“Hm,” Gon says, adjusting the straps of the traveling bag on his shoulders. “She was amazing, and beautiful, and kind.” He rolls his bottom lip under his teeth. “She always thought the best of everyone, but wasn’t afraid to protect me. Even when she passed away, she died doing just that, yelling for me to escape, even when she knew that I wouldn’t.” Solemnity weighs down his shoulders. “I don’t think there was a day that went by without her telling me a story or reading a poem out loud.”

He spares a glance at Killua, who’s gone even quieter in both his steps and his collective, thoughtful murmuring.

The mage’s hood is pulled to the nape of his neck, a messy array of silver locks spilled out over threadbare cloth. A scar cuts through his left eyebrow—a detail Gon hadn’t bothered to take notice of before, but under the pale, growing light of a wintry morning, these smaller details turn all the more apparent, like glimpsing firelight in a young blanket of fog.

“You make her sound like an angel or something,” says Killua.

Gon smirks, his chuckle low and tender in the brittle air.

“Maybe she was.”

They continue walking, a casual slump to their movements as the day grows older.

The sky has bled from dark blue to a canvas of coppery orange and velveteen purple. For just a moment, Gon imagines whispered stories from long ago, echoed in his mind with hardly as much beauty and energy as when he’d heard them from Mito herself.

He longs for her voice to lull him into a slumber that the boy inside him craves, during a time where he hadn’t realized he had Arcane blood flowing through his veins.

As the mist recedes in the forest trails, a vast whisper of leaves turns brittle and flake on rowans and oaks. Massive tree trunks and thin ones alike interweave and encircle around labyrinths of roots and snapped branches.

Drying mulch crunches under each step, streaks of mud forming crumbled sleeves around the soles of their shoes. Gon and Killua have had their fair share of callouses and blisters through their last few weeks of travel, and with the earth shifting from calming autumn to slick, iced planes in the grass, it’s more obvious now than ever that the cycle has begun shifting.

“So we’re going to arrive at this, outpost, or whatever you call it, when winter reaches its cusp?” Killua snorts. “Of course, we had to drag this weird, crazy journey out for you to time it just right.”

Gon leans over, and nudges Killua with his elbow. “It’ll be fine. Just wait and see! Before you know it, they’ll all love you.” He nods his head, determined. “Ging will be impressed.”

“With what?” Killua blinks. “You’re taking an unshackled, deadly mage prisoner with you to your secret hideout regime… thing. How do you know that the first thing they won’t do is attack?” He shakes his head. “My magic is fluctuating at this point. Today is better than others, but I doubt I could demonstrate everything I could do by the time we arrive.”

“Eh? They won’t attack you!” Gon shrugs. “I mean, they could try, but, I think the only person you would struggle with would be Kurapika.” He dips his head, considering. “Maybe.”

"Sure, sure. Is he another Arcane?”

 “Yeah. He is.”

“Well, then, good—wait, what?” Killua startles, jamming his heels into the dirt. Gon stops several paces ahead and glances back at him, a questionable lift in his eyebrow. “There’s two of you? That’s crazy. Arcanes are so rare, and the fact that there could be two of you in the same place…” He bites his lip. “What’s his core emotion?”

Gon’s grip tightens around the satchel straps. He wishes he could spill Kurapika’s secrets to put Killua’s mind at ease, given the genuine curiosity that the mage is currently showing. Still, if Kurapika discovered the information he let loose, there would definitely be a confrontation as soon as they arrived into Aedorin.

“You should ask him,” he says, and laughs at the offended gawk Killua sends his way. “Trust me! You’ll want to hear the story from him! Kurapika’s really good at telling old tales and stuff, and the one about how he found out he was Arcane is really interesting.”

Killua considers this, and turns away with a huff. They proceed down the path, the trees slowly spreading apart to arc into an open terrain of cobbles and grass. Gon bounds forward, shielding his eyes as he looks up towards the gaping crown of trees overhead.

His green cloak drifts over his ankles, carrying the scent of the woodlands and the faintest traces of spiced meats and burnt sugar. He licks his lips and beams at Killua, who watches him with barely a flicker of acknowledgement on his features.

“It’s just around this corner!”

“Oh, good,” says Killua, rolling his eyes, “after three days of traveling on foot. I swear, if we actually show up at some kind of stable filled with moonbeam hawks and briarhorns and whatever creatures you talk to…”

Gon laughs, and scratches his cheek. “No, not exactly.” He waits until Killua comes up to his side, the mage all the more hesitant as he stares into the clear divide that bridges the dense forests and the turning point of civilization ahead.

They are nearing a strip of territory kept secret from the Chimera Ant King and his wife; a tall stone spire with red bricks and a square series of gardens littered with the lingering mist of fresh blood, rotting flesh, and dry bones. The skeletons of their enemies, felled beneath strength that far surpassed that of a normal man’s, aided into god-like channels of power that thrived off of his intense anger and need for vengeance.

“It’s an unquenchable thirst,” Kurapika had told him once, his scarlet eyes sunken through with shadows. “It’s not something we can always control, but I plan to learn how. To make it better.”

It was once an ironic passing of humor between friends, when Gon would repair wooden bannisters next to Kurapika and Ging, and listen to them discuss what they should name the tower and its residential gardens.

He was the only one opposed to naming it anything that contained any reference to blood, flesh, or bone.

He believed the Chimera Ants deserved to fall under his hand as any other rebel against the King’s forces, but to glorify in their time after death seemed out of touch. And to speak of them in relation to the Arcane race, and how they thrived off of the need to kill as well as the act behind it, had smothered him into a corner he never expected.

A tender, feather-light pressure rests on his shoulder. His simmering blood and grinding teeth reset and relax, relishing the subtle calming waves that envelop his insides and soul in an embrace he wishes he could lean into completely.

He jerks out of his thoughts, blinking into the ray of sunlight swarming over the horizon and spilling over a small wooden bridge coming into their view. Stone pillars greet them with signs pointing in several directions, wood chipped off the corners in splintered handprints.

Killua’s hand squeezes his shoulder, pale fingers delving into the cloth. His frown is stern and careful, his glare hardened into frozen pools.

“Stay with me, Courier,” he whispers.

Gon twitches, searching every detail of the mage’s face, and wonders just when Killua had decided to come up to the space next to him and voluntarily touch him. He sucks in a long breath, fascination and fondness flickering in his body and flaring to life. He moves his mouth to speak, only for Killua to reach in and capture his lips in a quick, chaste kiss.

Killua pulls away from him and sprints a few yards ahead, his cheeks and ears tinted pink.

Gon bites his lip to prevent a snort.

Deadly mages shouldn’t be adorable, he muses.

When they arrive at the outpost, Killua’s nerves spark into life underneath his skin—crawling like thousands of tiny ants. He wrinkles his nose and steps onto a wide stretch of grass and flowers that loops around the tall, red sandstone tower stretching high and unwavering towards the fading periwinkle sky.

The cracked stones are too sunburnt red, as if soaked in blood, and it makes him hesitate for only a second while Gon comes over to his side.

“Don’t be nervous,” says Gon.

“I’m not nervous, stupid!” Killua spits, glaring harshly into the ground. He kicks his shoes over the frosted grass, a generous cold gust wafting through the air and whipping about his sleeves. “It’s… I expected something bigger. You never mentioned how large your actual regime was.”

Gon chuckles, glancing up at the tower with warmth in his smile. “So, you’re nervous.”

Killua doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Shut up.”

He swallows reflexively, pushing down the concerned array of electric currents spilling into his bones. Any wrong move could release a tendril of lightning without his consent, or strike anyone who would leave or enter the tower. He scans the area, frowning at the lack of neighboring pillars to support the overall main structure, and the unsettling feeling in his gut doesn’t waver with the lack of bodies present.

“You’ve killed a lot of people here,” he whispers.

Gon stares at him. “Aedorin’s seen worse days. There shouldn’t be any ambushes while we’re here. We should head inside, so that I can introduce you to everyone.”

Killua shakes his head. “No, I—they won’t react well to that.” He can hardly believe that he is about to meet the legendary Ging Freecss, even though the apparent adventurer’s son will most likely vouch on his behalf.

“Well they’re going to meet you eventually, Killua.” Gon frowns. “I can’t leave you out here all night, you know. I promise, nothing is going to go out of hand. Ging already had an idea that I would have talked to you before bringing you here, and I doubt they would even expect you to still be in manacles.” His face darkens slightly, as if recalling the restraining effects those iron clasps had on Killua’s body and magic. “Besides, they’re not needed.”

Before Killua can reply, the heavy wooden door to the tower opens. It slaps the stone walls of the tower, shaking red dust from its hinges.

A taller, lithe man stands at the entrance, his fair skin and shoulder-length golden hair falling like flax strands beside fair, high cheekbones. He locks instantly onto Killua, those dark shadowed eyes brimming with crimson fire. He looks as if he’s stumbled out of his bedchambers, threadbare shirt and cotton pants hanging loose and frazzled over his slender, yet toned frame.

Killua freezes.

A Kurta?

“Kurapika!” Gon calls, waving with a broad smile. “I’m back a couple days early! You can tell Ging that we’ve arrived—”

“Why isn’t he contained?” Kurapika says. His voice travels smooth and ripe with exhaustion.

Gon stiffens. Killua clenches his teeth, and takes several steps forward, only for Gon to squeeze his forearm and march towards this newcomer—Kurapika, Killua quietly notes—as the courier makes his way to the door and stands a hairsbreadth away from the other boy.

“He isn’t a threat,” says Gon, his voice dropping an entire octave, “and he’s not a prisoner. I brought him to help with the regime, like Ging asked.”

Kurapika quirks an eyebrow. He reminds Killua of a possessed statue, completely devoid of emotions that would hinder some organic control. Even the slightest purse of his lips seems to move and shift like manipulated marble.

“So you trust him, just like that? You really think that this is a good idea? A good way to introduce an infamous killer to our hidden regime, Gon?” Kurapika shakes his head. “Just because he hasn’t struck you now, doesn’t mean he won’t—”

“Oi, I love it when people talk about me like I’m not here, but…” Killua shrugs. “If you want to pick a fight, be my guest. I won’t lose.” He drops the satchel from his shoulders, a crooked grin overtaking his lips as his fingers splay open and his palms burst with electric currents.

Kurapika instinctively reaches for the belt around his hip, and when he comes further into the light, it becomes apparent that the weapon beneath his grasp is a longsword. He draws it halfway out of its hilt, though Gon is quick enough to reach out and snatch Kurapika’s wrist in his own hand, his veins glowing and pulsing with orange and white energy.

“Don’t,” he says, a warning present in his growl.

Kurapika returns the stare, a snort riding on his lips. “Why are you protecting—”

“I’m gone for an hour and this is what happens. Unbelievable…”

Killua snaps his head over towards the intruder, and instantly straightens. It’s almost hilarious, with how similar and interchangeable Gon looks from his father, aside from the expectant differences.

Ging Freecss is a few inches shorter than his son, bearing the familiar scruff above a loose gray turban, a green cloak, dark brown riding boots and a messy array of deep black hair. His large mahogany eyes are sunken through and dark, carrying waves of mischief and the promise of something entirely new when engaged in conversation.

Killua knows this man possesses a silver tongue and an infamous attachment to alcohol, though the happiness he expects to see radiating from Gon at spotting his father is turned into shock when the courier doesn’t even turn to face him.

“They’ve just arrived,” says Kurapika, slowly sheathing his sword. “I was reprimanding Gon for bringing the prisoner here without any restraints. Seems a bit counterproductive to the overall plan of bringing him here as some form of collateral.”

Gon steps back, his glare hardening.

“Killua is not a hostage.”

“Ah, ah, alright, you two.”

Ging chuckles dryly and quickly steps between them, wagging his finger in a condescending motion before lightly patting Gon on the shoulder. Gon steps backward and angrily stomps over to Killua, his hardened gaze and clenched fist striking the mage as more than just tightly wound.

“Gon, what—”

“Come with me.” Gon sighs, biting his lip. “Please.”

Killua’s protests die on his tongue. He looks over to where Kurapika and Ging are already engaged in a heated discussion, a nervous trail shooting up his spine at the thought of being caught between them in an altercation. He scoffs at the thought of Kurapika only bringing up a sword against his magic, but if he was truly Arcane, then there were other methods he needed to consider.

He reads Gon’s desperation and apologetic stance in the way he carries himself, tense like a looming shadow of green and messy spikes for hair. He holds his breath, unsure, and then finally nods in confirmation.

“Sure. Lead the way.”

He expects the courier to bid his goodbyes to his father and friend, but not a single address is made when they pass them, his hand firmly clasped in the courier’s.

They walk in silence, a delighted rise in his chest and stomach at the feel of the courier’s calloused, strong grip wound around his hand and keeping him close to his body. He can sense warmth rising from Gon’s body with each stride, even as the growing winter cold laps at the nearby flowers and crawls over the tower’s red bricks.

Eventually, they circle the tower completely and arrive in front of an outcropping that just from the main structure in a square of stone and wood. A chimney spirals out of the roof, plumes of steady gray and black smoke careening towards the sky. 

Gon inhales, and exhales, a slow and deliberate motion, and then turns to smile at Killua. Each movement is slower than normal, and Killua is suddenly reminded of the courier’s aching wounds from only a week before, where Illumi’s damage certainly remained.

“It’s warmer in there. We can have some privacy, you know, before we have to go over things. Ging was probably too drunk to even talk about anything, anyway,” he says, trailing off, as if not entirely sure of his own words. Despite this, the sparkle in his eyes is youthful and no less mesmerizing, and Killua forces himself to gulp and look away before he becomes lost in them.

Killua steadies himself, drinking in the scenery and the peaceful image of the courier.

None of this seems real…

Was his brother still following them? Still waiting for the next move to strike? Or was he trailing after Alluka and Nanika, somehow discovering a way to open a passage into their world and bleed them dry?

The thought alone makes him ill.

He shakes his head, collecting what little concentration he can before his worries leak out into the open like sand from an hourglass. He finds Gon’s patient smile, though the courier seems unsettled himself, as if he’s shouldering a series of tensions and concerns that he doesn’t wish to make known yet.

“You said something about Mito. About her telling great stories.” Killua scratches his cheek, coughing into his fist to hide the growing blush on his cheeks. He groans at the clear amusement shining in Gon’s eyes, though he welcomes this in place of the burning anger he had before. “So, while showing me around, just—do your Freecss thing. Or whatever. Tell me things. Or not. It’s up to you. But you should. Or something.”

Gon breaks into another laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re perfect,” he says, and the way he looks at Killua makes his insides melt.

When Gon bothers to show him the inside of the tower outcropping, Killua is left cautious in the doorway with the invasive smells of spiced meats, salted peppers and raw vegetables. His mouth waters at the thought of food, and even more so at the sight of the courier shifting about and moving black kettles and pots from the one table in the center of the room to the space by the window.

A cobblestone counter stretches from one end of the tiny building to another, littered with open threadbare sacks overstuffed with uncooked lentils, shaved cornstalks, and strips of rosemary and thyme left in frocks over the fireplace. Garlic and dried fruits are woven into braids, dangling from the ceiling and over the crackling embers in the belly of the hovel.

“You want to help me make something?” Gon asks, grinning brightly as he stands back up and cards one hand through his hair. Sweat beads dot his forehead and temples from the fresh bloom of heat. “We have a new shipment, it looks like, from one of the providers out of this side of the country. Even far past Antokiba and other villages close to it. Ging has a lot of connections, even from old enemies.”

Killua stares at the counter space and the intimidatingly large array of ingredients. He could hardly remember ever learning to cook for himself, not with his parents ordering servants and other poorly paid cooks to suit their needs. He never considered anything he’d eaten under his parent’s watch to be flavorful or even worth his time.

“I…” He grunts, a flush rising up in his neck. He comes over to the edge of the table, tapping his fingers on the top. “I’ve never cooked before.”

Gon shrugs, his soft grin and even gentler eyes more than enough to keep hold of Killua’s growing concerns.

“Then I’ll show you.” He gestures with a flick of his head to one of the sacks in the corner. “It doesn’t look like they’ve changed a lot of things since I left. There should be some rooster and quail eggs in the corner.”

Killua clamps his jaw tight, yet nods. He follows the instructions Gon gives him through the next few minutes, focused on the intricate details woven into the fabric for each vegetable and grain, and the way he laughs whenever he accidentally picks the wrong ingredient to bring to him. He holds back a scoff each time, though when he finally comes to Gon’s side at the counter, watching the courier set up a long crown of carrots over a cutting board, he suppresses a grin.

“So, what, is this the real Arcane secret? Learning cooking and baking like some timid housewife?” He grins at the sharp glint in Gon’s eyes, mischievous and telling.

“Mm, no.” Gon straightens. “Is this the secret of all mages? Learning how to cook from Arcanes?”

Killua scoffs. “Whatever. I bet you’re a terrible cook.”

“You ate everything I made for you back in the woods!”

“You boiled a sweet potato. It was nothing special.”

“But you still ate the whole thing!” Gon chides, tapping the counter with a knife. “It’ll be fun, Killua! It’s like fighting, or casting a spell, but with… food.”

Killua snorts. “Yeah, sure, it’s the exact same thing. Forgive me for mistaking carrots for magic wands.” He rolls his eyes, though rubs his palms together anyway to prepare them for setting out the ingredients. “How many of these do we even need?”

Gon chuckles. “Think it’d be more fun if we just figured it out as we went along.”

“What?! That’s the exact opposite of what you should want to do for cooking—”

“You won’t know until you try!”

“You’ve officially gone crazy, Courier.”

The smooth cooking process turns into a battle of sharp tongues and harmless insults. Killua is barely able to lock onto each hidden meaning behind Gon’s words, and finds it incredibly difficult to focus when the other man is always leaning too close to him to whisper in his ear, somehow turning words like “salt” and “poultry” into sensual terms.

Warmth floods into the hovel, enveloping both seasoned travelers in a cloak. Killua hums contentedly to himself, wiping his hands together as he glances over the roasted duck and accompanying boiled eggs and spiced, baked apples that Gon had spent a solid hour instructing him how to accomplish. The pride that swells in his chest from looking over a simple meal startles him.

Gon wipes sweat from his brow. “Looks good!” He smiles. “I knew you could do it, Killua! Just had to believe in yourself and go for it!”

“I always believe in myself,” says Killua, shrugging and grinning crookedly. “Obviously, no one else would’ve been able to fry this duck like me.”

“You roasted it, you didn’t fry it.” Gon’s lips twitch. “There’s a difference!”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes! Of course it does.” Gon taps his chin. “My aunt Mito used to tell me how certain ingredients come together to make something new, but that even when you tried to do something new you still had to follow some kind of recipe.” He shrugs. “If you’re going to fry the duck, you have to use a different kind of oil and cook it in a different way. Roasting it is a little easier, and definitely healthier.”

Killua smirks, curious. “Think you’re more of a secret cook than the son of Ging Freecss. Unless, he’s also some culinary wizard of his own kind.”

Gon blurts out a snort. “Yes, that’s the secret of all Arcanes. They don’t even know their potential until they realize it was their calling to be cooks all along.” He grins despite himself, though the expression seems hollow. Detached.

Killua frowns at this. Sighing, he leans over, and bumps shoulders with Gon. The courier blinks out of his daydreaming, staring at him with shadows dwelling in his gaze. The muscles in his forearms and neck tense up at the brush of skin.

“… Gon, did I…?” he asks, surprised that he’d voiced it aloud.

He turns away from Gon, hoping that the unsettled ripples teeming under his skin and squeezing around his heart subsides.

“What?” Gon straightens, alarmed. The sudden movement startles Killua enough to make him jump, though he braces his weight next to the countertop, his jaw tight. “Killua, no—you didn’t do or say anything. Don’t think that.” He exhales, running his fingers through his hair.

The lack of confidence suddenly taking hold of the courier’s motions engulfs Killua in a haze. He wants to reach out, and somehow reassure him with a touch of his hand, or the grazing of his lips—anything to calm the conflicting storm swallowing up Gon’s body.

Killua clears his throat, considering. He reads the way Gon moves from the counter and leans down to examine the food they’d created, the heavy smells wafting through the hovel and flooding the mage’s nostrils. He licks his lips, hunger stirring in his stomach, even as his attention wavers and focuses on the man looking far more detached than he had in any of the days they’d spent traveling together.

“You seem different,” Killua whispers.

Instantly, Gon leans up, his soft smile far too dry and unconvincing for Killua’s liking. The sparkling mirth and sense of adventure that had drawn Killua to him during their travels has momentarily left, replaced with a vision that causes the mage’s insides to quake.

“Just, memories. I guess. Mito, and cooking with her in our cottage.” He swallows. “Before she died. I don’t really… remember what it’s like to not be an Arcane. I love the power that comes with it, of course.” He shrugs. “It helped me take revenge against an Ant that led the first siege on my old home.”

Killua’s brow furrows at these details. He recalls hearing about several excursions over the land underneath King Meruem’s rule, and those who refused to become converted into his army were disposed of immediately. Even though the highly esteemed Royal Guard were destroyed, and most of the survivors had scattered for recovery, their legacy would remain instilled in history like needles sewing tales into fabric.

“She’s gone now.” Gon nods. “So, it doesn’t matter.”

Killua slowly shakes his head. “It does, if it makes you act like this.” He places his hands in his pockets. “Thought you would be bouncing up and down like usual. Introduce me to your Arcane friend and your father.” He considers these details, a pensive twitch in his mouth. “You didn’t mention that the other Arcane was a survivor of the Kurta Massacre.”

Gon grins crookedly at this. “Yeah, well. Figured you would find out yourself.”

“And he doesn’t trust me.”

“He will.”

Killua holds back a scoff. “How can you be so sure? After all this? Obviously I trust you, and you trust me, given that you were the crazy moron who removed my bonds in the first place…” he scratches his ear. “I’m here now, so, what am I supposed to do? Wait for the next plan of action? Assume that they’re going to trust me to not kill them like I did to those people all those years ago?”

“But that wasn’t you, Killua,” says Gon, his hands balling up into fists. “That wasn’t you—”

“Yes. It was. Don’t try to convince me otherwise, Courier.”

Before Gon can reply, the door swings open, revealing none other than Kurapika Kurta. The Arcane looks disheveled and distracted, his naturally proud stance carved through with weary lines ingrained from long ago. Killua sees many years of turmoil and inner anguish change this young warrior’s features, like glimpsing scars sealed over a worn soul.

Gon instinctively moves closer to Killua. His posture is less tense than before, shoulders square and jaw pointed towards Kurapika as if offering a silent conversation.

“I understand,” he begins, a strain in his chapped lips, “that there’s a reason for the mage to be here.” He exhales, tucking one strand of hair behind his ear.  “I’ve spoken with Ging, about the arrangements we’ve been instigating with inside forces in Antokiba. King Meruem is still too heavily guarded for a direct attack, but having the Zaoldyk mage here,” he continues with a vague gesture towards Killua, “will make the process… smoother, I suppose.”

Gon spares not one blink while the other man speaks. It dawns on Killua, just how much history has stretched between these two people, and how intensely connected their opinions are to one another.

He reads the air of authority and calm temperament on Kurapika, as if embodying him in a translucent cloak, though Gon’s own emotions bristle into the open air in torrential embers.

“Killua isn’t just a mage,” Gon says, each word dunked in a fine layer of venom, “he’s our ally.”

Killua’s chest swarms with heat at the declaration.

He coughs into his fist, simultaneously aggravated and delighted to hear the courier defend him in front of a close friend, even when he’s perfectly capable of doing so himself.

He locks onto Kurapika’s uncertain stare, those faded irises glistening between shades of dull iron and vivid garnet.

“… If you remember, I was the only one who opposed Ging in his decision to send you off. The other recruits, who are away from the tower as we speak, voted to have him here.” Kurapika slowly turns completely towards Killua, his features hardening into carved rock. “I must admit, I expected more from a Zaoldyk. Perhaps my expectations were too high.”

Killua’s teeth grit.

“Kurapika—”

“No, Gon. It’s fine.”

He takes a bold few steps over to where Kurapika leans in the doorway, forming a blockade that both courier and Arcane would gladly dare to cross. Killua holds his breath, and searches the deep pools of Kurapika’s gaze, hooking into secrets and untold hesitations that would render any commander weak to the bone.

“If I wanted to kill any of you, believe me, you wouldn’t be saying these words to me right now, begging me to do just that.”

The muscles in Kurapika’s neck and jaw tighten. His fingers wrap sturdily around his forearms, clutching onto what control he has left. Killua pauses, wondering, for a brief second, if he will be able to notice Arcane energy sliding through the Kurta survivor’s veins.

The need to challenge this older, more experienced warrior drives Killua to smirk at the lack of words coming in his direction.

He feels the tension rise in the room, stemming from both Arcanes and their conflicting temperaments. In the corner of his eye, he notices Gon straighten and regard them both with combined concern and uncertainty, the underlying current of protectiveness swarming him in a cloud.

“Gon.”

Kurapika swallows, though does not move from Killua’s icy glare.

The mage blinks at this and slowly steps back, glancing back and forth between them. With just those spare moments, he recognizes that he does not belong in this silent altercation brewing in the unmatched gait of two Arcanes.

Kurapika finally exhales, exasperated. Tired.

“We should talk.”

“He’s not our enemy, Kurapika.”

“I’m not going to argue with you about this.”

Frustration rises thick and heavy in Gon’s chest, threatening to constrict his windpipe like a squirming serpent.

They are standing in the third floor of the tower, walls polished and pristine since the last time Gon waxed the rocks and crevices himself. Glass windows reflect and pour through with grayish sunlight, carrying the impending winter’s glow in a caress over Kurapika’s frigid features.

“This isn’t just about whether or not he’s dangerous. You returned when Ging’s recruits were already gone, heading towards Antokiba to connect with our current spymaster.” Kurapika pinches the bridge of his nose, an exasperated sigh flooding the room. “But, there’s something else. And, you know very well that this is risky. Gon—the way you look at him…” He regards the courier with shock and uncertainty in his stare, folding his arms over his chest. “What are you doing, leaving yourself—leaving your soul—completely open and exposed to a mage?”

Gon’s nostrils flare. He resists punching the wall, holds back the steady temperament burning in his stomach. He expected Kurapika to question him about the clear changes shifting between him and Killua, though leading him away from the mage within only an hour of returning to Aedorin was not at all what he believed would happen.

“So Ging is gone?” he asks.

Kurapika clicks his tongue. “Not the point.”

“He’s supposed to be our ally for the upcoming attack, right? That was Ging’s plan all along.” Gon swallows, the movement reflexive and controlled despite the flurry of emotions twisting up his insides into knots. “So what would it matter if we’ve gone closer? If I’ve kissed him?”

His chest constricts, flashing back to the vision of Killua losing himself on more than one occasion to dark, malicious magic, his brother standing tall and powerful in the darkness swallowing their world.

“He’s strong. He’s—I’ve never seen anything like him before. I knew when I first saw him at the prison fortress that he was different. He trusts me. And…” Gon bites his lip. “There’s something more, there. There has been for a while. And I think he feels it for me too.”

His gaze sweeps over the hard floors, trailing over Kurapika’s stiff posture.

“He’s saved me more than one time on our journey back.”

Kurapika rolls his bottom lip under his teeth. He turns, and glares out the closest window.

Cobwebs frame the overhanging lights. Dust motes float and wisp in the tender rays filtering through the ashen glass.

“There is one thing, though.”

Kurapika’s arms tighten around him.

“What is it?”

Gon’s eyes narrow, determined. “Killua’s brother, Illumi. He’s a warlock. He’s the real threat here, not Killua. If anything, we should move from here and find somewhere else to relocate. There are other fortresses and lands that the King hasn’t claimed yet, and Ging already knows where most of them are. We should leave Aedorin—”

“A warlock?” Kurapika frowns, standing straighter. At attention, like the commander he’s truly meant to be. “When was the last time you saw him? Is he still following you?” His brows shoot to his hairline. “Did—Gon, you didn’t lead someone that dangerous here, did you—”

“Killua hasn’t been able to sense him.” Gon crosses his arms, leaning back against the closed door. “So we should be safe, at this point. We have time to move.”

Kurapika snorts, rolling his eyes. “Ging won’t be thrilled about leaving the outpost based on an assumption. And to take the word of a mage into account, no less.”

“Killua is an ally that should be trusted. There are…” He smiles slightly, soft and wistful, at the thought. “There are secrets to him that you should know, too. But I’m not going to interrogate him. He’s going to be with us to help us, and I know that he would tell you if you asked.”

“I’m not interested in becoming friends with him.” Kurapika shrugs. “But he’s here, now, and if what you’re saying is true…”

“I’ll talk to Ging.”

Silence weighs down between them. Gon clears his throat, a sheepish smile on his lips.

“He’ll understand.”

Kurapika opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it tight. A visible shiver shakes his shoulders and chest, unspoken words pressed tightly inside.

Gon dips his head, taking this as his sign to leave. He turns, grabbing the doorknob and pulling it open, right as Kurapika comes over to his side and grasps his forearm. He stiffens, instinctively folding his right palm backward to strike, though Kurapika’s sunken eyes and stiff frown freeze him in place.

The Kurta’s fingers sink into his skin, threatening to pierce flesh and draw blood.

“Don’t be reckless,” Kurapika says, hesitantly releasing Gon’s arm with a shaking sigh. “It wouldn’t benefit anyone, to lose you.”

Gon rolls his wrist, cracking the bones in his hand, as if the tight grip from a fellow Arcane had hardly hurt him. He remembers several other times, sparring with Kurapika in the surrounding gardens, wooden swords and thin clothes barely forming enough protection against each other’s attacks. Many bruises had welded into his skin from the numerous times Kurapika had struck him, and now, the grip around his forearm still burns like a brand.

“You know, Kurapika,” says Gon, smooth and calm. His grin is weak and soft, one dimple pressing into his left cheek. “You really are similar to Killua. In a lot of ways.”

Kurapika only stares when Gon closes the door behind him.

One week.

Killua sinks his teeth into the quill pursed between his thumb and index finger. The cursive letters engraved in the parchment scroll stretched out on the desk cobble together, bleeding like paint. He holds back a groan, and stares at the numerous balled crumples of paper he’d practiced on before.

None of them carry his thoughts accurately. This was supposed to be simple, as instructed by the likes of Kurapika himself, to properly convey his emotions and thoughts on a simple piece of paper while he was contained in the tower. Gon had been willing enough to show him various corners of the surprisingly large stretch of territory they considered theirs and not the King’s—though, even now, Killua has his doubts.

Seven days spent in this strange, unorthodox structure with only the courier, his legendary drunk of a father, an angry Kurta survivor with Arcane blood, and the occasional supporter passing through with letters and news for the lot of them. It seems odd, and strangely quiet, to be kept on these wide, tainted grounds with only a plan he doesn’t know of yet, and his trust lying heavily in Gon.

His fingers tense around the quill, the thought of the courier momentarily halting his breath. He swallows, and leans back in his chair.

You really need to get through at least an hour without thinking about him, Killua…

Purple blemishes shadow his eyes, deep and sunken through with exhaustion. He wipes at them, grumbling into the quietness of the spare study.

Outside, dawn slowly ascends over the treetops. Winter’s breath coasts over his windowsill, slipping through the cracks and ruffling his tousled silver-pale curls.

His hand trembles over the words he’d left scribbled into the margins, some crossed out with aggressive force. Pain, confusion, and imminent unsureness fuel the ink behind each and every letter—a consistent, violent stream in the wellspring of his thoughts.

Alluka…

He taps his fingernail on the desk, pondering.

“Where are you?”

The door creaks open. Killua starts, and immediately stands up with a firm sweeping of his eyes over the desk, his ratted clothes, and the emptied inkwells stashed in the corner.

“Killua?”

As if overcome in a cooling wave, Killua exhales and stares at the intruder.

Gon admonishes him with a secretive twitch in the corner of his mouth. Stripped of his cloak, he looks as if he’s just woken from a long sleep, dressed in loose patched trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt. The material glows over his amber-hued, scarred skin like a sheen of fresh-fallen snow.

Killua flushes, and coughs into his hand.

“Kurapika mentioned that you spend a lot of your time in here.” Gon clicks his tongue. “We’re going to have our first meeting about our change in plans with Ging tomorrow night. You’re invited, of course,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but—I mean, I’m also here to check on you. I haven’t really seen you, and…” He pauses. “Did I do… something wrong?”

Killua blinks owlishly, holding back a scoff.

“No. You—of course you didn’t do anything wrong. All of this is…” he gestures vaguely to the windows and the widespread array of shelves, stacked to the brim with numerous tethered scrolls and worn leather books. “It’s all new to me. None of this is… what I expected, when coming here. I thought there would be a dozen armoires, with soldiers training outside every other hour, and messenger ravens and sparrows flying in.”

Gon closes the door and leans against the wall, broad arms folding over his chest. He seems stronger, now, with his presence emitting ripples of heat and confidence that Killua obtains in only his most daring moments. 

“Ging’s connections are scattered everywhere. But we’re kind of…” Gon wrinkles his nose, grinning bashfully. “Our own private regime? Kurapika knows all the numbers and everything, but having us here makes this location secret, and a good place for other soldiers to return to. A lot of them lost their families to the Ants in the first few waves of King Meruem’s culling.”

Killua stiffens at this.

“The culling…”

Just how many people suffered beneath the hand of a king who favored his human wife above all else? How many people would continue to die beneath the force of his Ants, each one convinced that humans were meant to bend to their will for only the purpose of pleasing a royal power?

His family had firmly believed those with pure magical blood were destined for great things, and were meant to reach farther than humans. The thought of his brother successfully directing him towards a future where he would call thunderstorms to kill thousands of humans at once, simply because they were not the same as him, chills him to the bone.

Killua’s fists clench. He reels in the rising anger in his stomach, recalling the void features of his mother so long ago, in that strange flurry of visions that Alluka and Nanika allowed him to witness. She’d regarded him in the Doorway with venom and frustration, disgusted with sight of him creating a world from the very beginning alongside a girl who shouldn’t exist.

Warm hands reach up to cup Killua’s face. He blinks, stepping back, as Gon’s familiar, tender smile addresses him with nothing but kindness and understanding swimming in his handsome features.

His strong cheekbones, the sleek scar running on the underside of his jaw, and the whirlpools of coal-fire amber in his irises draw Killua’s soul into another world. A world he wants to keep himself close to, and embrace without another thought.

Gon’s thumb brushes over Killua’s jaw. He opens his mouth instinctively, stepping closer to match the grin curling the courier’s mouth into an arch.

“Nothing is ever too late.” Gon’s voice is soft and strong—a silky baritone that combines their lingering breaths and heartbeats together. “You’re amazing, and what we’re going to do here will help you believe how amazing you are.”

Killua huffs out a chuckle, rolling his eyes. “You’re an idiot.” His confidence falters, however, when Gon slides closer to him, the two of them backing up to the wall with the courier’s hand lifting from his cheek to rest on the side of his head. “Can’t say things like that, you know. It’s stupid.”

Gon’s hearty chuckle leaves as a growl from his throat, rumbling and powerful as it slides over Killua’s neck.

“There a reason you came in here, Courier?” Killua asks, his skin growing hotter with each second that passes. Gon’s body hovers, a ghosting tremor of electric fire threatening to close the space between them and erupt his heart into sparks.

“Mm, not important,” says Gon, dropping his mouth onto Killua’s clavicle and resting his smirking lips on the bare, pale skin. “Wanna focus on you.”

“Whatever—” Killua squeaks, and roughly smacks Gon in the arm as the courier muffles a laugh into his neck. “Shut up! You’re so embarrassing!” He splutters, shoving Gon off of him, cheeks flaring red. “Did you just—did you just bite me?”

Gon’s mischievous grin is louder than any other answer. Killua huffs, muttering under his breath, before stepping forward, grabbing Gon’s collar, and pulling him into a kiss.

The clashing of lips and teeth is better than the first time they kissed, angry and distant under the moon and stars. He feels Gon’s tongue slide into his mouth, hot and urgent, their bodies pressing up against each other as hands reach and grab and pull—

Something about this kiss, about holding Gon like this, about the way he rushes to embrace the other man, and listen to his sweet nothings and mock them all the same—something about it all echoes difference and belonging.

He folds into Gon, to his rushing, sweet, intense kisses, to his hands wrapping around the small of his back and crushing him even closer to his chest, to the realization that he’s here.

He’s not in the prison fortress any longer. He’s not trapped in an endless white world where a girl he once loved and lost is still searching, waiting, for him. He’s not tethered to the leash that Illumi had clasped around his neck, where he’d felt his own soul being ripped out of his chest. He’s not engrossed in the world of the Zaoldyk legacy, where the ancient foundation of their magic had gone from pure, to corrupted, to vicious and torturous.

He’d believed, once, that Gon Freecss was leading him to an untimely death. That he was aiming to kill him without consequence, that his plans for him were meant for nothing more than his name to be smeared in his own blood on an execution block.

Killua’s hands tremble, coasting gently over the fabric of Gon’s shirt, tempted to slip underneath and feel the scars that map out his battles, his conflicts with forces greater than just evil and good. 

“I want to see you,” he whispers, in a voice so unlike him, tantalizing and drunk off of an emotion he doesn’t understand. “Gon.”

Gon’s answer is another growl—a thunderous vibration deep in his chest, a thrum in his heart that collides against the protective cage of bone. He lurches, and holds Killua closer to him, reveling in his whimpers, in the sacred words that drop from his lips like liquid gold.

Killua pulls away, flickering to Gon’s red, swollen lips, and the undeniable hunger stirring in his darkened eyes. He loses himself inside them once more, and for once, he doesn’t question the sudden desire to remain lodged in deep waters and never climb back out.

Then, Gon grins, crooked and alight.

Killua’s heart skips.

“Follow me,” he breathes, clutching Killua’s hands tightly in his own. “Let’s be alone together.”

Killua’s hands press to Gon’s chest, tracing along the patterns that drift over his abdominals and coast in scurried, vicious patterns up to his collarbones. His brow furrows, fascination lingering on his curved lips with each second that passes, heat drifting and wading under his touch in harmonious shambles.

Gon is a solid force of strength and unbridled instinct, and under the tender wash of evening stars spilling from outside the window, Killua knows that his is reserved solely for him. He reads the tenderness in Gon’s eyes, the understanding that they’re linked together now and not meant to part—

Gon’s hand reaches around his waist, fingers curling sturdily around his hip bone. He shivers as the courier’s hand travels underneath his shirt, sloping over his ribcage, counting the bones that protect the stuttering heart ramming and humming in his chest.

“Can hear you thinking,” Gon murmurs, his voice muffled in Killua’s hair.

Killua pauses, mouth opening in awe at the familiar rhythm of Gon’s heartbeat thumping under his palm. He wants to press closer and listen to its musical sound through the whole night, wishing that the walls containing them belonged to them and not to a tower reserved solely for the continued preservations of war.

“Just a lot on my mind,” he says.

Alluka’s wide, shining blue eyes and tender smile flash in his mind’s eye.

He clenches his teeth, guilt building and stocking high in his chest. He turns away from Gon’s natural warmth and stares up at the ceiling, so unlike the canopies of straw and occasional stone that formed most of the villages where they stayed in their travels.

Gon shuffles in the blankets, leaning up to prop his chin in the palm of his hand. Killua can feel his expectant glare, and almost relents when the protective hand counting his ribs pulls out from under his shirt and tugs him closer to the other’s strong chest.

“She’s still out there, Gon.”

His hands bunch into the sheets, seeking something he doesn’t know exists.

“Illumi is looking for her. He has to be.” He bites his lip, his breath shuddering and falling in-between the images of his brother finding Alluka, attacking her, killing her—

No. No. No.

That can’t happen.

Gon’s grip tightens around him. He buries his face into Killua’s neck, his presence overwhelming and comforting—a shadow emitting golden heat and fiery determination.

“She’s strong,” he says. Killua can picture his face, pupils dancing around in his eyes like bouncing pebbles. “And so are you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she’s out there, and that,” he hesitates, “that Illumi is looking for her now. He knows that I know she’s alive. That has to be the reason why he didn’t follow us here.”

His shoulders shake, nerves and past concerns, buried deep under layers of grief and sorrow, lurching upon him in a swirling vortex.

“She’s alone.”

She has Nanika. She has Nanika. She has Nanika.

Gon’s arms tighten around him.

“… are you still having nightmares?”

Killua halts, blinking. He glances around the interior of Gon’s bedroom, his gaze sliding over the tapestries on the walls, the collection of gemstones huddled in the corner, and the small helping of unopened books propped on one of the higher shelves. He hopes that the deafening noise of his heart roaring in his ears is only reachable to him, and not the courier encasing him in a protective barrier of flesh, blood and bone.

“How did you…?”

“Ever since we met,” Gon pauses, as if searching for the correct answer, “you had them. But, these past few days, I’ve heard you scream in your sleep. Sometimes I would come in and watch you, to be sure you were okay.” He chuckles wryly. “Sorry, that’s a little weird, but, if you couldn’t sleep or feel safe, here…” he hums in thought, his voice light and airy, “there wouldn’t be a point in trying to sleep for me, either.”

Pressure builds in the back of Killua’s eyes. He sniffs, groaning in annoyance and attempting to hide the growing wetness in his companion’s sheets. His face burns, though it’s a combined result of annoyance, flattery, and begrudging acceptance of the courier’s ridiculous claims.

“Your logic continues to hardly make any sense,” he murmurs, “Courier.” Gon shifts his weight, pulling away from him, though Killua reaches backward and snatches Gon’s wrist before he can move too far away. “Don’t. I—,” he swallows, embarrassed, “stay here. Please.”

He expects a teasing remark, or a laugh, or any other gesture that reminds Killua simply of Gon Freecss and his unabashed shamelessness.

But, the warm press of lips against the nape of his neck startles him.

An explosion of embers careens under his skin, spreading from the tip of his ears to the ends of his toes.

“I’m not going anywhere, Killua,” Gon whispers, fingers trailing over Killua’s baring shoulder.

He presses another kiss, moving in a tender, caressing trail over the faded white lines that Killua reluctantly names as his own scars.

He prods, and searches, though not without restriction, as if constantly asking permission to explore the canvas that he considers to be Killua’s body and mind.

The thought of Gon’s sacrifices, his willingness to place his trust in Killua since the very beginning, putting aside his differences in favor of learning more about the mage in the magic chains… they strike Killua like the lightning he’s learned to control for so long, and in that moment he wants to cast aside his worst fears to embrace something new.

He shuffles, turning his body back towards Gon, and claiming his mouth in a kiss. He latches onto Gon’s bottom lip and sucks, using his other hand to grab the back of Gon’s head and pull him closer. His fingers trail over the nape, dusting over the raven-black fringe he’d often admire in secret from the back in their most mundane of walks in the woods, lost in one of many conversations.

Tears threaten to break into the surface and stop him from moving, from sealing this quiet moment with Gon. His soul longs for something else, an intangible piece of him that is nowhere near his reach.

Gon breaks the kiss, his brow furrowed even in the darkness.

“Killua…”

Killua freezes. His muscles tense up, coiled like brambles in a thicket.

Don’t look at me like that!

The hollowness in his chest never recedes. He looks into Gon’s eyes and searches for shards of his own self, of pieces he believed were there.

“Killua, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

It’s not your problem.

Killua breaks into a hiccup, then a dreadful sob that engulfs his entire body. As if a wall collapsing in the confines of his mind, his worst doubts and fears spill into the open in a downpour. Tears stream down his cheeks, slipping over his swollen lips and soaking the fabric beneath him.

Gon immediately crushes him to his chest, whispering into his ear. His presence is too powerful, too soothing—

I can’t have this.

Was Alluka just as scared as he was?

I can’t have you.

Gon kisses him, again, and again, and again—

It’s torturous.

It’s wonderful, horrible, and beautiful, wrapped in a cacophony of flames and ice.

It’s everything Killua has ever wanted, doused in a pool of visions and dreams he never believed he could have.

He wishes he could reverse time and kill his brother before anything transpired, before he found himself flung into Gon’s life and making him a target due to his mistakes. He wishes he could free Alluka and Nanika from the dimension in which they’re trapped, and set their souls free.

Gon holds him the entire night, drifting between exhaustion and his stubborn unwillingness to leave Killua on his lonesome.

“You told me not to leave,” he says, for the hundredth time this very night, “don’t push me away. I’m not going anywhere.”

Stop being stupid.

Killua glares, soft and bitter and broken, into his own hand.

Alluka is still out there, searching for him. Waiting.

Gon is here, holding him close, and belongs in a place not yet tainted with him.

Killua grits his teeth. Pain blossoms in his chest, all-consuming. Destructive.

Make a decision, you fool.

Dawn breaks too soon after he does.

Gon blinks away sleep, exhaustion seeping heavy and weighted into his bloodstream.

He pauses, hands groping for the presence of his closest companion—someone he’s come to see as much more than a friend—and stops. His first opening words, his greeting to the mage he’d kept so close to him through the entire night, suddenly lodges deafeningly in his throat, as if two hands have reached out of the ground and begun crushing his windpipe.

He’s not here.

Where could he…

Then, he remembers. Killua’s desperate cries, seemingly lost in his own thoughts but breaking into the open without restraint. His worries over the little girl who’d shaken his world, who still called to him in his dreams with eyes that looked so much like his. His sobs, shattering the shield around Gon’s heart and tugging at his self-control, at his ever-mounting bloodlust.

His desire to kill Illumi had grown more and more with each tear shed.

But now, Killua isn’t here.

No…

He pulls on his shirt and cloak in a hurry, barely remembering to slip on leather riding boots. He dashes out of his bedroom, pumping his arms and dashing down the corridor of the tower—

And nearly slamming headfirst into his father.

“Move,” he chokes out, turning his body to careen down the stairwell.

Ging reaches out, and snatches his forearm, keeping him prisoner. Stationary.

“Eh, where do you think you’re—”

“Let go of me, Ging,” says Gon, darkly.

Ging’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. His grip recedes, a cautious lilt to his already drunken smile. He leans against the stairs, a cautious shadow overtaking his frame.

“You can still catch ‘em, you know. Don’t let him go far.”

Gon’s teeth grit, a boundless fury pulsing through his body and channeling a fresh tidal wave of Arcane energy into his veins. He needs to hold back the urge to challenge Ging to a fight, to somehow segue his growing anger and annoyance in the path of his own father.

“Before you get mad at me, kid,” says Ging, shrugging, “you made the choice to keep the shackles off. Unchained prisoners go where they please.”

Gon’s hands ball into fists.

“Use that energy for something useful.” Ging flicks his head to the window.

Snow dapples the glass, painting the first vision of a true turn in winter.

Gon holds his breath.

Killua.

“Oh, by the way,” Ging drawls, “if you do lose him, don’t bother coming back.”

Gon doesn’t waste another second listening to his father.

He turns, and bolts down the stairwell, green cloak flying behind him in a current of forest colors and shades. He only listens to the sound of his pounding heart, the worried chant of the mage’s name in his thoughts, and the rushed collection of images and paths he knows where the mage could have gone.

Outside, the world has changed. Heavy snow drapes across the world and swallows up the distant mountains and trees in flawless white. His breath puffs into clouds, an instant chill spreading through his body from only stepping out into the frosted grass surrounding the main tower.

Only three horses are left in the stable. One is already missing.

“Damn it, Killua,” growls Gon, shaking his head with a wry smile, “always making me chase you.”

He mounts one of Kurapika’s steeds, quickly adjusting old, worn reins with a firm kick to its sides. He trudges forward, dashing into the forest path that he’d taken only seven days before, in those spare hours where the mage agreed to walk with him into the tower on his own will.

I’m not going to lose you.

He bites his lip, knuckles blanching white around the reins. He yanks his hood over his spikes as the winds grow harsher, colder. Snow slushes and kicks up under his steed’s hooves, the sound clacking some sense of normalcy into him and his surroundings.

He holds back from screaming Killua’s name.

He needs to find him.

I can’t lose you…

The snow grows thicker in the woodlands. Massive tree trunks flitting and crumbling with fresh sheets of ice and frost. He blinks away the bitter dressing of snowflakes on his nose and lashes, and adjusts to the consistently changing vision of the woods, and the occasional red swallow flying through the treetops.

He spots the back of the horse stolen from the tower before he recognizes the rider.

Then, he yanks on the reins, and pulls into an abrupt stop.

He’s seconds away from screaming, from shouting and wrenching his heart out of his chest as some form of peace offering. He hops off of his steed, marching, yanking himself through the heavy snow with little regard to anything else.

Then, the silhouette turns, one hand resting on the flank of the stallion.

One would not believe it was the mage prisoner on first glance. The cloak is unfamiliar on him, blue as the midnight sky bereft of stars, hood pulled just slightly back over a crown of silver-white locks. The sleek, ivory skin, the natural rosy blush to those slanted cheeks, and the shock of his cerulean blue eyes are enough to render Gon speechless even now.

His heart races, faster than it ever has before, slamming into his ribs with the weight of his fears, of his darkest and brightest emotions, and the desire of more than anything to pull Killua close to him and convince himself that he’s real.

He chokes out, a terrible sound halfway between a relieved groan and a laugh.

“Killua.”

Instantly, Killua whips around, hood falling back to his nape. Snowflakes dress his pale skin and pale lashes, soft and supple in his hair.

It doesn’t make sense, Gon thinks, to why he would think back to the first day they met.

“Gon…? Why did you—” Killua splutters, his glare hardened into daggers. The disbelief on his face is almost staggering. “You have to go back. I can’t do this with you—I can’t bring you back into what I’m planning to do now—”

“Why did you leave?”

Killua stops, blinking. “I—what?”

“Killua.” Gon’s jaw clenches. “Why did you leave? You don’t…” he shakes his head. “No, you, you don’t get to just leave like that. You can’t. If you’re going anywhere, there’s no way you can expect me to not be there—”

“This isn’t about you!” Killua snaps. “What makes you think that you have the right to what I’m doing? To my own mission? I have to go and save Alluka, and Nanika too!” He snaps his head away, not daring to meet Gon’s furious eyes. “You think that you have a right to me like that? Like you own me in some way?”

“No.” Gon slowly shakes his head, unbelieving. “You don’t think that. I know you don’t.”

“Well,” Killua laughs, a sound so utterly broken that it snaps Gon’s heart in two. “There’s no way I can help you and your… regime, or whatever you call it. My magic is nowhere near its normal state, and that’s because of my connection to Alluka and Nanika. I can’t leave them.” He bites his lip. “They’re a part of me. I feel… incomplete, without them.”

Gon’s fists clench. “You could have told me.”

“You wouldn’t have listened,” says Killua. “You would’ve told me to stay anyway. That’s why I left. I can’t—gods, believe it or not I care about you too much. I just…” he pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated. Exhausted. “I need to do this. I have to save Alluka and Nanika, and find a way to enter that Doorway again. Without me, they’ll die. For all I know Illumi could have found them already.”

Gon steps closer, resisting the immediate temptation to embrace Killua and actually register what the mage is telling him.

“That doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

Killua glances at him, eyes wide. Mouth open. Awed.

He’s never looked more beautiful.

Gon swallows.

“You…” Killua’s rosy cheeks turn darker. He hesitates, even as Gon steps even closer to him. “You don’t mean that. You can’t… are you—I know that you’re insane, but there’s no way you actually understand what you’re telling me. You have a regime being built here for war, you fucking idiot!”

Gon barks out a harsh, dry laugh, running his hands through his hair.

“No, no, you don’t get to do that,” says Gon, raising his voice. “You don’t get to just assume what I’m thinking, Killua! Do you really think I would come out here to find you if I didn’t care? That I wouldn’t tear through every forest and mountain just to find you again?”

Killua’s jaw snaps shut. He trembles, pupils flickering about.

“I don’t understand why you—”

“I love you.”

Killua’s protest dies on his lips. He stares, awestruck, blinking rapidly as if going back and forth between one world and the next. Gon is smiling, the relief of saying the words aloud light and tender in his chest, like an explosion of sparks he’d been waiting to release for days on end.

Killua’s brow furrows, his doubts growing. Lingering.

“No, you can’t—”

“I do.”

Gon nods. Steps closer.

“I have for a long time. And I know you feel the same way.”

He’s close enough to count Killua’s dusted eyelashes, to feel his warm breath coasting over his lips. He reaches out, tenderly drifting over Killua’s pale hair, stark and glinting like steel against the snow.

“I’m in love with you, Killua,” Gon whispers, resisting every temptation to capture the other’s mouth in his own. “Wherever you go, whatever your mission is, I’ll go, too. So please, Killua,” he continues, dipping his head, “don’t push me away.”

Killua’s throat bobs. He bites his bottom lip, staring into Gon’s eyes with little above the ripples of fear and reluctant acceptance.

“… You’re more stubborn than a donkey in heat,” grumbles Killua.

Gon snorts, bursting into laughter. It’s a gentle, rhythmic sound, bouncing in the massive trees looming above them in brittle branches and swaying, snow-dressed leaves.

A ghost of a smile crosses Killua’s lips. He turns, gaze locked on the distant storm brewing in the distance.

The mountains stretch like gaping claws and fangs towards the sky. Villages and cities torn through war and bloodshed beneath the Ant King’s rule will lie in the grasp of winter. Old secrets and legends linger in ancient carvings and stones of ruins left uncovered.

“You’re sure about this?” Killua whispers, staring at the ground, his pale face painted in tender pink and red.

Gon swoops in, pecks him on the lips, and smiles against his mouth.

He presses his forehead to Killua’s, relishing the feel of the other male so close to him, leaning and just as strong, if not more, than him.

“More than anything,” he says, as soft as summer flowers.

Killua swallows, his body stiff. He exhales, and reaches to the back of Gon’s neck to keep his forehead pressed to his, as if the connection could break in any second.

“You’re so embarrassing, you know that?” He grins crookedly, muffled in the layers of his own stolen cloak. “And,” he hesitates, grumbling, “I… I’m in love with you, too.”

Gon chuckles.

“I know, I had a feeling.”

Killua snorts and shoves him away, mortification painting his entire face scarlet.

“Fuck you, Courier!” he snaps.

“Maybe someday.”

Killua gapes, spluttering.

“I—I change my mind, you can’t come with me.”

“Hah?” Gon pouts. “But, Killua—”

“Nope. You ruined everything. It’s done now. No going back.”

Gon’s chuckles change into an uproar of laughter. Killua stares, as if entranced by the sound, until he, too, breaks into his own broken guffaws. They laugh, and shed tears borne of happiness and old regrets, flourishing between them in a connection only they understand.

Killua shakes his head as he calms down, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he says.

Gon smirks, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Well, we need to find a lead to where Alluka could be, right?” He dips his head, pondering. “So, one of the largest libraries in the country is less than fifty miles north from here. We can stop and gather some supplies, and maybe ask around.”

Killua nods in agreement.

“Yeah… that,” he chuckles, watching Gon as if he’s the most incomprehensible thing he’s ever encountered, “that could work.”

Gon grins, ruffling Killua’s hair. The other man blinks at him, raising an eyebrow, oblivious to the rise and fall of Gon’s heart in his chest, and the gradual joy that takes him into a new height.

“So.” He nods, gesturing to their horses. “Let’s go, before the storm gets worse. Winter’s here, after all.”

Killua swats at his hand, though his tender smile and bright blue eyes promise nothing but honesty and a new warmth that Gon wishes to cherish today, tomorrow, and every day after that.

“Yeah, already waiting for spring to get here,” Killua mutters.

Gon smiles, taking Killua’s wrist and quickly pressing their lips together. Killua blinks, and melts into the embrace, his own touch warm and supple under Gon’s advance.

I never want to stop being in love with you.

The Arcane smiles into the kiss, and the mage reciprocates with a tender shove and snarky grin.

“Story for a story, right?” Killua says, breathless.

Gon chuckles, shaking his head. “As always.”

Killua grins. “Yeah. Sure. Guess it’s…” he shrugs, pulling away. “That’s how it all started.”

Gon hums, nodding in agreement. “But you know, Killua, there is one thing.”

“Hm?”

Gon presses his lips to his ear, his smile genuine and soft.

Killua shudders under his touch, seeking his warmth and pushing against it, unsure and embarrassed even now, and Gon loves him all the more for it.

“This time, our story begins together.”