Chapter Text
“Oh my god. Oh my god . I see him.”
“Huh? What are you talking about, I don’t see— woah !”
“Shit. Oh my god. This is horrible. No, no, no, no, no. Gon! Gon !”
“Woah, wait, you can’t run, are you daft? Slow down—”
“Shut up, shut up right now , I can’t even believe this, Gon you’re—you’re such a fucking idiot —”
Loud. The voices are much too loud in his foggy, dull brain. Temples throb. Eyes wrench in an effort to drown them out. Gon groans, throwing a heavy arm over his temple. Rising daylight starts to prickle over his weary skin. He wants to sleep. Must they be so loud, so near, so—
Gon’s eyes fly open. So Killua .
His pupils immediately contract at the sudden dull, pink morning light swamping the desert. When his lips part, they are dry and cracked with blood. The headache pounding in his skull is intense enough to send waves across his vision. Many parts of his body are needled with excruciating, white-hot pain. Other parts he can’t feel at all.
But none of this matters. The only thing Gon focuses on is the man that bounds closer to him, drops to his knees, and puts two shaky pale hands over the wound on his chest.
Killua looks beautiful, as always. Gon is a bit delirious, but this much he can understand as fact. A few soft, white locks of hair fall across his forehead and over his ears that have escaped the tie at the back of his head. His lips part in silent, panicked streams of words. Dark eyelashes flutter over glassy sapphire eyes, tearline red and edges rimmed with saturated bruises, revealing the sleep he’s missed. Cheeks are dusted pink with a potent expression of horror and worry. Killua’s body leans over his own, close enough to hear his quiet, punctuated exhales, close enough to reach up and touch his moonkissed skin.
Gon’s body hums, absorbing the coolness of Killua’s quivering fingers against his tunic, so shredded and drenched in a collection of Agnor’s blood and his own. One hand releases to wipe away the blood from his cheekbone, then to gently cup his jaw. It is so soft, so affectionate. The fingers treat him like he is made of glass. Like he is the most precious thing anyone could touch.
“You’re alive,” whispers Killua, brows wrenching in sudden relief. “Oh, thank god. We need to get you to a hospital. Ging! Call the Association! We need a helicopter, or—or something —”
“Killua,” murmurs Gon, taking his own battered, broken hand up. He moves a thumb to pad against the wetness of Killua’s long, flitting eyelashes. “Wow, Killua. You’re so pretty.”
“You’re the absolute worst ,” Killua cries through gritted teeth. His body curves steeper, face close enough so that the tears fall gracefully onto Gon’s cheekbone. “I can’t—I can’t believe you. You’re a maniac. How could you ever think this was okay to do?”
“Killua.” Gon’s voice is laced with wonder. He loves the feeling of the name as it rolls over his tongue. It’s his favorite word in the world. “Why are you crying? I killed him. Agnor. He’ll never touch you again.”
Killua sniffles, fixating Gon with such a heartbroken glare, one that easily reveals the much more intense feeling of relief, of love , as he stares at him with bright blue eyes like all he could ever need in the world is right in front of him. The fingers cupping his face quiver a little more. Gon takes his other hand to envelop them under it, calming the tremors against his cheek.
“You’re so hurt,” whispers Killua. “And it’s all my fault.”
Gon could laugh. The words are so absurd that he actually does. It’s more of a wheeze than anything, the pressure of his cracked ribs much too heavy against his lungs, but Killua still stiffens at the sound of it. Killua, whose screams of pain and torment are still wedged brutishly in Gon’s mind, whose blood still soils the ground in an unknown corner in the Continent, who spent three weeks in absolute agony just to protect him, says that Gon’s battle injuries are his fault. He wonders if Killua will ever learn—learn just how ludicrous the words sound. Gon will spend every second of the rest of his life convincing him that they really are.
Killua takes his lip between his teeth, forcing down a sob.
“I’d do it again,” Gon says gently. “Over and over again. I’d do anything it takes to keep you safe.”
“No, shut up,” Killua’s words are so frustrated and seething, “I will never let this happen again. You’re stupid. You’re careless, and idiotic, and stupid . You could have died . Did you think about that? What could have happened to you?” The spark of pure fear flashes cerulean across his eyes. His voice grows small. “What…what would I have done?”
Gon doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just stares in silence, absorbing every inch of Killua’s worried face. Pale skin reddens under the sheer intensity of his gaze. “Yeah, you get it now, don’t you?” he says, a lazy grin stretching over his cheeks. The cut across his lip breaks again.
“Get what?”
“How I felt. When I saw you, all beaten and cut up.”
Killua swallows. “That’s—”
“It’s not different,” Gon interrupts, voice soft but firm. The hold he has on Killua’s cold hand tightens. “I’ve let you protect me for years and watched you ruin yourself in the process. I shattered your hands for a stupid game of dodgeball. I dragged you into a war and made you pick up my pieces. I twiddled my thumbs while you ran across the globe for six months.” Killua’s breath is caught in his chest. “That’s not happening again. The only thing I want anymore is to keep you safe.”
It’s a bit funny, when Gon thinks about it. His fingers, splintered and broken in the effort to protect Killua, lay a comforting pressure over Killua’s own, lacerated and burned in the effort to protect Gon. For once, his heart steadies at the thought that finally , he’s showing Killua the equal affection that he has deserved ever since they were twelve years old, when they were bright eyed and mesmerized by each other. One day, they’ll be able to express this love without having to pull their bodies apart. Things are different now. He has the rest of his life to hold onto Killua and never let him go.
A noise leaves Killua’s throat, some type of pained whimper, that he just doesn’t have the strength to muffle anymore. He leans down to press his lips against the corner of Gon’s mouth. The touch is a blossom of coolness over Gon’s entire aching, heated body, some supernatural power that calms the tremor in his bones.
“Okay,” he whispers, lashes fluttering against Gon’s cheek. For once, Gon knows that he truly believes it.
Three months later
The issue with making history is this: the paperwork is endless .
Cheadle makes far too frequent appearances in the call history on Gon’s phone. An interview is needed here. A press conference is needed there. Even the Zodiacs and Ging have found themselves caught in the crossfire of knowledge-hungry Hunters, or indignant civilians who demand to know about the golden-eyed hero that saved them from a mysterious threat—a monster that the Association so ignorantly failed to alarm them of. Gon’s face is plastered over screens and digital billboards in Swardani City. He’s gained the moniker “S-class hero”, which frankly seems a little silly and has Gon wrinkling his nose in distaste. Magazine representatives flank his hotel, and Gon has unfortunately relied on Jajanken paper far too many times to escape a heated, frenzied crowd of paparazzi.
Truthfully, the publicity makes sense. Gon is officially the only living human known to defeat an S-ranked enemy. If Gon wasn’t Gon, he’d be flocking news outlets for any semblance of information on the man who bested such a villain, too. But he is Gon. So it sucks.
However, the more pressing issue involves handling the very sensitive, very volatile information of the calamity that sits dormant in Gon’s body. Gon doesn’t care. He shrugs at the conference table as the Zodiacs embark in yet another loud and hectic argument. Gon has no intentions of releasing its power any time soon. Its only use is to protect Killua, and he’d sooner rip off his own arm than let Killua enter a situation that puts him in danger again. So let the public know. What’s the difference?
Every time he says this, Ging looks at him like he’s simultaneously the stupidest and craziest person he’s ever seen, and the Zodiacs shake their heads in frustration. We are not doing that, Gon. The Association would be ripped to pieces. We need to think of a better plan.
Gon isn’t that great at thinking, so he just zones out for the rest of the meeting every time.
Mito calls him—not to praise him for the automatic Triple-Star ranking Gon has obtained, but to scream in the enraged violence only a mother can conjure at his reckless, dangerous actions. Then, she flies out to Swardani. Reprimanding over the phone wasn’t enough. Every Zodiac watches her shout in a fiery tone at Gon, guilty and looking like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, a wagging finger heavy in his face. Killua has the misfortune of walking into the room when this happens. Zetsu isn’t enough to hide from Mito’s wrath. In no time, Killua too bows his head as Mito admonishes both Gon and him in a line.
(She’s teary-eyed, of course. In no world could she stay angry. Not when Gon and Killua are safe and sound and alive in front of her.)
Eventually, someone has the bright and big and annoying idea to capitalize on the sudden fame that Gon’s name and image has, and that someone is Leorio. It’s a betrayal unlike any other. When he discusses this plan with a gleam in his eyes and palms slammed against the table, Gon clutches his chest like the scheme is a stab in his heart.
“The Association needs money!” Leorio yells, sweat running down his temple. The conference room is much too stuffy, and it’s already been six hours. Ging is bored in the corner and does single-armed push-ups, upside down. Cluck is arguing with Cheadle and Kanzai about the flock of civilians that crowds at the base of the Association headquarters building, chanting a flurry of demands to see Gon. Ginta is playing cards with Mizaistom and Gel. “We’re still broke from the Continent expedition! Think about it, Gon. Bobblehead Jajanken action figures. T-shirts with your face on them. Merchandise . We’d be millionaires in days!”
“This is stupid!” Gon shouts back, exasperated. “Why am I even here? I don’t care what you guys do!”
“We can’t legally brand you with the Association without your explicit consent on all parts, Gon,” Gel says flatly. She sets down a card. “So, by law, you have to be here.”
Gon’s eye twitches. His arms tense as they grip the edge of the conference table. “Fine. Can I just agree with everything you guys want and leave now?”
“I don’t know if you want to do that,” huffs Ging, still upside down.
Leorio, though, has a much too mischievous gleam to his Cheshire grin. Gon can almost visualize him rubbing his hands together in a devious manner. “Of course!” he exclaims gleefully. He slides a stack of papers across the table, and Gon just barely catches the pen that is tossed to him. “Just sign these, and we’ll let you be on your merry way.”
After Gon flurries through the signing with a speed so diligent that it’s almost as if his life depends on it, he all but trips his way out of the door and into the hallway. If Ging squints, he can almost see the trail of smoke that leaves him like a speeding car down a tar track. He’s all too understanding of the urgency in his son’s stride, though he would much prefer to not think about it.
“I wonder what’s got him in such a hurry,” Ginta remarks, intrigued. Ging’s eyes close in irritation as the intrusive image floats into his mind, despite his best efforts.
Characteristically, it is this: three minutes later, Gon is halfway across the city and kissing Killua hungrily in a hotel kitchen.
“How much time do I have?” Gon breathes, mouth pressed to a pale jaw. Killua’s breath trembles, fingers digging into the skin of his sun-spotted arms.
“Like, um, an hour. Alluka’s at the mall with Mito.”
“Mm,” Gon is rubbing circles into the divot of Killua’s back, “can you tell ‘em to slow down?”
“It’s not my fault you’re always in a goddamn meeting,” Killua quips, but there’s no malice. He swallows when Gon’s lips climb back to the corner of his mouth. “You know, this shit is pissing me off. Even when I want a break from you, all I see when I go out is your stupid face blown up on a billboard.”
“You never want a break from me,” murmurs Gon, grinning. He feels the edges of Killua’s cheeks, hot with a scarlet blush, stretch as an involuntary smile occupies his face, and he knows he’s right.
“Maybe. But this is getting out of hand. Action figures? Really ? They’re blowing up your ego too much.”
Gon’s grin takes a certain edge. “What, are you jealous?”
“That my face isn’t on a six-inch-tall plastic doll? Get serious, Gon.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I was talking about the attention. On me. You don’t seem to be real happy whenever there’s a crowd of people holding signs that have hearts around my face.”
Gon expects to see Killua’s flush intensify, to watch a snarl form on his reddened lips or his eyebrows knit in indignant embarrassment. Gon sees none of this. Instead, surprise flutters in his lungs at the vulnerable sight of Killua shifting a shy gaze to the floor and looking incredibly reserved, like he cradles something far too delicate and exposed in the core of his heart. “No,” says Killua, voice soft. “I’m not jealous. I think you deserve it. All this praise. I’m glad people are telling you how important you are.”
Gon’s grin softens into an affectionate smile. He leans down to meet the decline of Killua’s gaze, watching blue eyes tentatively look through long eyelashes. “For the record, I don’t care about what they say,” he says quietly, like the words are a secret just for the two of them to hear. “I don’t care to be important to them. I only need to be important to you.”
Eventually, things fall back into rhythm, including the steady, adventurous pulse of their relationship. They race over rooftops with the city’s ice cream parlor as their finish line. They bicker over mindless things and butt heads like stubborn oxen. They press into each other’s skin when no one is looking.
And they spar.
Gon’s body tumbles over the field, raising dirt out of the grass from the force of his toss. He barely manages to shove a hand into the dirt to stabilize himself before another flash of lightning comes tumbling in his direction. The spark is fast: fast enough to scorch the tips of Gon’s hair just before he’s able to release a fiery Ko in a last-minute defense. As Gon rises to his feet, a blur of silver hair appears from the air above him, with outstretched palms illuminated in a brilliant, cerulean light.
Gon is barely able to crouch his body before the electrified hands can lay refuge on his skin. But Killua is, knowingly, much too smart and detects this move from a mile away—likely even before Gon thought to make it. The electricity fizzles out from his nimble body. Killua’s palms turn inwards, and his body curls. Seamlessly, he wraps his arms around Gon’s waist and tackles him to the grassy floor.
The exertion pushes a grunt from Gon’s throat. He winces, feeling the pressure of Killua’s body as it straddles him to the ground, so numbly familiar in so many different ways. His chest heaves in haggard breaths, and lingering adrenaline pulsates in his bloodstream. Sweat bleeds down his temple and into the dark hair behind his ears.
The sun is just a few minutes away from setting below the horizon, swathing Killua in a brilliant scarlet light. His pigtail of white hair is still in the process of losing its static from Godspeed , and each drawn exhale billows a cloud of fog from his lips and into the cool, dusken air. As he leans back to sit up, arms untangling from Gon’s middle, his fingers crawl forward to place flattened palms over the top of his shirt—too deliberately, too specifically over the healed scar on his chest. They pause here, comforted by the steady beating of Gon’s heart.
“Will I ever beat you in a spar?” Gon pants, grinning wildly. His hands press loosely along the billowing fabric over Killua’s knees.
Killua’s returned smile is equally as devious. “Don’t know. You’d probably have to release your calamity for that. But that would mean having to put me in danger again—”
“Fuck no.”
“Then,” Killua leans to the side and climbs away from Gon’s body, laying on the soft grass next to him and containing a small chuckle, “no. I don’t think you will.”
Gon swallows, his smile slowly fading. It’s been a whirlwind, the past few months. The sheer ecstasy of having Killua by his side again sometimes feels too good to be true. Often his jittering nerves wake him in the middle of the night, petrified that Killua has been taken again, or is running away to never return. Even when he eyes the sleeping, pliant figure beside him, Gon needs to press a hand to Killua’s cold cheek, littered with scars old and new, and verify the touch. Sometimes his mind flashes to a bloodstained chair, or his ears recall the faint echo of a gut-wrenching scream. Sometimes he thinks about the mindless, hopeless feeling of wandering through an endless jungle. All of it is enough to freeze his movement for a solid few seconds.
“But I’m strong enough,” whispers Gon, speaking before his mind registers the words, “for you to stay now. Right?”
Killua is silent beside him. Gon flinches at the lack of response, and his blood turns to ice. He ventures out a hand to find a colder, paler one. Desperate, it wraps itself around pliant fingers. It waits for them to curl. For them to reassure him.
Finally, Killua speaks. “You always were,” he responds softly. The hand squeezes back, and the warmth floods back into Gon’s body. “But I know things are different now. You’re different now. I’m not leaving you again. I couldn’t bear to.” His pinky brushes Gon’s own. “I promise.”
Gon thinks back to the ultimatum: the stormy, dark night four years ago, the heart-shattering words escaping Killua’s mouth, the dull pulse of pain across the breadth of his body. He remembers the ache of training for four years, desperate and enthusiastic to grow as strong as his best friend without fully understanding the extent of the statement. He remembers the devastating feeling of reuniting with Killua for just a few precious moments on the top of a building in Yorknew before watching him slip through his fingers again.
Most of all, Gon recounts the heavy burden of realizing that the cause of Killua’s distance was him .
“Gon?” Killua’s voice is still quiet. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing, just…” Gon’s jaw grows tight, forcing the wetness to recede from his eyes. But his willpower isn’t enough this time. His cheeks are damp in seconds, and a hiccup fights to leave the back of his throat. Shit , he hadn’t meant for it all to come out. Gon had done so well. Kept it in, stayed composed, because Killua was the one who truly deserved to cry—who had suffered weeks of torture, months of panic and running, years of neglect and callousness most regretfully at the hands of Gon himself. What is he even weeping for? That he’s sad Killua feels pain when he most obviously should? He clamps his lips shut, trying desperately to stuff the emotion back into his gut.
Eventually, Gon finds the strength to stabilize his shuddered breathing enough to speak again. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice trembling, “that I made you feel like you had to run away. I don’t ever want you to feel that way again.”
Gon swallows again, trying desperately to eliminate the lump in his throat. When his admittance is met with silence, he turns his head to look at the man beside him. Killua is already staring back with wide, stunned, beautiful eyes.
“Don’t do that,” Killua says, brows wrenching in concern. “Don’t put this all on yourself. I had a lot to learn before I could lean into you.”
There it is. That traitorous gasp of a sob, breaking free from the restraint of Gon’s quivering lips, blurring his vision and seeping wetness into the blades of grass underneath him. Before Killua’s face can buckle more in worry, Gon frantically sits up and scrubs the tears away from his eyes. Skin grows raw and red as the rough, calloused edge of his knuckles presses fearfully against his tearline. He’s doing his best to turn away from Killua, hide his anguish the very best because it feels wrong , feels stupid and insecure and privileged to cry so hard when Killua still limps from a horrific injury dealt nearly four months ago, still wakes up in panic from nightmares, still tiptoes on edge when he’s in an open city. But he can’t stop. The tears run and they run and eventually Gon doesn’t have it in himself to contain the wretched sadness erupting from deep within his gut.
But Killua is much too quick. He shuffles to sit in front of Gon, alarmed and close enough to brush his knees against the scraped, tan skin of Gon’s own but far enough to let Gon unveil his emotion on his own terms.
“Gon,” he softly says, nudging him to speak. It doesn’t take long for Gon to cave at the accepting expression Killua wears.
“I want you to believe that you can be safe with me,” blurts Gon, the words all wet and muddied with vulnerability. “That you can let your guard down and not have to worry about picking up my pieces or running from danger. I want to be that person for you.” Gon’s voice cracks. “I—I tried so hard to overwrite the stupid shit I did when I was a kid, but even then, even with all of the effort I put in, you—” Truncated breath, shaky lungs. “You have scars on your body now that are my fault. I don’t—I don’t even know how to ask you to trust me again because those are scars I should have protected you from. And I failed. So badly. So fucking badly.”
“Gon,” Killua reaches out a gentle, slow hand, “these scars aren’t your fault—”
“They are !” chokes Gon. He takes the outstretched, pale fingers in a firm, desperate gasp that paints Killua’s face in sudden surprise. Gon can’t take his eyes off of them. The rifts of healed skin over burns and welts on moonkissed wrists, burying hundreds of hours of sheer agony that blossomed into his nerves every time Agnor brought up the colossal, cataclysmic subject of Gon, the best friend, the lover, the complete and utter root of Killua’s pain, of his undoing. They extend like mountains over his arms, a daily reminder of Gon’s inability to protect what matters the most .
“Agnor told me, Killua,” he breathes, teeth clenched in a self-directed fury that begs him to fold in over himself. He should stop talking. He should shut up now, recognize the sudden stiffness of Killua’s body and put this discussion in the past, lay it to rest. But Gon can’t. It’s all too much, to pretend like he wasn’t at the forefront of Killua’s suffering. “He told me what he would ask you. To reveal me. To give him my name. And of course you didn’t, because you are the most selfless, most compassionate, most perfect person this terrible and sickening world has ever seen. And you got hurt. So bad . I didn’t even fucking help you escape. I whined on my ass and watched you save yourself again.”
Gon can’t do it. He can’t look at the widening edges of Killua’s eyes, staring at him with such a potent fragility like he’s about to be punished, like Gon discovering the extent of Killua’s pain is the worst thing to ever happen. “I’m never letting you get hurt again,” he says, a bit quieter but still just as fervent. “I’m going to protect you for all the times I wasn’t able to. But I know that’s not enough. I want you to trust that I will. And I…I don’t know how I can gain that back.” Wetness is coating Killua’s outstretched wrist. Shit, he’s crying too much. “And here I am, being selfish again. But I just…I really want you to feel like you can put your faith in me again.”
Killua doesn’t speak for a moment. Gon takes the silence as a chance to suck back the sniffles in his nose, dry the edges of his damp eyes. Eventually, Killua takes his other hand to enclose the hold Gon keeps on his fingers. “I’m sorry he told you,” he says, regretfully. “I can imagine that wasn’t—”
“ Fuck , Killua, don’t keep doing that!” Gon shouts. God, why is he so angry? Killua did nothing wrong. But he knows the frustration is directed far from the man in front of him, so brilliantly illuminated in the dusking light. “This isn’t about me, and—and how I felt! The tragedy here is that you got hurt. Nothing else. Nothing else matters as much.”
Killua stares at him—a little nervous, a little uncomfortable. Yeah, that’s classic. Gon did it again. Pushed away the man he loves enough to destroy the universe for.
But Killua’s eyes flicker. He tightens the pressure of his hand over Gon’s knuckles and furrows his brows, swallowing a certain emotion down into his gut. “Okay. You’re right, Gon. I got tortured. That was fucked up. You know what’s also fucked up? You, on the verge of death, killing an S-ranked monster for me. You training for four years straight to meet an ultimatum I had no intention of overriding. Maybe I have a problem with recognizing how bad things get for me. But with everything you do, you convince me that I’m worth enough to not have to endure them.”
“Is that really how you feel, Killua?” Gon says, eyes narrowing. He squeezes the grip over Killua’s cold fingers. Killua responds with equal fervor in his blanketing palm. “Or are you doing it again? Protecting me from the truth?”
“It’s how I feel.”
“I want you to mean it, Killua. I want you to really believe it before you let me back in. I don’t want to hurt you again.”
“Shut up, ” Killua hisses, a limitless passion in his eyes. “You’re really pissing me off. You’re acting as if I’m some shell of a person without free will. Did you forget? The reason why I flock to you like a moth to light? You taught me how to be good , Gon. How to appreciate things that don’t involve ripping out a person’s fucking heart.”
“You always had that in you,” Gon argues right back. Heat flows into his bloodstream. “You’re the best person I know by nature. I had nothing to do with that—”
“Yes you did !” cries Killua. The grip they have on each other is starting to hurt now, each using the other’s hand as an anchor, some volatile reason to keep being so close. “You taught me how to love someone, how to—how to love you ! Are you stupid? That’s the whole point of this! I didn’t know what that felt like until I met you!”
Gon stares. Killua quivers in contained passion, like a spark that flickers against an unlatched lighter. “So yes,” Killua whispers hotly. “I trust you. With every bone in my body. I trust you because you love me enough to prove that I can.”
His heart flutters. “Did I?” Gon breathes, a smile creeping onto his lips. His hand relaxes—drops the trembling, pale fingers in his grip, finds its way to a folded thigh, up over a ribcage, across a shoulder and around a neck, finally settling on the cusp of a cheek. “Did I prove it? That I want nothing more in the world to keep you safe, to keep you close to me and never let you go?”
Killua closes his eyes, eyebrows scrunched. Every exhale is short and heavy. “I shouldn’t even be alive right now, Gon,” he murmurs, and a deep pang of affection breaks through the chains of his exterior. He takes a lip between his teeth. “Doesn’t that prove it for yourself, too?”
Gon supposes that he’s right. There’s an acute layer of logic and reasoning to Killua’s words, but Gon doesn’t care to open it. Somehow, it isn’t enough to defeat an unstoppable monster. Somehow, it isn’t enough to do the impossible. Gon thinks he’ll only be satisfied when Killua’s happiness stays for years, for decades. Even then, he’ll do everything in his power to make him feel safe. Protected. Secure. Loved .
Gon takes a thumb up to run against the edge of Killua’s eye. Brilliant blue irises finally reveal through a curtain of glossiness, staring into him with so much desperation, so much yearning that Gon can’t ever believe he let him go. But there’s no point in thinking about the fragility of something in the past, when everything he’s ever wanted sits before him like a beacon of heaven, like the mark of an immeasurable treasure, like a light so blinding and captivating Gon can’t look away. There’s no point in regretting lived experiences when Killua is giving him the opportunity to share the future. To find a new adventure. To touch every inch of moonkissed skin. To stay .
And Gon will never stop thinking this, never stop believing this to be an unshakeable pillar of truth, as irrefutable as the law of gravity, but Killua is too beautiful. He’s a collection of scattered constellations in fiery blue eyes, a splash of pearl coloring over the alabaster of his skin, a shine of silver hair that lends itself to Gon’s aching fingers. He’s a flurry of danger in the curve of his limbs, in the angle of his stance, that protects the gentleness of his heart. He’s the epitome of everything Gon dreams about, lives for, breathes with , rewriting the definition of affection in his pounding heart and invigorating his veins everytime there’s a soft, gentle smile over the stretch of pale cheeks.
If Gon has to kiss every scar over Killua’s body and promise a vow of protection into his skin each time, he will. He’ll do it as many times as it takes.
Gon leans forward, and he starts with Killua’s lips.