Chapter Text
They issue him a firearm.
It’s coded to respond to his fingerprints and will only be activated when he’s on duty. Further precautions include a weekend of training at a facility on the other side of the city, jointly run and funded by the Ten Dons.
Gon enjoys the walk, and he enjoys the breaks from the classroom when he has nothing to do but wander around. Training is miserable, though. No one will crack a smile, and distrust leaves the air hot and sticky. By the time it’s over, he’s relieved to return home to Leorio’s cooking and loud complaining about work.
Kurapika tells him he suits it and the holster.
Gon’s face puckers at the compliment. He doesn’t like suiting something crafted to kill.
The gun has no functional affect on guard duty because nothing ever happens. Gon watches doors that stay closed and scouts streets free of danger.
In the copious, wretchedly still free time the job gives him, he begins to draw out a map of the city. He doesn’t need the guidebook, but maybe it can be a birthday present for Zushi.
At the very least, it makes his time feel less squandered.
***
Kurapika is late. Gon stands outside the locked up restaurant, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels, humming a song Leorio’s been blasting for weeks.
Kurapika is never late.
It’s a guard night, so maybe he just forgot to meet with Gon before heading to the estate.
Gon texts, and then he calls. Nothing.
He bites his lip and scratches the back of his head. They’re going to be late at this rate.
Kurapika’s apartment is a shabby place. Gon’s shoes crunch on broken glass as he steps around buckets overflowing with water leaking from the ceiling. Kurapika can afford better, but says he doesn’t see what the point would be if he’s almost never there. (Most nights, he sleeps on the couch in Leorio’s apartment, anyway.)
Gon grabs the key tapped to the back of the mailbox and knocks as a formality before walking in. For a professional bodyguard, Kurapika is comically lax with his own security.
The room isn’t much more than a box. There’s a mattress on the floor, and a milk crate flipped over to support a microwave. Clothes, which theoretically belong in the shallow dresser, are scattered over the desk, chair, and bed.
Gon hears a scratchy moan in the bathroom.
Kurapika is doubled over the toilet. Sweat soaks through his white tank top, but he’s shivering. Hair is plastered to his forehead.
He looks up at Gon, his eyes dark and narrowed.
“Let me die,” he hisses as Gon hoists him up, slinging one of Kurapika’s arms over his shoulders. Kurapika leans heavily into Gon’s side, his free hand clasping at the fabric of Gon’s shirt.
“Leorio would cry,” says Gon, walking them towards the main room. “And he cries enough already.”
Kurapika fixes him with a sour pucker.
“Like when you sent the cat.”
Kurapika frowns and stumbles as Gon transfers him to the door frame to dig up a jacket.
“The cat picture?”
“Yeah.”
“It made him cry?”
Gon presses his lips flat.
Kurapika’s brows furrow, then his face falls into weary but fond amusement.
“I can see it.”
***
Leorio, freshly awoken from his night shift recovery, stares down a greasy Kurapika.
Kurapika pinches his lips tight, his hand still on the doorknob.
“Sit down,” Leorio sighs, grabbing Kurapika by the scruff of his tank top and pulling him back until his knees fold against Gon’s bed.
Gon drops their pill bottle haul from the bathroom cabinet beside him.
“I have to go now,” he says, shooting a worried look to Kurapika.
“Then go,” says Leorio. “I’ve got him.”
***
The Nostrade estate sits on top of the territory they control like skin on the surface of lukewarm soup. There are big glass ceilings over the ballrooms and jars of preserved body parts decorating alcoves.
Gon changes in the armory and barely swings into the front lobby before Neon and Eliza walk down the spiral staircase from the bedrooms.
“Where’s Kurapika?” asks Baise, her teeth gritted and her smile forced.
Gon twists his heel in the carpet. “Sick. We’ll be okay without him.”
Baise’s smile tightens and her eyes bulge. “You can’t make decisions like that on your own.”
“We’ll be fine,” says Gon.
Her glare is disgusted, but she drops the subject.
“Good evening,” says Gon, cheery, as Neon slides off her slippers, using Eliza’s offered arm for balance.
“Good evening Mr. Freecss,” she says, voice light and airy.
For all the time she spends out of the house, it’s rarely for her own pleasure. On nights when she’s alone, or alone as she can be, Neon is always bubbly.
They take an elevator to the theater.
It’s one of the services the Nostrade family operates. Not only do they control the drug market, but they monopolize most amenities, too, from water to light.
The elevators, old and prone to failure, are especially expensive.
Eliza and Neon chat in the balcony lobby, Baise and Gon close at their sides. There are two other high-ranking mafia members present, but Gon can’t name them or the older guards that circle them.
A young man Neon smiles brightly at is telling her disconnected facts about the theater’s architecture when Gon spots trouble.
Kurapika rubs his eyes as he makes his way over. Gon slips away to intercept him.
“What are you thinking?” he hisses, grabbing Kurapika by the elbow. Kurapika shrugs him off.
“I’m good to work. Leorio gave me medicine. I’m feeling better.”
Gon scowls his disapproval.
Kurapika’s nose is red and his eyes are puffy. His hair is damp, and Gon suspects he washed it in the sink.
“We can handle it without you.”
Kurapika doesn’t bother replying. He steps around Gon to catch up with the rest of the group.
Lights flash, and the shuffle for seats begins.
The theatre is paneled with dark wood, and the house lights are so dim that it takes minutes to adjust. There are private balconies, rows of seats, and a pit down the center of the room. The stage itself is shallow and cramped.
Beads, in long, dazzling strings, are hung along the spines of the faux dome. Every lighting effect and curtain lifts sends sparkling ripples out like waves.
Gon stands at the back of the balcony, beside the door, and Kurapika slumps beside him. From here the ballet is hidden by curtains red as dried blood, but Gon doesn’t care for it much anyway.
Eliza, Neon, and Baise sit in the front of two rows. Eliza and Neon chat idly, even as the music begins. Neon’s elaborate hairstyle bobs with every laugh. Baise taps her fingers on the armrest impatiently.
The audience settles. Before the performance, after it, and during intermission are the high risk times. Between those, it’s smooth sailing.
Gon zones out and watches the beads.
It’s twenty minutes into the performance when Neon abruptly stands, turns to face him directly, and says: “whatever you do, don’t touch your weapon.”
Gunfire.
Kurapika pushes off from the wall and nearly stumbles to the ground, but he manages to grab Eliza and yank her down as Baise does the same for Neon.
The music abruptly halts. There are screams, and the floor shakes as people run to get away.
Someone has to sweep the emergency route before they can move on. Usually, it would be Kurapika’s job.
“Wait with them,” says Gon, slipping out before he can be stopped.
Kurapika shouts, but his voice is cut off by the door closing. There’s a click as Baise locks it.
A curved hallway with creamy walls services all of the balcony seats. It’s an unbroken oval, with part of it used to access the catwalks over the stage. Gon jogs around it as it fills with a panicked crowd.
People shout and push past each other in a dash for the exits. A man stumbles to his knees, and Gon swerves to help him back to his feet.
Gon finds himself bumping into shoulders and getting in the way. It’s useless to try and fight the flow. He steps aside to the wall and lets people pass.
The shots came from inside the theatre, but Gon didn’t have a view of the seats. They could have been fired by a licensed guard, or someone might be running around with a cracked weapon. Neither possibility is good news.
He doesn’t know the target, and he doesn’t know if bystanders are injured.
Kurapika will have almost certainly reported the incident by now, so backup will be on its way. With so many unknown variables, staying put until then might be the smart decision—or, they might be in harm’s way.
Gon rubs his temples. There isn’t an obvious answer. Combined with Neon’s ominous warning—if anything working for the Nostrades has taught him, it’s to listen to her warnings—he doesn’t know what to do.
The crowd is thinning and being still increases his visibility, so Gon moves on. When he reaches the heavy curtain separating backstage from the audience, he draws it back without hesitation.
No one.
There are big stage lights, carts full of props, and painted set pieces.
Gon passes by the door out to the catwalks. A bucket of fake snow is tipped over beside it.
His phone rings. Kurapika. Gon snaps it closed.
On the other side of the next curtain, the hallway is empty. The silence is eerie, dropping over him like a shroud.
Gon has never seen it still like this before. The unfamiliarity, the warping of space he knows into something he does not, sets his teeth on edge.
Usually, he appreciates the gentle curve. In hand-to-hand combat, seeing your opponent when they’re still far away can minimize conflict. But once firearms are introduced, it just means that every step could be the one that put Gon in the line of a bullet.
His hands shake from the adrenaline pumping through his system, and he walks on the balls of his feet, as though he’s barefoot in the forest.
There’s a thump ahead.
A chill runs down Gon’s spine. His nostrils flare. He inches his hand closer to his lapel.
Someone is around the bend.
A man appears. He takes a step forward, graceful as a sylph, and not a sound is made when his foot falls. The tilt of his sharp shoulders is predatory, like a cat coiling to spring. Dangerous and…
Beautiful.
His eyes are sapphires, and the curve of his lips is soft. His suit is tailored perfectly to his form. The braid over his shoulder is white as crisp ocean foam.
Gon can hardly breathe.
“Who are you,” asks the man. He pops the knuckles of one hand with his thumb.
A fleck of blood drops.
Gon grinds his teeth together, mind racing.
“Are you choosing to get involved or not?” he asks, bored and impatient.
“Your buttons are done up wrong,” says Gon, pointing to the man’s jacket.
The man’s eyes widen in what is either shock or disbelief. And then he glances down.
Gon closes the distance with a leap and slams his knuckles into the man’s solar plexus.
His feet are swept out from under him and he’s slammed against the wall, toes dangling. The detached coldness in the man’s eyes is gone, replaced by hot fury.
“What the he—“
“Why didn’t you kill me?”
The intensity in the air evaporates away.
The man’s mouth is slack. His eyes narrow into a squint, searching Gon’s with naked bewilderment.
Gon holds his breath.
The man lowers him so that his toes can touch the ground.
“You could have,” says Gon.
“Because—you—who does that?”
Gon hums thoughtfully, and loses his fight against the smile trying to curl his lips.
“So you were curious, too.”
The man blinks, then closes his eyes and gives a long, shaky sigh. With a gentle shove, he lets go of Gon entirely and backs up, like an archer relaxing his bow string.
“Just tell me who you are,” says the man, leaning against the wall on the other side of the hallway.
“Gon.”
The man stares at him with a mix of horror and confusion.
A moment of silence passes. Gon pats his hips, unsure of where to put his hands.
“Do you have a death wish, Gon?”
“That’s not fair.”
The man’s eyes flutter and he gasps a shocked laugh.
“What?”
“I told you my name, you tell me yours.”
The man purses his lips. He leans his head against the wall and looks up, as if the light moldings will give him answers.
For a few seconds, Gon doesn’t think he’s going to answer.
“Killua.”
Killua.
“Nice to meet you, Killua.”
Casually leaned back, he doesn’t seem nearly as dangerous. Still beautiful, though.
“You’re weird, you know that?” says Killua, his voice raspy.
“I’m not sure you’re one to talk.”
Killua sniffs a laugh. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”
Gon laughs.
Killua’s eyes shoot wide as saucers.
“What?” he asks, tilting his head.
Gon shakes his head and waves his hands placatingly. “Nothing, just funny.”
Killua scowls. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” says Gon.
Killua raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”
There’s the click of a door opening further down the hallway. Gon’s head swivels.
Backup, probably. That, or a peeved Kurapika on his way to shout Gon down the second they’re out of Neon’s earshot.
Killua stands with his hand on the frame of an open door.
Gon stumbles back a step, taken aback by the dramatic movement.
For a moment their eyes meet, and something in the air shifts. It’s a comfort and a knowing so strong that Gon’s heart aches.
“Will I see you again?” he asks, hands floating uselessly.
Killua runs a hand through his hair. His eyebrows furrow, and he sucks in a breath as though to speak.
And then like a switch flicking, his eyes glaze over with the same detachment from earlier. “No, and it would be better if you forgot you ever did.”
And then he’s gone.