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Killua’s skin is softer under his hands, Gon finds as he drags them over the bony ridges of Killua’s knuckles. He changes course slowly to cup one of his pale hands in his own dark one, flipping it palm-up so he can ghost his fingertips along the lines and fine scars he finds there. One of Killua’s fingers twitches, the tendons of his wrist flexing in momentary tension as a shiver courses through him. Gon follows it, brushing his fingers tenderly along the faint blue veins trailing up a forearm crisscrossed with faded wounds; he presses soothing circles to the rabbit pulse jumping beneath his thumb, easing the tension away until Killua’s nails regress into blunt half-moons rather than the razor-sharp claws they’d become.
A defense mechanism, Gon knows. Killua is out of his element here, unused to touch that has no ill-intent. He massages the thin skin at the base of his wrist for a while longer, focuses on emitting nothing but the sense of calm and safe and trust until Killua’s pulse eases under his fingers. Satisfied, Gon continues his exploration by smoothing his palm up the soft exposed forearm until he reaches the sensitive dip of Killua’s elbow. When his friend says nothing, Gon brushes the backs of his fingers up his bicep and spreads them over the bony shoulder to trail over the jut of Killua’s collarbone. He wonders how many times these places have been marred or broken, how often they’ve healed back into something stronger—but no, he can’t think about that now, it’ll only make him angry. Refocusing on the task at hand, he considers whether to continue up or down when Killua’s breath leaves his mouth in a shaky sigh.
“Is this okay?” Gon asks immediately, removing his hand and glancing up from the path he’s mapping with his eyes to meet Killua’s instead. He finds them closed, hiding that striking blue and the true answer he’s seeking. Killua’s mouth may say one thing, but Gon can always trust his eyes to tell the truth. He waits though, patient. He has to be patient now, for Killua.
“Mmn,” Killua hums in agreement eventually, a jerky little nod emphasizing his permission to continue. Gon accepts it, trusts Killua to know his own limits, and decides that up is best. He reaches out, cupping both hands at the base of Killua’s throat—carefully, thumbs tucked flush against his index fingers lest Killua’s instincts cause him to react to even the suggestion of strangulation. Gon’s not naïve, after all; he knows Killua’s been trained to withstand tortures of every kind despite having never been told the details. And this is supposed to be for Killua’s enjoyment. It’s supposed to be freeing.
He waits, watches Killua’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly, no doubt adjusting to the sensation of hands on his neck with no intention of stealing the air from his throat. Gon keeps his touch light, focuses again on emitting the sense of safety as he glides his hands up until he’s cupping Killua’s jaw. He can’t resist reaching up to tuck a wayward curl behind his best friend’s pink-tinged ear, a fond smile tugging at his lips at the sight. He takes his time tracing the shell of it before replacing his hand, thumbing the swell of Killua’s cheek comfortingly.
Killua’s eyes are still closed, a slight furrow to his brow. His bottom lip is bitten red.
“Killua,” Gon calls quietly, halting his exploration, though he still holds Killua’s face gently between his palms so he can get used to the feeling. “Do you want to stop?”
He’s quiet, but Gon is fine with that. He lets Killua process how he’s feeling, determine whether he’s reached his limit or if he wants to continue. It’s okay if he has, Gon thinks; this is completely uncharted territory for him, he can understand if it’s too much all at once. He wants Killua to feel comfortable coming to him for what he wants, what he needs—so he doesn’t push, he doesn’t give in to his own selfish desires to touch more, feel more, take more. He can be patient. He’s been learning patience all his life and he’s discovered that he can find it in himself to wait until the world burns if it’s for something important enough.
Killua is more than important enough. Killua’s the most important person in Gon’s life.
“No,” Killua replies, licking his lips when his voice comes out hoarse. His lashes flutter against his cheeks but he keeps his eyes stubbornly closed. “I’m fine.”
“Killua,” Gon calls, hushed but firm. Killua’s lashes flutter again. “I need you to open your eyes.”
The furrow between Killua’s brow deepens. Gon wants to press his thumb to it, smooth it away, but he doesn’t move. He waits, hands so light he’s barely touching him at all; for a moment, he thinks Killua will refuse him and he’ll have no choice but to stop, but then those featherlike lashes raise to reveal a blue so dark with repressed craving that Gon almost doesn’t recognize them.
He asks again. “Do you want to stop?”
“No,” Killua breathes, voice soft but eyes sure. Convinced, Gon nods and moves to cup Killua’s cheeks fully. A shudder ripples through his friend’s frame when he rubs his thumbs over the peak of his ruddy cheeks, hard enough that Gon feels it reverberate through his arms. He watches as Killua allows it to move through him, allows the reaction to run its course, and then tilts his head to press completely into Gon’s touch.
Butterflies burst to life in Gon’s stomach, fluttering all around his ribs in a frenzy. Killua’s expression is smooth, peaceful—trusting. His shoulders fall lax, hands open and limp in his lap, but his eyes—half-lidded, but open, gazing right back at Gon with not an ounce of hesitation.
He slow blinks then and Gon feels his heart simultaneously break and mend.
For as long as he can remember, Gon has rescued strays. Aunt Mito claims he was just three when he came home with his first, a tiny nestling he’d found in the tattered remains of its nest, quivering in the cool shadows of the tree line leading into the forest. He’d cupped it gingerly in his hands and tottered home with no understanding of how to save it but determined all the same.
That had only been the beginning. He often arrived home after a day spent exploring with a new companion in his arms. He wasn’t picky, or biased, only eager to help as he saved abandoned kittens from passerby ships, dazed squirrels and startled field mice from sharp-eyed hawks. He’d even managed to persuade a foxbear cub into following him home after its mother had met her unfortunate fate at the hands of poachers. All were given exasperated, but fond, looks from Aunt Mito as she wordlessly allowed them temporary shelter in their home.
Most were carefully nurtured into good health by Gon’s gentle touch; others, Nature found necessary to teach him Her natural course. Most often, however, it was the extent of his patience that was tested.
When Gon wanted something, little was able to stop him from getting it. Aunt Mito would be the first to testify to his stubbornness—he’d grown with a will of steel and an endurance to chase his desires into fruition. But over time, Gon found that sheer force of will could not always give him what he wanted—so, he learned to be patient.
He never would have caught the Lord of the Lake, if he hadn’t—which meant he never would have met Killua. And he wouldn’t be here, now, in this moment, if he hadn’t.
He wouldn’t have earned Killua’s unadulterated faith in him, if he hadn’t.
Killua’s dark eyes slow blink at him again, dragging him from his reverie, and Gon feels a soul deep gratitude for Nature’s persistent lessons that led him to this moment, pivotal in his most treasured relationship, in earning Killua’s trust of his touch.
It hasn’t been an easy journey for them. Killua trusted him with his back and with his life, Gon knows, but handing over his vulnerable heart was another matter entirely. He’d had to pretend not to have one for so long that it was difficult for him to acknowledge its needy beat in his chest. But Gon, observant in the most empathic of ways, had figured out what his friend wanted long before even an inkling of want had crossed Killua’s mind.
Killua isn’t entirely averse to physicality, but he never purposefully seeks it out either. At least, not solely for himself, Gon’s noticed. He’s comfortable with mild interactions—high-fives, shoulder pats, fist bumps—and he has an uncomfortable tolerance for hard contact—sparring and wrestling, even when things get a little too heated and he’s left with bruises to show for it. For Killua, roughhousing is the only way he knows how to initiate casual contact for the sake of it.
But softness, Gon’s come to find, is foreign to his best friend. It confuses him more than anything; his gaze lingers on couples and friends in public, cataloging their every interaction in an attempt to understand. Worse, he has no concept of gentleness in relation to himself; Gon had seen the stiffness in his frame the first time Aunt Mito hugged him on Whale Island, a maternal hand cupping the back of his head as she pulled him close. He always ducks away from Leorio’s good-natured head rubs with complaints of having his hair mussed as he shoves clawed hands into his pockets as camouflage. When Gon offers to help him patch up injuries after a fight, he scoffs and waves his hand flippantly at the idea, then scurries away to treat his wounds in solitude.
Quick, clinical, dispassionate—touches are expected to be a means to an end, rather than a comfort to be given. It makes his heart ache, knowing Killua doesn’t truly know tenderness. That he hasn’t experienced contact that’s soft on his skin just because he deserves to be touched without having bruises left in the wake of it.
When he first realized it, Gon wanted to reach out and gather his friend close, wanted to offer an open palm and urge, Here, see? You’re safe. I’ll take care of you. But he noticed the rigid set of his best friend’s shoulders, the flex of his sharp fingers and the aversion of his eyes, and knew he would have to earn that right.
He tried a few tactics. He offered to wash his back in the bath, to brush his hair afterwards, to massage aching muscles after a too-rough training session. All offers were quickly shot down with looks of honest incredulity as if Killua was unable to fathom the idea. He probably couldn’t, Gon realized after months of rejection.
So he thought smaller. He stopped the grand gestures and switched strategies completely, chose small actions that could easily be dismissed if Killua wanted. He’d brush his fingers against Killua’s when they exchanged things, like clothes or chopsticks, or when they walked close together in the street; he would brush away a stray crumb of chocolate from his cheek, or trail his fingers along the nape of Killua’s neck after a pat on the back in congratulations, or knock his foot against Killua’s before leaving it there when they sat side-by-side to eat lunch.
Nothing too unusual to make his friend suspicious, but just enough to create a sort of familiarity. Until Killua felt comfortable asking for more.
When he finally did, he’d choked on the request, as if his throat constricted around the words, forcing him to swallow them down the same way he’d been forced to lock away his heart for twelve long years. Three years of freedom couldn’t erase a decade of brainwashing, so even if Killua didn’t fully understand what he wanted—what he needed—Gon did.
“Okay,” he’d answered immediately, patting the space in front of him on their shared hotel bed. “C’mere.”
Killua sat, gingerly, muscles tensed with an instinct to flee like Gon hadn’t seen since before East Gorteau. But still he sat in front of Gon and waited, expectant.
“Can I hold your hand?” Gon had asked softly, ducking his head to catch Killua’s avoidant gaze. There was a moment of, not hesitance—because Killua wanted this, he just didn’t know what that meant, exactly—but of consideration, of whether he should.
Of whether he deserved it.
And Gon doesn’t know how to tell him he does, he does, Killua deserves everything and if Gon can give him even a fraction of what his deprived heart craves then he’ll do it without a second thought.
But then he whispered, “Yes” and Gon reached out.
And now Killua is looking at him as if he couldn’t be any more content than he is in this moment, with Gon’s warm hands cradling his face; as if he could stay like this forever, leaning into Gon’s touch.
It’s exactly what Gon had hoped for him when they’d started. His fingers tremble against Killua’s skin and it doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Gon?” Killua shifts as if he’s going to pull away. Loathe to shorten this moment for his friend (and yes, he can’t help his selfish wishes, for himself too) Gon slides his free hand up until he’s combing through soft white curls. Killua pauses, then sinks heavier into Gon’s palm. His breath leaves him in a wispy sigh, eyes fluttering closed. He looks so content, Gon’s heart is full to bursting.
“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, “I’m just glad.”
Killua doesn’t ask glad for what, just hums lowly and accepts the petting.
He isn’t sure how long they sit like that, with Gon threading his fingers through Killua’s hair while his best friend basks in the simple action. Eventually though, Killua stirs and opens his heavy-lidded eyes to blink sleepily at Gon.
“Aren’t you tired of this yet?” he asks. Gon shakes his head with a small smile but pulls his hands away anyway, knowing it’s Killua’s way of acknowledging his limit.
“We can do it again another time, if you want,” he offers. Killua hums noncommittally, lifting his arms above his head in a shoulder-popping stretch. He’s averted his eyes again, a pastel pink tinging the bridge of his nose when he murmurs, “Yeah, maybe.”
It’s as good as a promise, Gon thinks happily, heart somersaulting in his chest. A promise that’s cemented when Killua’s hand finds his, long fingers wrapping lightly around his wrist to tug him up and off the bed.
“C’mon,” he orders, leading Gon toward the bathroom. “We should sleep or we’ll wake up too late to start the hunt tomorrow.” He tosses a mild glare over his shoulder as he adds, “And I’m not waking up to your morning breath again, so brush your teeth!”
Gon laughs, his chest full to the brim with warmth and light, as Killua marches forward without ever letting go of his hand.