Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

   "My name is Killua Zoldyck." I already began to notice hostility. A small audience awaited patiently, seated in a circular formation. "And my father is a substance abuser, but that's far from the only thing he abuses." You can be open, I told myself. Someone needs to know the whole story. Someone else. "It began with the loss of a heartbeat."

   That's when the drama began, but my life started much sooner: summer camp freshman year.

   It was a boarding camp made to fulfill kids' dreams, but for me, it was slavery, shackles and chains dragging behind my every step. It was a camp that gives opportunities. Opportunities for the future, so childhood meant waiting--waiting for adulthood, and adulthood meant waiting for retirement. I envied those who enjoyed the moment, not a care in the world, just living amongst the flow of life. Grandpa told me those who look ahead are smart. If so, intelligence is a prison.

   Another year of summer camp. Another Bore.

   I remember so vividly the smell of the forest: wet, clammy. Each leaf clung to my shoes, mud dampened the soles, and my backpack stuck to my skin. Bugs buzzed, some disgusting, some not, and stationary wind kept the weather stagnant. I followed the crowd like livestock, but I never blended in enough.

   Each assigned cabin had four beds. The faculty miscalculated when assigning my short-term home, which campers called Base. There were four students and an extra assigned to cabin eight. The extra slept on the couch.

   "Only losers are sleeping there, and I'm not a loser." A teen with ruffled brown hair had said.

   The others agreed. Everyone simultaneously turned to me, eyes filled with pity, demise, disgust, or annoyance. From that point on, I spent as little time at "base" as possible. Mornings, I explored. Noon, I waited for night, and at night, I bathed under the twinkling night sky alone with my thoughts.

   As for socialization, I listened from a distance. It was always the same egotistical talk of young boys: interrupting each other by boasting. That's when I noticed another boy my age. Spiky black hair, eyes a myriad of browns, and happy, a smile always plastered on his face. Counselors loved him, kids admired him, and animals would rub against his sun-kissed legs. I started gravitating towards him like a moth would with light. He always caught my attention as I watched from afar, but getting any closer risked me catching flame.

   Not once did I hear his name. 

   It happened one night when the sun said its goodbyes for the day. I patted along the river's edge in a straight line, heels touching toes and toes touching heels as a small child would do when coming across a sidewalk curb. The wind gusted for night exclusively, sheering the surface of the water, and tugging the short hairs away. I came across the bridge. Campers aren't allowed across the bridge due to the danger of falling from such height, especially with kids jumping off thinking of the water as a cushion. To me, the bridge was the structure between freedom and captivity; life and death. I always paused at the cement line. Sometimes I would place a foot over, testing the waters, but I would retract immediately.

   Until the day I had enough. I took off, running against the cement until reaching the peak of the arch. Nothing happened that day, and that's what bothered me. Nothing to look forward to in this dreadful, waiting-on-time life, nothing to go back to, nothing worth the suffering. Nothing. My mind was blank as I slid a leg over the railing. I wanted to jump, end everything on the bridge signifying life and death because neither side was any different for me.

   The next leg over the railing.

   I wasn't thinking. For the first time, my mind was blank. I gripped both hands behind me, looking down below: darkness like falling into an endless void.

   "Don't do it." A familiar voice, timider than usual.

   I whipped my head around to find the spiky-haired, brown-eyed boy. He had his hand out, and I never focused on a palm so intently in my entire life. His were scathed, fingers thick, and one tattering scar on his wrist.

   "Go away!" I stammered. No, stay. Help me.

   He didn't falter, scrunching his eyebrows and focusing his shimmering amber gaze on me. If it were any other situation, I would've blushed. He spoke slowly, "It's not a good idea."

   "What do you know!" He knew enough, I told myself. The scar was too close to his vital point to be an accident.

   He didn't say anything, just pushed his open palm towards me, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth. It's like he was telling me: I'll show you the reason to live. I'll show you that you're important. I'll show you.

   So I complied, shakily entwining my fingers with his, skin so warm. And when my feet once again touched the safe ground, I was crushed into a furnace of a chest, his arms wrapping around me, not careful like I might break, not scared as though I would hurt him, but firmly, securely, and for once, I felt safe. "Thank you," I mumbled against his shoulder.

   All too soon, he let go. A small smile graced his perfect lips. "See you tomorrow, Killua," before leaving with a wave.

   I stood there, gaping like a fish. I wanted to know his name with a gnawing curiosity; the flustered part of me wanted to know how he knew mine. But that would wait until tomorrow.

   I didn't get any sleep that night, but not due to fear of what might come through that door next, or because I was afraid to live with whatever life will slap in my face next, but excitement. I was banging my head with a pillow and watching the moon inch painfully slow across the pitch-black sky. Sounds I was usually immune to, crickets, owls, and branches swaying precariously echoed off the wooden walls. It was driving me mad, so I decided to get up. Who needs sleep anyway?

   The clubhouse was open twenty-four seven for needs like bathrooms facilities, midnight snacks for starving teenagers, and it was the center of socialization. During hours of dawn, it became a place for me to feel safe and secure on my own. Often in early mornings, I would find myself leaving Base and sauntering on the clubhouse's rocky pathway.

   A lone upright Yamaha stationed near the big rectangular windows that would only show the online of forest in the moonlight. I always gravitated towards the piano, though I never understood why. Grandpa would always declare: The Zoldyck Family has a legacy of good ears for music, which I believed, but only half of us enjoyed it. I liked it with zero correlations to the family, and I despised playing for anyone but myself. 

   It seemed like Grandpa had twice the expectations of me to make up for the failure of my father's generation. Each member graduated with PhDs, many of them either became professors or attended Harvard. And then Grandpa married my grandmother; later came my father when they were eighteen. You would think Darwinism would take some effect, but alas, Dad twisted all sense of logic.

   An alcoholic. And later to morph into a twisted drug addict with greed possessing all, but I didn't know that at the time. What I knew is that my dad had a minor problem with his addictive personality, and the good outweighed all. Mom always emphasized the importance of education. She said it was necessary for independence, but until later, I had no idea how important that was.

   So I lifted the lid of the piano gingerly, and I played to my heart's content. Chopin, to me, was the language of loneliness, and I understood it fluently from the light press of the sustain pedal to the resonating melody accompanied by the sub-voices of harmony. To this day, I still ponder how I didn't hear the footsteps behind me or the door swaying open in the forceful breeze. But there stood the tawny-eyed boy, leaning against the music rack, so close that all I could smell was the fresh mint of his toothpaste.

   "That's beautiful." Even his voice became my new favorite sound.

   I was at a loss of words, and it remained that way until he spoke again.

   "You should play for others more often. I bet the campers would love it."

    I shook my head. But I'll play for you.

  "Is your hair naturally white?"

   "Pretty much," I picked at my bangs.

   "It's really pretty."

   It was only the second confrontation, and I already labeled him as the most embarrassing person on the planet Earth and possibly beyond. Small conversation continued from there. Or rather, Gon did all the talking by asking questions, and I responded in short, abrupt ways. It was just a habit. When raised by a family where even one sentence is hard to get across, stretched communication becomes a struggle. Then I asked the one question that burned at the back of my mind, "What's your name?"

   The boy showed off a toothy grin, "Gon. Gon Freecss!"

~*~

   Gon Freecss: optimistic, honest, good-natured, outgoing, and every other label I couldn't begin to comprehend. We became fast friends, both of us sneaking out after dusk and returning to Base at dawn. And I'm glad, so very thankful I took Gon's hand. Maybe it wasn't the bridge that separated life and death, but rather Gon.

   The lighthearted campfire games (most of them involved marshmallows) to jumping in the river and splashing each other until one of us nearly passed out. Our relationship was nothing serious, even though deep down, we had many serious things to talk about. But with each other, we enjoyed the carefree nature of freedom, living. I pushed down any feeling that had the potential to destroy it. And for the first time, days passed too quickly, and so many good memories, one after another, caused me to wonder why I haven't died from a chainsaw and awoke to find it was all a dream.

   I wanted to cry on the last night of camp. Gon and I set up a campfire near the rippling lake.  The stars were as bright as the fluorescent lights seen in professional buildings, as beautiful as a diamond reflecting like mirrors. And Gon. His tan skin accentuated by moonlight, hair as dark as the night sky. We didn't speak much at all that night, and we didn't need to. We were mere children, nothing much to control in our lives, so we learn to enjoy the moment, which is something I discovered alongside Gon.

   It was the first night what they discussed was serious.

   "I have a parent who's a strict Jehovah Witness." A silence. "I'm not allowed to have friends, but I have one guardian who sneaks around those rules. Maybe...?"

   "We can't." I hated to shut down his possibility like I didn't care because I did. God, I cared like my life depended on it.

   I saw Gon wince, "I figured," he let out a pained laugh. After a moment passed, he held out a pinky finger, looking at me with those eyes I often got lost in, "Promise you won't forget me?"

   "As if I could ever forget you, moron." I playfully nudged him in the side.

      I'll never forget you as long as I live.

   I immediately snapped back into the present when feeling those familiar thick fingers caress the hairline near the back of my neck. Gon was close, very close. My eyes widened to the size of the moon, but I didn't move away. I never wanted to move away. My gaze locked with his, never averting as I watched him slowly close the distance, eyelids falling halfway, minty breath now closer than ever.

   I melted when our lips touched. And God, to be able to feel Gon's smile, I tried desperately not to make a high pitched noise that would cause separation because I didn't want to ever separate. I wanted, needed to pull closer. Close enough until I could feel his heartbeat on my chest, close enough so Gon's hair would tickle at sensitive places behind my ear; close enough so I wouldn't ever have to let go of Gon.

   It took a good minute before a non-awkward rhythm took place. Gon began moving his chapped lips as I responded fervently, my hands leaving my side and allowing them to crawl up brawny arms to his compact shoulders, and finally, reaching his neck where my arms fit so perfectly like the last puzzle piece.

   I shuddered, and that ripped a groan out of the other. This was escalating too quickly. If we went any further, I don't think I could live with separating from Gon, the pain too excruciating. I wanted to block out my thoughts, especially when a slippery wet tongue pried the seems of my lips.

   I pulled away.

   The night went like every other would, both acting as though nothing happened, but both him and I, knowing that we had the same feelings. Neither of us talked about what would happen in only a few hours, although I'm sure it underlined his every thought just as it did mine. And when morning came, buses parked near the bridge, we both waited side-by-side when backpacks in hand. My heart stopped as my assigned bus arrived, I wanted to turn to Gon, hug him, kiss him, anything! But I only stared instead.

   He slid a piece of paper into my grasp, and there when I saw pain flicker in the pools of his eyes. "Remember that we will always be friends," I'll never be alone. "Know that someday, we'll meet again." That 'someday' when we escape.

   It ended where it began.

   To this day, I kept the crumpled piece of paper by my nightstand, rereading it every night, the memory of his voice, that I always drifted off to, fading by each moment. It contained a phone number and in sloppy handwriting, the words: it could be months, years, decades even, but it's only time.

   Whenever life seemed unbearable: Mom stressed out to death, Father with unpredictable emotions, grandparents doing nothing, me parenting my sister; me a victim to everything. I remembered those words. 'It's only time.' Meaning, our friendship, our feelings, will never dwindle, and that served as a foundation for everything.

   But even still, it wasn't only time that stood in the way. I was only a hair away from exceeding rock bottom, and I was naive to it. Often I wished that I could go back in time and warn myself, but then I would think: warning or not, no one can adjust, and no one can adapt. It could happen every day of my life, and my feelings wouldn't become any easier.

   "It began with the loss of a heartbeat."

Chapter Text

   July 5th, two days before my birthday, my grandmother passed away.

   She was a mother to me because my mother wasn't, though it was until later I realized my mother was hiding the truth from me just like everyone else-- until I had to find out everything myself, I watched as other kids had their parents cheer them on during sports games, piano recitals, birthdays. I'd search and search and search until I didn't-- until began to search for my grandmother.

   Until I didn't.

   I remember the night when my father barged into my room, screaming. Me, barely awoken from slumber, glanced at my clock to find it was two a.m. But everything in me paused when noticing my father cry. He never cried, and that terrified me. I struggled to find my voice, "What happened?"

   I didn't receive an answer, but I jumped in the car anyways, Alluka asleep in my arms. I almost drifted off as we all drove in silence, head nodding, eyelids wanting to glue shut. My parents mumbled in the front seats, but I grew too tired to listen. 

Ambulance lights pierced the night sky. The alarm shrieking, parked in front of the driveway I always drew chalk on with grandmother. I didn't wait for permission, jumping out of the car and running into the house. Two men stood side-by-side, frozen at the sight. Grandpa had my lifeless grandma in his arms. Her always-fixed hair draped along her shoulders, eyes closed, and colorless. Tears immediately clouded my vision as Grandpa yelled to the doctors, "You were too late! She's gone! She's gone." 

She looked so peaceful, my grandfather covering her with the quilt we made together that she never slept without, and I thought how amazing that must feel to be shielded in warmth from the coldness of this lonely world.

It hurt.

Just six hours prior, I was waving with a smile as Alluka chased after her car cheering temporary goodbyes-- or, what we thought was temporary. The death was sudden, too sudden, memories of her alive and well too fresh in my mind to accept reality. But she's gone.

   The last thing I remember from that night is crying. 

   That's how most memories were.

   Except those made with Gon.

   Father didn't bother to show up at her funeral, he hid from pain. I read a speech, didn't cry for the sake of others, but the dam was near shattered when Grandpa came up to me, puffy eyes and a pale face. "You know, Killua. She loved you the most."

  You always hear the saying: You don't know what you've got until it's gone. Realizations like that hit hard, but it hit Father harder. Grandpa stayed locked in his house, and we didn't see him for months. We lost both grandparents The Night No One Speaks Of. 

 There are many Nights No One Speaks Of.

 This was just one of them.

  Perhaps this is where I should begin?

  No. It began much sooner. I just didn't realize.

  Kids never do.

   “Killua?"

   I blinked back into awareness. A blonde woman had called my name, blue-ish eyes narrowed, sympathetic. However, the hostility still wafted from bodies everywhere. "Right, sorry," I cleared my throat. "My father began drinking from there."

   He was the hostile drunk, the unapproachable sort. After breakfast, I'd throw away disposable napkins only to open the trashcan and see empty beer bottles, overfilling and spilling; littering and scattering across the floor. Before school, I'd find him passed out on the couch, but he never bothered us because his 'drinking time' was during sleep hours.

   Days, months, felt like years, and it was summer, once again—summer going into sophomore year. Mother no longer felt comfortable leaving me with the boarding camp I grew to love because I changed when I got back. I was happier. But it was nonetheless a 'change' that my family feared, so it was two weeks of rigorous music camp.

   I had a backpack heavy from music weighing down my back as I entered a modern building. I did what I do best: concealing my existence by keeping to myself. I didn't even bother to introduce myself to others, just moped to the nearest practice room, and slammed the door shut. I pulled out the Prelude and Fugue in B flat major from the well-tempered clavier by J.S. Bach.

   Boring. Easy. A chore. Stuck practicing a song you dislike for hours a day, for weeks, or even months.

  That's how playing the piano was. While it was a hobby, it became a job to ensure success for financial independence. I didn't ever want to pursue it in college. It worked more as a safety net. I needed to be able to be financially independent and take care of Alluka. I don't want to steal anymore. 

   "I won't let you play Chopin. You aren't ready for it," said Ms. Kreuger.

   It's because I'm not good enough. It frustrated me to tears. "I practice more than every other kid in this building." My voice began to strain, "I see freshmen play it easily. I'm doing this camp when no one else in this school signed up. I practice mornings, during lunch while everyone else is chatting with friends, and practicing hours when I get home! My academic classes have suffered for this course, sleep now only a luxury, and I don't even know one person in this entire school! What more do I have to sacrifice?!" How could I improve if you don't let me? And If I don't improve, I'll never be able to get scholarships, my entire high school years put to waste. 

   "Ask me senior year."

    Yes, just wait everything out, Killua.

   As always, my words fell over deaf ears.  Tomorrow was the last day of camp (thank god). I was so ready to go home and throw my sheet music in the trash. Or maybe I wouldn't, because everyone else wouldn't want me to. Maybe I'll station it on the music rack of the piano as a reminder of false hope, and as a reminder that my life isn't about me.

   And that's when I ran into a person I was worried I may never see again. The practice room door swung open, and there stood the boy with bronzed skin, shape more compact than last met, and his eyes, god his eyes, a bit different, darker as if the tan from summer camp never quite left him just as my memories of it never did.

  His mouth fell open in shock, then curved in a smile of relief. "Killua!" His eyes teared at the corners, and before I knew it I was crashed into a loving embrace that said, please don't ever leave. Please don't leave me to be lonely.

 I grew paranoid he could hear my erratic heartbeat, but I decided I didn't care and wrapped my arms tightly around his back, feeling those soft hairs around his neck feather over my fingertips.

   "You haven't changed much," he laughed.

His voice changed. 

I laughed back. I missed laughing with him. "Shut up. Did you grow an entire foot?" I asked with a familiar sensation bubbling in my chest.

   "Well," Warmth coursed through my body as Gon leaned against the wall, "I'm six feet tall now." He put a flat palm above my head, "What're you? 5'9?" The smirk. I wanted to both slap it off his face and trace it with the pads of my fingers.

    I rolled my eyes, grumbling, "5'7."

   Gon laughed, and I watched with ringing ears. I love that sound, I remember loving it back then as well.

   A silence occurred of both of us staring at one another with a small smile plastered on our faces. I thought, 'this fixes everything. This is worth the wait,'

   "You're still the most beautiful person I know."

    Gon's always gave me strange feelings I never felt before. The sweat on my palms, the sudden rush of heat furling in my lower belly, and the wetness forming in my mouth. I looked away, "It's weird to call boys pretty."

    And suddenly those words are bouncing off Gon's face. The scent of his breath sent familiar chills down my spine, body shivering, anticipatory. "I don't think so," Gon's voice turned to a hushed whisper, "I missed you."
 
   "I missed you too." I tried to hold eye contact with Gon, my eyes wanting desperately to travel to his lips. I wanted to see if they're still as soft as they look or if they still tasted sweet. His face inched closer, closer. Instinctively, I sucked in a large portion of air. 
   The intrusive bell snapped me out of my daze. I immediately retracted from Gon. "I...uh, I'll see you tomorrow." I didn't look him in the eye I a sloppily shoved all the sheet music into my backpack. An arm stopped me, firmer than I recall, "Why didn't you call?"

   My heart stopped. Of course Gon would notice my absence, he wasn' t that stupid. My eyes locked on the ground, "I've been busy."

No. The truth was, I didn't have hope that things would go back to the way they were. I hid from change, too. 

   Suddenly Gon's phone rang. The profile picture had a beautiful blonde girl on it, grinning with the prettiest green eyes I've ever seen. The contact name: Retz with various hearts next to her name. It hurt. My heart dropped, body felt cold, and water clouded my vision. The awful mixed feelings of jealousy, hatred, and stinging pain had my fists clench, knuckles popping, I wiggled from his grasp and dusted my self off, and when I looked at him, I held back a wince as I saw the hurt in his eyes. "Guess it wasn't only time, after all," I mocked. Lugging my backpack on one shoulder I stopped right before exiting the practice room, but then I decided I should look back-- As bleak as the future was, it only seems that much bleaker when the past was so much brighter.

The door shut and I never looked back.

   When I arrived home, something felt off. I walked with hesitance as I inched to the front door. Suddenly it boomed open, Alluka running into my arms. "Alluka, what happened?!" I asked frantically. 

   She was crying.

   "Stay here." I ordered, and Alluka nodded with teary eyes. As I ventured deeper into the house, I heard glassware shattering, a woman crying, and fathers voice, furious. I peered around the corner.

   "I won't let you take the kids overseas!"

   "Are you worried I'm going to auction them off or something?! You control nothing, woman!"

   I jumped when my mother turned to me with frightened eyes. Suddenly she's running towards me, and I was unsure whether to bolt or stay. She grabbed my wrist, and I'm dragged to her car. Alluka was already in there, hiding and covering her ears.

   "Get in the car, Killua!"

   I didn't think twice, hopping in the car and rushing to buckle my seat belt. 

   Alluka whimpered in the back, "Mommy, what happened?"

   "Father and Mommy aren't going to live with each other for awhile."

   Alluka gasped "You're getting divorced?"
 
   "No, no. Just a temporary separation. Your father is a bit...sick. He'll get better with time." 
 
   Time. Waiting. I felt sick.

We stayed in a hotel room that night. When Alluka fell asleep, it was just me and Mom. It was a room of melancholy silence. I didn't ask what happened to cause this, and I didn't want to.

    It was near the end of the last day of camp. But this time, I wanted it to end. I really wanted it to end. Gon's presence lingered around, making me all the more vulnerable. And I hated feeling vulnerable.

   Before I left camp for good, I noticed a crumpled piece of paper that someone must of slid under the door. I immediately recognized the sloppy, rough handwriting those words my grandfather said to me: I love you the most.

Chapter Text

  "Did you live with your father?" The blonde woman asked.

   "That is just as complicated as everything else." I was beginning to get frustrated. How hard is it to just listen! That's their job, isn't it?!

   Another woman spoke up, reddish hair and chocolatey eyes, "What happened if your parents didn't get divorced?"

   I sighed, glancing at the ceiling with a clouded gaze. There were so many memories I never wanted to revisit, and the annoying part is that they'll stay with me for the rest of my life, clinging to me like a parasite.

   The collapsing of sanity came in five stages, each stage progressively worse and me discovering the brutality of reality so much so that sleeping became a form of escape because anything was better than actuality.

   Mom considered stage one to have begun when father started drinking; I disagree, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

   "Killua?" asked Mom. It was our fourth night in a hotel. Alluka made the room a mess by fabricating a pillow empire, but none of us had the heart to get mad.

   "Hmm?"

   There was a long pause.

   "We need someone to check up on your father."

   My heart sank, "You mean me."

   Another pause, "yes."

   I remained staring at the history textbook in my hand, frozen, devastated. I was afraid of the unknown, the oblivion, and finding the answer alone without anyone else's comfort.

   The next pause was the longest yet, "For Alluka's sake." I turned to Alluka, who was asleep, cuddling a stuffed animal, mumbling our dog's name. Then I heard Mom choke a sob, "And for mine."

   "Okay." It would've been selfish to say no. I didn't know what was going on with Father, and I wanted it to stay that way. Although, the way Mom would stare off into space frequently with a saddened gaze gave away the answer.

   I felt bare walking into the house, vulnerable. The halls were dark, and the house was in the messiest state I've ever seen. Some of Alluka's stuffed animals were chewed up, the living room smelled of urine, alcohol, sweat, and beer cans covered every possible surface. I didn't want to wake up Father, who snored on the now-stained couch, so I carefully slinked around the living room.

   That's when I noticed our puppy, Mike, was missing. My heart dropped for what seems like the umpteenth time that day. I called her name frantically, searching under every pillow, and around every corner.

   "Shut up!"

   I flinched at the harshness present in my dad's voice. "Where's Mike?!" I yelled across the room, careful to leave out any hint of anger or aggression.

   He was out cold.

   I clenched my fists until my knuckles were white, red was all I could see, and I felt hot, very hot. Stomping away, I whipped around when hearing a yelp. I stumbled upstairs as fast as my legs could carry, and when I opened the game room, I found seven young-adult males. The room was foggy, smelling of weed, and all of them were passed out except for one, holding tiny Mike by the tail.

   If killing everyone in sight was considered socially appropriate, I definitely would have indulged in the matter. "PUT THE DOG DOWN!!"

   The black-haired, scruffy man looked over at me and dropped Mike with a thud. I ran over, scooping her up in my arms, reassuringly stroking her white, fluffy fur.

   The man's voice wielded undertones of aggression, "Who are you?"

   I wasn't having any of it. I gave him my coldest of glares, remembering the knife in my pocket concurrently, "Silva's son, dumbass. Now, I have a better question: who the hell are you?"

   "A friend." He replied cockily.

   A fake friend, a user, a leech to the family.

   And then last night, Alluka cried from a nightmare of losing Mike--of losing her best friend. "Get out." It began as a seething whisper.

   Spending night after night in a hotel, afraid of our own home, worried sick about our dog-

   "A pretty boy like you telling us what to do when your drunk father is passed out." The man spurred, walking closer in a provoking manner. "He doesn't care about his family even if he was awake. He only likes the idea of it."

   I laughed, not whole-heartedly, not painfully, but with jeering mockery and pure hatred. Suddenly, almost startlingly out of place, I screamed, "Get out!"

   Everyone in the room winced.

   The bozo's eyes widened upon me taking out my switchblade, "I have no regards for my life, let alone yours," I took a step closer with blazing eyes, "so instead of being a burden to the rest of society by being utterly useless, just get the fuck out."

   I watched as they packed their bags and left, and one person mumbling, "What a pathetic kid."

   Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, and me thinking: You don’t have to tell me. I know I am.

   A called out with phony encouragement dripping with each syllable rolling off my tongue, "Go on, be free, or die for all I care." I kicked the door shut.

   Rolling my eyes, I began walking in the direction of my room with a trembling Mike in my arms, mumbling words of reassurance. Alluka had been crying every night since we left the dog behind because our hotel rooms didn't allow pets. Mike buried her pointed snout against my chest. "Shh, it's okay. It'll just be you from now on and me."

   I stared at the newest piece of crumpled paper stationed on my nightstand. Sighing, I hesitantly began dialing the number.

   And Gon.

   "Killua, you called!" He answered almost immediately like he was waiting for me to call the entire time.

   Maybe it was because I longed to hear the warmth in Gon's reassuring voice or maybe because I wanted to get all the pain over with; perhaps it was the childish craving of instant gratification, of instant happiness, of Gon. But calling him felt instinctual. "Yeah."

   "I'm sorry."

   I inhaled slowly, "Yeah."

   Gon soon began frantically rambling, "I haven't changed my-"

   "Gon, you don't have to explain." I wanted to forget. It's easier that way.

   A pause.

   "Yeah." Gon whispered longingly. And all former tension faded away.

   He continued rambling, about...life; I mostly listened, and God, I loved it that way. Gon always found even the littlest things in life to be adventurous, exciting, and unforgettable. I smiled and entwined my fingers in Mike's white fur.

   "Killua," No one could ever say my name in more of a soothing sense. I knew I could fall asleep to his voice alone, "I missed you."

   Frozen, eyes widening, and butterflies bubbling in my belly. I responded truthfully, "I missed you, too."

   "You want to meet at Dunlavy park?"

   The park. Nature. Summercamp. I remember everything.

   "Gon," fourteen-year-old-me quirked an eyebrow, "no."

   Gon swung down a branch, hanging upside down, our noses nearly touching, "It's just a tree."

   I rolled my eyes, "Unlike you," grumbling as a side-note, "and the general population of humanity, I can't walk up trees."

   Gon hopped down and ambled closer, too close.

   "Gon," I began hesitantly, "what are you doing?"

   He snaked around me and put two warm hands on my waist. I shivered when feeling warm breath caressing the hairs on the back of my neck and slivering up my spine. "I'll lift you up on the count of three."

   Heat crash-landed on my face, "What?! I'm heavy, you know. Two inches taller, remember?!" I pointedly screeched, but of course, Gon didn't listen.

   "One."

   "Gon!"

   "Don't worry, Killua. I can lift you easily."

   "This is embarrassing!"

   "Two!" He continued.

   "I swear to God-"

   "Three!!"

   I yelped as Gon pressed his palm against my waist— rough finger pads ghosting over my abdomen as he lifted up. My legs flailed in the air, and I quickly reached for the nearest branch as a frantic cat would do when nearly falling off an unstable surface. Panting, I finally lunged my body over and sat where all the branches of the thick oak tree met. I side-glanced to Gon, who 'walked' up the tree in an instant.

   He got close to my face and snickered, "See? It wasn't that hard."

   Still regaining breath, I poked him in the, what I expected to be soft but ended up being extremely firm, belly.

  He writhed in pain, "Ow, Killua!"

   I looked in Gon's sparkling amber irises, "Oh shush. That didn't hurt." I rested my head against the rough bark, letting out a drawn-out sigh, eyelids falling in content.

   "Tired?"

   I hummed in response.

   I heard shuffling noises. I gasped when Gon ever so gently lifted my head, and I didn't bother to protest when he rested it against his warm, firm, and comfortable torso. I whispered because speaking at any higher volume would shatter the fragile moment into pieces, "You don't have to, you know." I nestled my head against the Gon's rough, cotton shirt.

   "I want to." I felt the rumble in his words vibrate my cheeks as I pressed closer, trying to physically indulge in affection without a lack of discretion.

   Gon spoke again, and I wondered if I was dreaming already by being this close; being this warm; this happy. "Look," he gently patted my head, "you can see the Milkyway." I squirmed a bit.           

   "Killua!" He whined after I didn't respond.

   "Okay, okay, I'm looking." I sat up and shifted into his lap, tilting my head to the night sky. Breath caught in my throat. Above me clustered shimmering stars, each one wielding individuality from the rest. And in the background, it mimicked a watercolor painting: ethereal with pinks and purple spiraling with the indigos, dusting the pitch-black sky. Crickets hummed in the forest, owls sung, and the plentiful leaves of the oak tree swayed with distant creeks of the thick, wooden branches: nature's vision— the true essence of life.

   I didn't even try to hide a gasp of astonishment.

   "One day," The delicacy in Gon's voice arose, "I want to see the Northern Lights. I believe people get distracted from what really matters."

   I smiled, leaning the back of my head once again onto Gon's chest.

   He continued, "But I guess that's something everyone has to discover for themselves." He paused abruptly, and I let out a questioning hum. "Someday, will you come with me to see the Northern Lights?"

   My eyes shot open.

   Gon began nervously rambling, "Not if you don't want to, of course. I-uh just thought it-"

   He'd want to spend his dream with me.

   "That's a stupid question. Of course, I'd want to come along."

   You already fulfilled my dream: a life with you.

   Gon let out a giddy cheer; I laughed, thanking the lord that my face was turned the other way so he couldn't see the raging blush when he latched his arms around my sides in a loving embrace.

   Silence lingered for a frame of time, but it didn't feel that way. It was as if we were still processing and trying to ingrain our impactful conversation, so we'd never forget.

   I guess Gon was the first to decide to break that silence, "Can you sing for me?"

   I scoffed, "What type of question is that? It's weird just to ask people to sing."

   "I'm not asking 'people,'" He argued defensively, "I'm asking you."

   "My voice isn't pretty."

   I winced as Gon spoke a little too loudly in my ear, "That's not true! Even if you haven't ever sung for me before, I just know your voice is beautiful. It's clear and harmonious even when speaking normally." He put a finger on his chin to show he was deep in thought, then cue the metaphorical light bulb, "Like a siren!"

   "Terrible analogy." I snickered.

   "Hmph, you know what I mean. Maybe you won't sing for me now, but I'll keep asking, I promise."

   Once again, leaning further into Gon, my eyelids fluttered shut, and a grin tugged at the corners of my lips, "Yeah, okay."

   My heart warmed when Gon rested his head on mine, snoring after only a minute. Slowly and gingerly, I traced the scar on his wrist.

   To think that none of this would be possible without an act of self-harm; self-destruction, which made me think of the saying, 'You don't understand happiness if you don't understand pain.'

   That was the first, and last night I spent sleeping beside Gon.

    I blinked back into the present, "Yeah, I'll ask my mom if that's okay."

   "Okay," Gon responded cheerfully, "talk to you later."

   I murmured an agreement.

   "Bye, Killua."

   I smiled, "Bye, Gon."

   "Bye." Suddenly his voice has a mechevious undertone. 

   I barked out a laugh, "You're just trying to get the last word."

   "Okay, bye!"

   "Bye!" I shot back and immediately hung up before he could say anything else.

   I flopped like a starfish on the bed, Mike curling up on my stomach. I jolted up when hearing my phone ring with a text message illuminating the home screen:

   Just now

    Gon:  Bye >:p

  Jesus, Gon.

   I couldn't help but laugh. Snuggling under the sheets, I began humming the song Gon would always sing subconsciously. Maybe, this meant mending the wounds left behind because Gon always had a way of pushing forward even when at the roughest of times. I once again unlocked my phone, but this time, clicked on my mother's contact. Maybe it is possible to go back in time if only for a moment. 

Chapter Text

   Mom didn't allow me to go to the park with Gon. Her excuse being, 'Why a park? That sounds like a hidden plan for abduction or human trafficking.' I rolled my eyes, and what I didn't mention was, 'we're just used to being rich; we've grown accustomed to meeting friends at overpriced restaurants.' But I didn't say that, of course. Mom grew up poor. Even if she momentarily forgot, I'm sure she remembers some semblance of it.

   "What?! How am I supposed to see you now?" Gon whined over the phone.

   I deflated, cursing at myself for getting my hopes up. We aren't normal, and we'll never be normal. Just accept it, Killua.

   "I have an idea!"

   Of course.

   I sighed, "What's your idea?"

   "I work at the Museum of Natural Science-"

   "Gon," I interrupted him, giddy excitement causing my voice to stupidly squeak, "you're working, a fifteen-year-old, let alone your first job, as a tour guide? That's amazing!"

   "So, I finally impressed Killua Zoldyck!" He snickered, "You're not exactly an easy person to impress."

   I stuck my tongue out even though I knew he couldn't see it. You're mistaken. Everything you do, even the way you think, never ceases to amaze me, though I kept those thoughts to myself.

   "So, will you go on a date with me?"

   My heart stopped for a moment, only to start beating rapidly the next. "Yeah," I whispered.

   "Yeah," he whispered back.

   And then we whispered our goodbyes. I'd never let anyone know it, and I was embarrassed myself for feeling this way—this dependent, but just calling Gon made the entire day brighter as though his eccentric aura seeped through the telephone lines and dispersed into my atmosphere. It's as if the warmth radiating from his body traveled and wrapped its arms around me in a loving embrace--as if Gon was the personification of everything right in the world. And I just knew I would be lost without him. Lost.

   Meanwhile, everything was going well on the family's end of things. I even wondered why and began mentally preparing myself for when everything goes haywire. Mom doesn't know what happened the last time I visited the house, and she probably already knew. Dad pretended as though nothing happened, which was typical, so none of us cared.

   Their separation was smooth. Mom moved into our house because she primarily took care of us, it made sense capacity wise, and Father found a small but expensive apartment.

   It's as though our problems became minor, and it was as easy to brush off as a leaf barely clinging to scraps of clothing. This gave me room to concentrate on only three things that mattered most: Gon, school, and Alluka.

   And while I wish I could say time flew until our specified 'date,' which no one knew about, it didn't. I almost enjoyed it more not having hope in seeing Gon because each passing minute was suffocating. Those few days, hours, and minutes that separated the present and Saturday was nothing but, in the way, an obstacle. I knew I would look back and curse at myself for not enjoying this luxury portion of my life.

   To which I indeed regretted. But that's a story for later.

   However, it wasn't time that was in the way; it was my feelings, my stupid, naive, childish, but motivating feelings. It was that to which I feared most. This borderline 'worship' of Gon would only serve as a disaster someday, a disaster for him, a disaster to my family, and a disaster to me. And as much as I wanted to throw everything I had at him, and as much as I didn't want to seem closed-off or uninterested, I approached each word and action with caution to avoid clinginess and my nature akin to codependence.

   I guess what I feared is that I would only value or appreciate my life when Gon was in it, which told me what my true colors were: self-destructive.

   So after minimal sleep, after spacing out of conversations, and after blanking during piano lessons and class lectures, Saturday finally stumbled around the corner.

   I attempted to tame my tangly fluff-as-hair, brushed my teeth twice, made sure not to wear a wrinkled pair of shirts and jeans, and continued fooling around with my appearance until I didn't cringe when glancing at my reflection.

   Alluka sat outside the bathroom door with a pouty face and arms crossed, "Why can't I come with you to see your friend?"

   Because it's a date.

   "You'll get to meet him soon." I patted her head.

   She rolled her eyes, "Mom, it's definitely a date."

   I tried incredibly hard to withhold from a flabbergasted expression.

   But Mom didn't budge, "No, Alluka, he's going to meet a friend. His name is Gon."

   Alluka mumbled with puckered lips.

   Mom drove us over to the museum, and I fidgeted with every possible thing that could be fidgeted with: sleeves, collared shirt, strands of hair; it was endless. I couldn't help but think: Should I act normal? Or am I supposed to act 'romantic'? Would this change anything between us, or could we be the same Killua and Gon I miss with every passing minute? And it was these questions that busied my mind until I found myself subconsciously jumping out of the car and following Mom, only to snap right back into reality when seeing Gon nervously pick his nails amid a crowd of people.

  He wore his typical forest-green shirt with, surprisingly, a pair of jeans that remained unblemished from holes or stains. His hair stuck out from all directions, and honey-brown eyes instantly sparkled when meeting mine.

   Mom quickly waved her goodbyes, and it seemed like the impossible happened: I'm with Gon—alone from overwhelming impediments and free from shackles and chains, free to do as we please; free to once again live with Gon.

   "Killua!" He ran up to me. It was almost awkward like we should've hugged but remained too insecure about carrying out the action, which I understood completely.

   "Hi, Gon." He didn't even do anything, and a bubbly smile twisted my face. "So, what do you have planned?"

   "Um," He scratched his head, "frankly, I didn't think this would work, so I haven't planned anything."

   Was I surprised? No.

   "I know!" Gon raised a finger pointedly. And if life was a cartoon, and it was possible for lightbulbs to appear whenever a blockhead fabricates a plan, Gon would be a lightbulb factory.

   I rolled my eyes and spoke in an all-knowing manner, "What's your plan?"

   "Let's play hide-and-go-seek in the energy section!" He bounced up and down, which looked quite awkward, him being six-feet and all.

   Nonetheless, it was strangely adorable.

   "Yeah, okay." And I found his childish plan relieving. The title 'date' was intimidating because the fear of unwanted change encroached every corner of my thoughts until I loathed for comfort. Thankfully, it was all for phony reasons because Gon will always be Gon, and that's all that mattered.

   Gon counted first, going from heel to toe with every consecutive number just as he had back at camp. And one detail that I never forgot is that Gon always tries his best, even if that meant playing hide-and-go-seek as a teenager. At camp, I found him once camouflaged at the top of a pine tree, and I probably never would've found him if it weren't for the yelp he let out when a pine cone fell on his head.

   I hid from both Gon and the faculty under a weird mechanical attraction, knowing I would be in serious trouble if caught by the employees. It was under there I discovered that not once that day, not one moment, a grin faded from my face. I've heard people call romantic feelings 'temporary' or 'momentary happiness,' but I knew without a doubt that whenever the term 'happy' came up, I would immediately think of Gon. Without a doubt.

   And it was under there I discovered I was hopelessly and helplessly in love with the biggest moron/ genius the world had to offer.

   "Found you!" Gon popped out from nowhere like some descendent of Beetlejuice. I bonked my head on the stupid metal thing; Gon rolled on the floor laughing (legitimately rolled) while I watched with a cocked eyebrow, trying to hold down the similar sensation bubbling in my chest. 

   "Okay," said Gon, still giggling between syllables, "I know a better place."

   When Gon mentioned 'a better place,' I immediately thought of something outdoors or another attraction that had something to do with biology because that's who Gon is. But 'a better place' ended up being the most beautiful room I've ever seen. Calming music of a string quartet wafted in the background, the walls painted pitch-black to accentuate interior decor, silver lining crawled up the corners, red carpet gave off an impression of formality as a way of romanticizing visitors, and the dim light reminded me of the time of night when I'd always go out to explore with Gon—the Gem Vault.

   In each glass frame, stationed seemingly ethereal gems of all sorts: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, just everything.

   I sucked in a breath.

   Gon spoke up, "This room is hidden compared to the rest of the museum. I think many people forget it exists, but this is an area for me to decompress."

   I meandered around, holding my hands behind my back and peeking at each stone, admiring the different varieties of reflection each one had to offer. To think everything in the world carries individuality, but to think humans are the only animals capable of the reflective memory to even realize it—a blessing but a curse. 

   And then I came across my favorite jewel of all: the opal. Gon must've noticed I paused because he suddenly found his way next to me, his breath fogging the glass as he whispered, "this is my favorite, too. This opal wields more color than any other gem. Every visitor quickly glances over it because of an opal's general ranking in rarity. I guess even rocks have stereotypes." He turned to me, "funny, right?"

   "It reminds me of you." I immediately started cursing myself out with how cheesy I sounded, but too late now.

   "Huh?"

   "It brings every color together without a clash. And..." I trailed off when seeing a particular type of smile I've only seen once or twice before: a small curve, completely genuine, and fully content.

   "Killua, sing for me?"

   "What?" I said off-beat.

   Gon inches closer, his head invading the socially constructed space bubble, "Will you sing for me?"

   I dipped my head, "Not today."

   "But it's been an entire year!" Gon whined.

   I laughed despite feeling somewhat disappointed in myself. I'm sure he's disappointed, too. But that was one promise I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep no matter how much effort I put into it. Singing ushered memories that I would now only consider nightmares...just as music later did.

   Sorry, Gon, not today.

   Gon stuck a snickers bar in front of my face. My eyes widened, his hazel irises danced in a hypnotic fashion.

   He remembered.

   It was the morning after I first spoke with Gon. I sat on the ledge of the big rectangular windows in the clubhouse and mindlessly stared at the leaves swaying back and forth amongst the wind. The world around me was chaotic—kids jumping over tables and chasing Gon over a snickers bar and screaming with laughter as he would present some acrobatic move to dodge the needy hands.

   Suddenly the snickers bar appeared in front of my face, and all the noises went quiet. I glanced up to see Gon, looking down at me with bright eyes and a toothy grin. "I-"

   "Do you like chocolate?"

   If I weren't caught off guard, I would've responded like: Chocolate is the supreme deity over all life forms. But in actuality, my response was, "uh, yeah." And I timidly (partly petrified from all the watchful eyes of the campers) grabbed the snickers bar and shoved it in my mouth with a crooked smile.

   Another kid broke the silence of astonishment, "Wait, why does he get the snickers bar?" Cue the chorus of complaints.

   Gon turned back to them and silenced them all, "Maybe you could learn a thing or two from Killua, and you'd find out for yourselves."

   Another camper grumbled, "You just gave it to him because you think he's pretty."

   "Be quiet, Gaito!" Gon was...embarrassed? 

   I simply watched with chocolate smeered  on the corners of my mouth; I couldn't help but think: thank you, Gon.

   For everything.

   A snapped out of my trance and back into the present, "You remembered."

   Gon showed off a victorious grin, "I figured one year wouldn't be long enough to change your sugar diet." Suddenly, sparkles glimmered in his eyes, followed by droplets running down his face. He was crying. I've never seen him cry.

   "Gon-"

   He swiftly snuffled and wiped his face with his sleeves. "It's nothing."

   I didn't push him, knowing Gon is the type of person to open up when he feels comfortable. Though it greatly concerned me, we dropped the topic. Small talk lingered from there, and when we felt caught up in current events, we calmly laid by the outdoor fountain and closed our eyes to the presence of one another and the faint trickling of water with periodic droplets splashing on our cheeks.

   The date blasted all faded emotions of camp to life, dispersing into a colorful atmosphere; it renewed happiness; a date meant living with Gon. That delivered the essence of tranquility, which would busy my mind while bored. It provided a reverie to drift off into and meander when I wanted to escape reality. And it ended with a peaceful feeling when Mother came to pick me up. We said goodbye to each other with a wave, but this time, I remained hopeful another opportunity would bring us together.

   I never found out why Gon was crying.

~*~

   It was that night.

   Alone in my room, snuggled under my cozy blankets, and still giddy from earlier that day. I had to resist instantly calling him when I got home, my subconsciousness telling me that only an obsessive freak would do that. I happily sketched on my notebook, which was a hobby I picked up over time.

   And then the phone rang.

   I answered immediately once seeing the caller ID. "Gon, how are-" I paused promptly after recognizing something was off. Very off. On the other line, I could only hear sniffing and heavy breathing. For a solid minute, none of us spoke.

"Gon?" I asked hesitantly.

Gon somewhat choked a sob that was probably supposed to serve as a response.

My blood ran cold, "What's wrong?"

Another silence—the longest yet.

"I want to kill myself."

Chapter Text

   Change.

   One of the most controversial fuels to disagreement known to man--it's the iciest slippery slope and the adhesive in sticky situations. Moderation is key— like summer leaves tinting orange and leisurely preparing for winter. Or, when faced with a dire circumstance that you feel the absolute need to get out of, to free yourself from no matter the sacrifice: when the yearned change is welcome. But like two sides of a magnet, the negative side will always scream for attention because it's always there. Hiding it meant suppression, and that never works. Ever.

   Gon got slapped in the face with the negative portion of change. The overwhelming impact of hardships compiled until it shattered the most positive person on earth because that person is human, and I would almost forget that 'minor' detail when it came to Gon. To me, he just seemed like everything right in the world, ethereal. And with him, it was quite easy to forget how difficult the process of living in actuality is.

   As prior mentioned, the collapse of sanity came in stages. Stage one began when Father began drinking, according to Mom. I disagreed.

   Stage One began with Gon's self-harm.

   'I want to kill myself.'

   All hope in me ripped from my heart and resisted nothing as it was pounded into the ground by an ice-cold sentence. And it was that one sentence that sent me into a lifetime of panic. Frantic, but I knew I couldn't let that show in my voice; anger, but that was selfish; sadness, but that would only make Gon feel guilty--the last emotion he needed to be concurrently feeling. So it dawned on me that I am completely helpless-- as useless as a used plastic bag clinging onto a neighboring tree branch and stuck only to serve as a detriment to all surrounding nature. Gon Freecss: the individual I owed everything to for flashing the pain away with his cheerful smile. And me: futile to him when it mattered.

   My response was silence.

   "Killua?"

   "Y-yeah." I cursed at myself for how small my voice sounded.

   Resonating through the line, was a broken cry, followed by sobs that anyone would only consider true despair. "I mean nothing to my family." an uptick, "nothing... to anyone."

   "Gon-"

   "And I try and try and try not to care. Then, BOOM: my father is back in my life followed by my two siblings I had no idea about. Gaito, the kid from camp?" Before I could respond, he interrupted again, his voice speeding up in a panicked accelerando, "That's my twin brother. And my mom ran away from everything only to be replaced by my aunt who sacrifices life itself for religion. The only family I have would abandon me if he found out who I honestly am, and" He cut himself off with echoes of tears, "what if it takes years for me to see the person I love most again?"

   My heart stopped when I realized he was speaking of me; that I was the person he loved most. Every ounce of feeling in me both sparked to life and crumbled in anguish. And I now understood that I wasn't the only one who feared time, which gave his former note that much more meaning.

   I listened to choking hiccups and deep breaths to regain control, and that's all I did: listened, hoping that he would feel better after ranting, and then I could tell him that there was still hope, maybe speak of the northern lights he had always wanted to gaze upon, possibly play Chopin on the piano, or just anything--some little thing that was worth seeing, worth living.

   I found my voice, "I have my entire life planned out, and you better believe you're in it." I added with a smirk, "We should probably start saving to Alaska now before pollution covers the sky."

   Gon laughed, sniffles dwindling, "Yeah, will do."

~*~

   Summer break came to an end, followed by my sophomore year, and onwards came my second year attending the performing and visual arts high school downtown. I attended this school solely for academic success. The name itself wielded some weird sort of specialty that caused a person's ears to perk when mentioned—I joined because I strived to be one of the 'talented' that got in. But what a joke that was. Whichever direction a student goes, their sense of confidence changes in some sort or another. There are the kids that develop a humongous ego boost, thinking, if I'm the best here, then I'm the best everywhere, and then there are those whose self-esteem peaks at the title of being accepted but crumbles from there.

   I was regrettably the latter, but I hoped for change.

   I flew up the stairs, threw my bags down in the nearest practice room, and began warming up with contrary motion scales. I wanted to prove to Ms. Krueger, to the others, and myself that I improved over the summer--that I was no longer a burden; that I could be equal in skill. From freshman year of playing Chopin Nocturne in E flat Major No.2 to advancing to the Brahms Rhapsody in g minor, I'm just as good as the others now, right?

   Wrong.

   Instantaneously, I paused when hearing a Chopin etude, Winter Wind, played by a new freshman. He played it flawlessly, fingers flowing fluidly without any indication of cramps, intensity followed with proper voicing and dynamics. It's okay, it's just one prodigy. There's always one prodigy. I poked out of the practice room. I could compliment him; maybe if we're friends, I wouldn't be a burden, "That's pretty cool."

   The boy shrugged, "Thank you, but it wasn't that hard. What're you playing?"

   I plopped down to the neighboring grand and began with the development of my rhapsody. Another girl popped out of the nearest practice room, bright-eyed, "I love that piece! I played it in sixth grade." Her hair bounced as she sat on one of the pianos and played the entire thing. Again: flawlessly.

   My heart dropped to my stomach, self-esteem shattered into pieces. It's no use, I said to myself, trying to feign indifference and bite my trembling lip. I could try my hardest, and I'll never measure up. For God's sake! I didn't strive to be the best, I wanted--I just wanted to be normal.

   How pathetic.

   Ms. Krueger crashed into the room, snapping her fingers to get everyone's attention. "We don't have much time, so we're hosting a mini-performance. Each one of you will play a piece you learned over the summer. It isn't for a grade, but rather for everyone to see how you play."

   I didn't want to be here anymore. I clutched my sheet music.

   "Killua,"

   "Huh?"

   "You're up first."

   Of course. First. They needed to set the standards low. Nodding, I sauntered over to the piano bench, adjusting the seat and wiping my sweaty hands on my pants. Deep breaths, deep breaths; deep breathes. I improved, I attempted the fake 'confidence' optimists always bring up, saying, the outcome will be whatever you believe it to be, though I didn't believe a word of it.

   I began, starting too loud, accompaniment drowning the melody, and octaves periodically missed.

   Worse than before. Worse than last year. I have to be worth something more than this. That's the reason they accepted me. But that was a mistake. I know I'm decent at some things, so why is it so hard to prove it? Am I just as delusional as everyone else in my family? Why, why, why? It might as well have been a rhetorical question.

    Ms. Krueger coughed. I abruptly lifted my hands from the keyboard to stop all sound, "Aren't you participating in the concerto competition this year?" She asked with a cocked eyebrow, unimpressed--immensely unimpressed.

   "Yes, the Bach concerto in d minor."

   "And I hope that is better than this?"

   I winced, "I haven't started."

   "As expected," she grumbled, "Next!"

   'Next'--a dismissive term that portrayed I was nothing but a waste of time and still a mistake. And the piteous part is I agreed. Never averting my gaze from the carpeted ground, I rushed to my seat, furthest from the others, and listened. I listened. Listened, listened, listened.

   Chopin's Fourth Ballade

   Chopin's First Ballade

   Lizst's Hungarian Rhapsody

   Grieg's Concerto in a minor

   Chopin's Etude Winter Wind

   Chopin's Etude Waterfall

   Bach's Italian Concerto

   And the last freshman bowed at the grand piano, professionally adjusting his seat, and beginning the Bach concerto in d minor--the piece I failed to learn for Ms. Krueger--playing all thirty pages as perfectly as it could be.

   A freshman did it, droplets rolled down my cheeks and spotted on my jeans. A freshman did it, and you couldn't. He played all thirty pages, and you couldn't play one! Night after night, time and time again at the piano, you so blindly thinking you improved, but nothing has changed. Nothing. 'Talented' Yeah right. Ms. Krueger admitted it was a mistake to accept you into this school, and no matter how hard you try, you will forever be a mistake. The only place you serve is a burden.

   As soon as the bell rang, I grabbed my bags and bolted out the door, bangs over my eyes to hide the unwelcome tears.

   Dad was supposed to pick me up from school, but he never came.

   Rain flooded my shoes, harsh droplets blinded me, and damp clothing stuck like glue, revealing every crevice of my torso and becoming transparent by each passing moment. Cars honked their horns, walking pedestrians gave funny looks, and I felt nothing. When I finally reached the entrance of my father's apartment, the door was locked. Screaming to nothing—akin to a desperate wail for some kind of nourishment (despite knowing I would decline if it came my way), I banged my head on the door, "Why-," I choked, "why do I have to be so useless?!" I kicked it, hit it, punched it--no avail. My back slid down the door, backpack soaked and phone: broken. Placing my head in my folded arms, frustrated tears blurred my vision but never fell.

   It's okay. It's just one bad day, one out of three hundred and sixty-five. I can still...improve. But maybe I didn't want to try my absolute hardest? Maybe, I was afraid, frightened that even then nothing would change. Maybe my subconsciousness yearned to hold onto a fragment of self-esteem and cling to the unknown. Maybe the unknown is better than knowing; maybe I already knew the answer.

   Someone unlocked the door.

   I jolted up.

   There stood an unfamiliar old man, huge belly, bald-headed, and a mole the size of Jupiter on the center of his forehead, "Who are you?" He asked.

   I responded with hesitance, "Killua Zoldyck."

   The old man held the door open, "Oh, you're Silva's son! Here, come in." He said it as if I were the guest.

   I slumped in, kicked off my ruined shoes, and threw my backpack against the wall, stomping into the living room, and preparing to give my father a yelling of a lifetime.

   But he was passed out drunk.

   Why? He promised. He promised. He promised to not drink anymore!

   I pitifully nudged an empty beer can with the tip of my foot, watching unfazed as it rolled across the room. The silver tin: blinding in the daylight, navy blue, a shimmering metallic, and the dim clank as the cylinder object would bump into an occasional obstacle until it rested near the dusty corner. And how infuriating some abiotic substance could be. It's presence remained, always there, and now it laid in the corner in taunting hypnosis.

   Whatever. Who cares anymore?

   I just wanted to sleep, call Gon because he understood the frustrations of weakness; forget this day ever happened. But when I opened my bedroom, a horrendous display slapped me directly in the face. Trash littered the floor, shelves cluttered half the room, black pubic hair sticking to the bathroom floor, cherry ice-cream spread on the toilet and mirrors, and behind me stood the old man. "I'm not sure if your father had time to tell you, but I'm going to be living here for a few months, so we had to move some stuff in your father's room into your room." He said in his raspy voice.

   I clenched my fists.

   Stage Two: The Roommate: Bizeff

   Too many flaws about this man made me extremely uncomfortable. He was obsessed with Tinder and was alarmingly addicted to finding various twenty-year-old girls from Venezuela to marry in exchange for money. Father viewed it as saving a family from a difficult country, but I saw it as an indirect form of prostitution. Bizeff would come up to me, show me his phone, and say, "Which woman do you think is worth dating?"

   And the most disturbing part: the type of girls he liked the most frighteningly resembled Alluka.

~*~

   Sleep was not a luxury of that night, or the next, or the next after that. With a broken phone and no privacy, I had no way of telling my Mom the current status. I wanted to warn her, beg her to keep Alluka away from this terror, but no. My uncle, who lives three houses down from my father, decided to carpool me after class each day, and I would wait for Alluka to get off the bus. But every time I opened my bedroom door, I was welcomed with a new disaster that I had the pleasure of cleaning up so it would be somewhat livable for both Alluka and me. The afternoons, I would sit on the black upright piano and practice, and in the mornings, I'd lay on the soft blankets of my bed with a textbook in-hand, Alluka snuffling next to me. It was manageable, good even, but then came change.

   With Bizeff came "The Deal"—the trigger to every following disaster.

   Father worked in the oil industry, as many did in the state, and he was an entrepreneur. His goal: to get rich, filthy rich. And I had no such desire. I admired Father for his undeniable academic intelligence, everyone did. With only a Bachelor's degree, he exceeded those with PhDs and worked with successful businessmen. But "The Deal" separated the delusional from the sane, and that separated the entire family.

   But who knows what sane is anymore? I didn't.

   A notification lit up the home screen of my phone.

   Just now

   Gon:  If pure black is considered to devour reflections of all light, such as black holes, and the color white is the exact opposite, then what's the difference between pure white and a mirror?

   Jesus Christ.

   Killua:  Are you trying to get me to do your physics homework again or something?

   Gon:  Killuuaaaaaa, pleaseeeee. I need someone smart to get me through this course.

   Killua:  Pfft, you're the one who goes to an engineering school.

   I rolled my eyes when Gon's incoming call interrupted the screen. I swiped to answer, "I already told you, I do physics next year."

   "I know!" Gon hummed excitedly, "I just needed an excuse to hear your voice."

   "Idiot-!"

   "Hey, Killua."

   I paused.

   I could still envision him rolling my name so easily off his tongue, and how little effort it would take for him to completely snatch me off-guard and dissolve into a rambling, blushing mess. "Ging said I could bring a friend to the Astros game on Saturday. Could you maybe...go with me?" He finished.

   "I didn't know you were into sports."

   Gon snorted, "I'm not." his tone turned mischievous and somehow alluring, "But there is ice-cream, cotton candy, pizza; do I need to go on?"

   I snickered, "It almost seems like you're bribing me to date you." He yelped, and I burst into laughter. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding, but seriously, what if your aunt finds out?"

   "Heh, as bad as this sounds, Ging is pretty good at hiding things."

   "Uh-huh," I quirked an eyebrow, "and what does that imply?"

   "It implies that I'm going to take Killua Zoldyck on another fantastic date even though we both know nothing about sports."

   I laughed again. And with Gon, laughter was the easiest thing I've ever done.

~*~

   "Brother," Alluka whined, "Gon keeps taking you away from me!"

   I halted, a comb stuck in my tangled mess-as-hair. It's true. Ever since that day, I spent all night on the phone with Gon--whether that was lecturing him on getting other people to do his homework, or idle chit-chat--or listening to Gon as he would breakdown and me living in constant fear that one day, he would slit his wrist, and there would be no going back—the fear of losing Gon. But I never made time for Alluka. "I'll spend more time with you from now on."

   "Promise?"

   I smiled, "promise." fingers gently threading her silky black hair. I checked my phone, anxious, jittery, virtually shaking.

   3 minutes ago

   Gon: Are we supposed to dress up?

   I rolled my eyes.

   Killua:  To a sports game? Seriously, Gon.

   Gon:  Hey! How was I supposed to know? You're so hard to impress.

   Killua:  Well, you seem to enjoy the challenge.

   Gon:  >:p

   I continued texting Gon until I hopped in the passenger's seat of my mother's Lincoln.

   "Killua," Mom spoke up, her voice laced with concern, "this is the second time you're meeting Gon at an odd place. Since when were you into sports?"

   "Since Gon," Alluka grumbled. I wondered if she was trying to tease me or if she was genuinely jealous. And I also pondered whether to be upset about it or not.

   Dismissively waving my hand, "I'm a boy. That crap is normal."

   Mom didn't seem convinced, but that thankfully didn't stop her from driving me over to the Astrodome.

   The meeting was awkward, to say the least. Gon's dad didn't make that any better. Both my mother and I were caught off-guard with their nearly identical appearances and nearly opposite personalities. Ging was gruff, eyes slightly more pointed than Gon's, hair a darker shade, and far shorter. But his personality: abrasive and aloof. There were some aspects I found similar: they thought alike, and I knew they were likely to approach a troublesome situation in the same way: rush in headlong without a doubt, but Gon was far more optimistic...and simple-minded.

   Mother was the exact opposite. Ging was intelligent, that much was patent, but he hid it behind his abrupt language. Mom, though not having much prior education, spoke with formality. She's overprotective—what anyone would consider a helicopter mom, would only show her aggravation through hints (while Ging would flat out say it), and, the most alarming (and the evident) part, according to mother: Ging is gay—though that was based on her assumption alone.

   To this day, I'm still surprised she willingly dropped me off without stalking me or hiding behind a bush (or cement pillar since it's the Astrodome).

   "So you must be Killua Zoldyck." Said Ging with a mutual scowl.

   My eyebrows furrowed, "Yeah..." yet I told myself not to return the hostility to avoid a clash because Gon obviously wanted us to get along or become best friends forever by the way his eyes gleamed with childish delight. And then I remembered the feeling of abandonment Gon felt towards his family, so the last thing I should do is make the matter more complicated.

   Ging left us alone the entire night, and I thanked whatever deity out there, though, by any means, we were not alone. The numerous people made the wide halls feel slender, the rattling noise of constant conversation rang in our surroundings, but that was the last thing we cared about.

   "Okay, we have Dippin dots, pizza, cinnamon rolls, and slushies." Announced Gon, a whimsical look present in his eyes, and part of me wondered how much of it was because I was there. He stretched like he was about to run a marathon when, in fact, it was quite the contrary: a food race. "Three. Two-"

   Defying physics (and Gon), I shoved an entire pizza slice in my mouth, which should've been proportionally impossible, and I even received looks as if I was a buffalo trying to mate with a butterfly.

   "Killuaaaa, that's cheating!" Once Gon realized his mistake (that I was not going to ever stop eating all the food), he quickly stopped whining and crushed his face into the nearby cinnamon roll.

   I won, obviously.

   Bellies full, mouths sticky from various sweets, and droopy eyes. We sat just like that for a solid ten minutes. And then, "Hey, Killua."

   "Hmm?"

   "Follow me."

   I moaned in distraught, "why? I like it here."

   He chortled, "The Killua Zoldyck shot down because of eating too much dessert. Tell me if I should be surprised or not."

   "My family has immunity to cancers, heart attacks, and abusing their bodies through substances, so honestly, eating too much chocolate is the only way I expect to see myself dying." 

   We both laughed at that, but when he grabbed my hand so easily, so confidently like it was the most common or natural action on the face of the planet, I could only stare incredulously. And as Gon ran, I found it admittedly hard to keep up. He not only grew taller but faster as well. "Gon, where are you taking me?!" I yelled between breaths.

   "It's a surprise!"

   Of course. What isn't? A small smile grace my lips.

I mumbled apologies as we shoved our way through the crowd until Gon abruptly stopped, causing me to crash face-first into his solid torso. "Gon, what the h-"

   "Here we are!" Gon announced majestically, arms open as if he was an over-enthused businessman hosting a grand opening. But instead of cutting a silky red ribbon with luxurious, slender scissors, he slammed open the patio door, smashing a stranger's foot into the brick wall. 

   "Kid, what the hell?!"

   Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

   Gon endlessly spurted apologies until the man up and left, grumbling with a hardly audible hoarse, gravelly voice, leaving nothing left but the soft rumble of cheering inside and crickets singing the song of midnight nature.

   "So," I intervened, ambling towards Gon with a playful grin and hands behind my back, "Is there some metaphor behind this place?"

   Smiling in turn, "Nope" he replied, popping the 'p'.

   "Then what makes this place so special?" I watched with wide, curious eyes as Gon leaned over the metal railing of the balcony, overhead lights caressing the edges of his face, and the darkness of night shadowing every perfect detail in his face. I continued to watch as the miniature curve in his lip curled to a heart-stopping smirk. He let out a bellowing sigh, "Why is it special you ask? Because of the goddamn peace and quiet."

   I laughed quite hard at that. We both did.

   He stared back off into the distance while I found myself hanging my arms over the edge in a swinging motion, hypnotized as they swayed right, left, then right again.

   "These are the moments I miss most."

   My heart throbbed, but I didn't bother facing him when I responded, "You know, you could always apply for my school. You're great with the piano, and I'm sure you'd get in."

   I couldn't help but recollect all those early mornings in Summer Camp where Gon would play the piano, and it always left me with a loss of breath. But the thing that surprised me the most: he never played cheerful songs to accommodate his always-optimistic personality, but they were never lonely like mine. His left and right hand would always have an individual sound akin to a duet that anyone could lose themself in. I felt a distant connection to it like the concept of understanding was close enough to brush my fingers with, but would always slip away before I could grasp it—like we were on the same path, but he always stood a few steps ahead. And I never understood why.

   At least, not until later.

   He frowned. I already knew he didn't want to attend my school, but it was nonetheless disappointing.

   "Sorry, Killua. If I attended that school, I know I would end up hating the instrument."

   "Why's that?"

   "Hmm...many reasons, I guess. The biggest reason: I would never indulge in something I love with something I hate. Piano, for me, is like expressing my feelings. Receiving criticism for my playing would destroy all meaning in it for me."

   I didn't say anything in response—mostly because I disagreed. Perhaps not with Gon's opinion, but the logic behind it. We have the freedom of choosing our path, such as deciding a major in college, but everything has some semblance of suffering involved. There's always going to be something you hate following something you love even if it's just a barely visible shadow. And that was one thing I knew for sure our mentalities conflicted with.

   I lived life solely for the purpose of others. To me, my life didn't matter; it only served as a machine to assist others. It's what my family had drilled into me through countless years of childhood. Why go to school? To prevent suffering for your family. Why endure every day of doing something you absolutely despise? Because the here-and-now moment is meaningless for success. Always be a few steps ahead.

   But little did I know, that was the reason Gon surpassed me. He understood years before I ever did, and if only I realized the detriments of a self-destructive personality, so many events could've been avoided instead of awaiting a ticking time bomb.

   Suddenly, music sounded from a nearby speaker attached to the ceiling. A guitar leading an introduction—not electric, but it sounded slightly different from an acoustic. But the first thing I noticed: the melancholy tone of dread...and regret.

   A faced upwards palm appeared in front of my face, the same hand that I grabbed that began everything. "You want to dance?"

   "I can't dance."

   Gon chuckled, "you can't go wrong with Hotel California. Here, I'll guide you."

   Heat rushed to my face when sturdy hands gripped my waist, my eyes locking his. And that one moment lasted an eternity of just searching, searching for every intention and feeling drowning in swirling irises. All my senses peaked when Gon's breath fanned my face. "Yeah," I whispered, "guide me."

   He directed me to spin as I laughed airily until the dance morphed into a gentle sway. With a burst of confidence, I buried my head into his chest, cheek pressed up against him, and ears ringing as his heartbeat would sound with a rhythmic pulse. None of us spoke, and it was better that way.

   Yeah, this is fine. I'm okay being confined, it's okay to be weak, and change is fine as long as there would be those few days that I could hold onto Gon like this; as long as I could remember the feeling of security and encase in his addicting scent that would always make my mouth water; as long as his innocent heartbeat remains beating. Everything will be okay as long as I have Gon to guide me.

   So I directed my attention to the music.

   "Last thing I remember, I was running towards the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. 'Relax', said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive.

   You can check out any time you like. But you can never leave.'"

Chapter Text

   From the balcony discussion to dancing with my face tucked into Gon's chest, I always wondered why. I wondered why I sought the idea of finding a dream career fatuous, but that's when I'd find myself in front of a metaphorical mirror, a long, piercing crack akin to a lightning strike as seen on movies, and me, disheveled hair, eyes puffy from a recent breakdown, and clothes tattered, revealing so many scars, each wielding a memory I fought so hard to forget. And how fruitless of a battle that was. In the end, you truly did turn into a broken vessel for your family.

   I question when, and I will always question when. But why did I need to know when? Maybe because if I knew when it all started, only then would I know if this nightmare is finite, or if this horrific vision we call reality is inevitable, or if that even matters.

   You know it's the end when you hit rock bottom, but what does it take to get there? And how many scars will it leave behind? My mentality, my goals, the things I hold dearest to me--everything changed because of oozing scars. All of the anger, guilt, and sadness that will haunt me forever.

   What more can I lose?

   I wouldn't find that answer until later. 

   Music meant everything to me before I even knew what music was .

   As a baby-- a happy, innocent, chubby, blue-eyed baby--I would stare at the keyboard with keys of black and white for hours, not in fear, not in concern, but with an unfathomable curiosity like that singular object before me served as a preamble to every single occurrence in my life. Something about the pattern of sound always made sense to me. I didn't have to know the theory or the exact construction behind it because it made sense . 

   But everything made more sense with Gon. 

   Summer camp, at the break of dawn, the piano echoed a nostalgic melody. It didn't matter what I was currently doing or thinking because the moment Gon's fingers came intact with the keyboard, time itself adjourned. One night, I sat next to him on the piano bench, watching, listening. His fingers moved with ease, the glossy, black paint of the piano reflecting starlight atop amber eyes, and the melody, gods the melody: dark minors that would instantly bring you to a tragic mindset, and I couldn't help but relate it to a requiem--a requiem for himself. 

   His thighs every so often brushed against mine at the appliance of the sustain pedal, his breath hitched when he played a sforzando that emphasized the tonic of an Alberti bass, but the astonishing part, the one thing I couldn't begin to comprehend, and I could roll in bed all night thinking about it but would never get any closer to a breakthrough, the thing that came so naturally to Gon, and I just didn't understand how-- he always appeared happy, and even amidst a devastating requiem, he found the good, the happiness in it. 

   When he finished, it took me a solid minute to snap back into reality.

   "So, whatcha think?"

   I smiled, "It's..." --b reathtaking, beautiful, keep playing for me always --but I didn't say any of that, of course. "Who wrote it?"

   Gon presented a cheeky grin.

   "No way."

   "Mhm, I wrote it a few months back." He straddled the piano bench to face me, eyebrows suddenly knitting in all seriousness, "Did you spot anything I could fix? I'm in desperate need of some constructive feedback," he awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.

   Overwhelmed at the shocking discovery, I sat staring at him blankly for a moment too long. "Right," I fumbled around, trying to distract myself from Gon's eyes boring into me with a dark, intense glare. I knew I was blushing because a sudden rush of scorching heat circulated in my cheeks. He wanted feedback from me, were my thoughts. "Maybe change some of the Alberti basses the left hand. Sometimes it can get a bit repetitive, but it sounded pretty good to me--the climactic point, the progression-"

   "Sing for me."

   I whipped my head around, now directly facing him, "Gon, I told you yesterday. The answer is-

   "Yeah, I know the answer is no." He sighed, leaning his head back, a small smile curving the corner of his lips, but his eyes remained on me, "But I did say I'll keep asking."

   I rolled my eyes, "Suit yourself."

   A silence.

   "Killua, what do you want to do when you're older?"

   Ah, this question. This one question I've changed from ' what do I want to do ' to ' what am I capable of doing ', this bothersome question that separated the optimists from the pessimists, and my answer that, in some form of another, said, ' I don't know ' because I don’t know myself. 

   Teachers, friends, even strangers would then ask, 'well, what do you like doing?' and I would always wonder how that had any correlation to what I would be doing as a career because to me, it didn't. I never cared to be on top, but I knew competition existed in the world. While others worry about the disadvantages of race, sex, etc, my disadvantage was, undoubtedly, my personality.

    I'll declare, 'I want to be a musician.' 

   'You don't have the motivation,' they'll say.

   'I want to be an engineer.'

   'You aren't assertive enough.'

   'I'm going to be an entrepreneur.'

   'Only sociable optimists succeed in that line of work.'

   The obstacles were endless, and I envied those who were naive to them because they were certain of themselves, which makes them optimistic towards the future, which gives them willing dedication; which allows them to succeed.

   So, what do I want to do when I'm older?

   "I want to be happy."

   Gon tilted his head, "but what job do you want?"

   "I don't know yet."

   He opened his mouth to say something when, suddenly, he paused as if he finally understood. 

   Another silence--the longest yet. 

   "I'm going to be a songwriter,” declared Gon.

   There was a moment where we both stared at one another in the eyes, but I knew better than to give myself away and stare at his lustrous, parted lips. No, I wouldn't stare at them no matter how tempting they may be.

   "I think that's a perfect path for you," I responded, truthfully, and I wasn't just saying it to make Gon's dreams soar. His talent was evident, and the always-there smile plastering his face clearly illustrated that he truly enjoyed fabricating music. I knew I enjoyed listening to it. No doubts there. 

   Gon shook his head, "I want to be a songwriter with you by my side."

   I nearly passed out from the sheer amount of heat rushing to my head. Right, I need to respond. Communication, yes. Yes, that.

   Deep breaths. 

   "I'll always be here," I said.

   Gon's entire face lit up. He pulled me into an embrace, and I didn't hesitate to wrap my arms securely around his frame, tucking my face into his neck, inhaling his intoxicating scent. Tears clouded my vision but never descended. I needed comfort like some pitiful puppy who betrayed their owner--the person they worshiped with every aspect of their being. I needed to hold onto Gon. Why?

   Because I lied. 

   It was the beginning of November and with that came the first school recital. I had no confidence in my upcoming performance. I hated the piece, hated the audience, and hated these three hours of suffering, of listening to proof that I was the worst pianist. Gon had texted me for good luck. I answered with a simple thanks, but part of me wanted Gon to be here, next to me, playing with me like the old days--like our promise. 

   This particular recital brought fame to our school. Hundreds, thousands of people would attend whether they're family members, recruiters, or simply commonfolk. Everyone would play their hardest piece of the year, and that made sense, but it apparently didn't make enough sense to my teacher.

   Just moments before the recital, I walked into the Piano Lab only to see seven students playing my piece at the same time with jeering mockery, expressions saying, ' See, it's that easy!'

   'Fuck you all, dipshits,' is what I said in response, which is considered abnormal behavior on my part. I've kept my composure for years, yet that seemed to translate to others that I was either an exceedingly shy introvert, a teenager going through the 'emo phase,’ or just an ass in general.

   But all hatred, anger, and frustration disappeared when one student sauntered on stage, a blindingly white dress with rose-gold cherry blossoms stitched in fine thread elegantly draping off her shoulders, and flowing in a hypnotic manner behind her. Her silky black hair glistened with embedded silver jewels. I didn't remember her name, nor had I recalled seeing her before, yet there she stood, playing Chopin's First Ballade in g minor like it was all a dream, a reverie.

   In the darkness of the recital hall, the carpets stained the color of scarlet blood, limelight directed on the one and only girl on stage in solitude; an audience of silence--no babies crying and no bothersome coughs, just her on stage alone with the piano. The intensity of the moment was all caused by her delicate, slender fingers. Father stood next to me, whispering, "That song is beautiful."

   It was. It really really really was, but the strange part is: I couldn't begin to explain why. 

   Several minutes later, Ikalgo, perhaps my only friend in the school, put a hand on my shoulder, "Killua, you're crying..."

      "Oh," I used my sleeve to rub my wet eyes, "I didn't notice," which was true. 

    The performance ended, and she received a standing ovation. The luminous spotlight dimmed, the darkness encroaching all. There was a moment of pregnant disbelief of me simply staring into the abyss. It's funny, really. In the end, that singular song morphed from a journey to self-worth, to the crumbling of a decent family, to an act of suicide, of failure, and truly hitting rock. Bottom.

~*~

    It’s been three months since seeing, touching, or doing anything with Gon Freecss. At least, not doing anything besides listening and being completely helpless to him crying on the phone, a razor blade to his vitals. The occurrences were endless: his friend dying in a school shooting, a newly discovered older sister that ran away when he and his twin were born, and his lack of freedom, despite being such a free-spirit by heart. He was a completely different person than the one I first met, or maybe he was the same. Maybe, this was me realizing that we never knew each other at all. 

   I began to dread incoming phone calls from Gon, but I always answered. There was a fifty-fifty chance of me getting the happy, positive Gon or the dark, hollow version of him. 

   I picked up the phone, “Gon?”

   “Killuuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

   I instinctively threw my phone across my bedroom, ears ringing; even feeling a slight vibration throughout my body. Alluka rolled her eyes, reading in the corner of our room atop the blue bean bag, “he’s loud.” she grumbled, but there was a smile on her face.

   Once picking up the phone again, I made sure to immediately lower the volume. 

   “Killua, you know, it’s mean to ignore people.”

   I laughed, “it’s mean to bust people’s eardrums.”

   “Hmm...maybe, but I know it makes you happy.”

   Breath caught in my throat. I faced my back towards Alluka so she wouldn’t see the pink in my cheeks, “so what happened with you today?”

   “Lots of things! Well, I somehow exploded my digital piano, so that sucked, but, I found a way we might be able to see each other tomorrow.”

   A smile curled my lips, “whereat?”

   “Dunlavy Park. Aunt Mito will be attending church at that time.”

   “...okay,” I was reluctant with my answer, knowing my mom would be suspicious, and there was a hesitation of asking my father, but it had to be done. Gon had always been the one to organize our meetings. It was unfair to him. I felt neglectent--like I was showing him I didn’t care. But in reality, I was scared. “I’ll figure something out,” I said.

   He hummed in affirmation.

   “So, how did you manage to fulminate your keyboard?”

   “Oh! Wait wait wait, I need to tell this story properly .” He cleared his throat, “it was a dark and stormy night…”

   I laughed all former doubts away. The doubts that caused me to dangerously doubt if Gon was right for me--the doubts that made me doubt Gon.

   “...and that’s how the middle C caused my beautiful piano to implode.”

   I recoiled over, laughing. I let my back fall on the silken sheets on top of my bed as he continued rambling about his oh-so-dramatizing day. 

    I was dying to see Gon, to pull him into a loving embrace instead of hearing him over the phone deteriorate and me being unable to do anything, to kiss him at random moments because those are the moments that matter most, or maybe to even fall asleep in his arms as I did the night of the stargazing from the swaying tree. I wanted Gon always beside me—no doubt there. 

   After hanging up with Gon, I skulked the corridors, eyes darting from room to room for my father. Alluka and I were staying at Father’s house for the week. At the time, Father’s house meant no bedtimes and video games every second of the day, and Mother’s house meant getting disciplined and taken care of. Evidently, being stupid kids at the time, we liked Father’s house more. 

   My dad owned a Game Center when I was born. Back in the day, when kids could only play together on LAN, that was the place all students went to play video games. Consequently, that led to me being addicted to video games at the age of two. 

   Yes, I was kicking teenagers’ ass at PvP when I was two years old. 

   But that’s beside the point.

   This led to two things. One, entitling me to be the biggest geek on the planet. Two, developing nocturnal instincts, therefore, insomnia. I’m not sure what’s worse. 

   I cracked the Game Room’s door open, “Father?”

   Father had glasses on, two disassembled PC’s adjacent to his crouched figure. “Ah, Killua, could you help me build this computer? We’re transporting a lot of data, and I need at least four fans to keep the computer from overheating.” 

   I sighed, sitting next to him, grabbing a Phillips screwdriver, and getting to work. 

   I.T., typically a man’s job. For that reason, I always felt guilty—guilty because Alluka was left out, but thankfully, she hasn’t thought enough about it to feel abandoned. I continued to tinker with the neon fans, finally placing them in the correct order to enable proper airflow. 

   Father looked up, placing his big hands on my head, and patted me. When I was younger, I did everything as told to receive those simple, yet oh-so-wonderful pats on the head. I would do anything to make him proud of me. It meant everything. 

   “You always know what’s right.” He said.

   I tilted my head, “you’re the one that taught me-“

   “No, not just electronics. A small smile curved his lips, “I mean that you always know what’s right in general. It’s your morality that you always listen to even when you doubt everything else about yourself. That’s why I’m proud to work beside you in the family business.” 

   My eyes widened. At the time, it was everything I ever wanted. I didn’t say anything in response. I just smiled and plugged in the computer, LEDs flickering on, decorating the insides of the computer. Maybe there were some flaws about my father, but at the time, that’s all it was: minor flaws. 

    After a few minutes of silence, I opened my mouth to ask my question. “Dad?” A small silence, “can I go to the park to meet with a friend?”

   “Of course you can, as long as they’re good friends.” He sighed, “I fear Alluka doesn’t choose the right people sometimes.”

   I frowned. He was right, and for that reason, Alluka felt insecure and always stuck around me like a superglue. Selfishly, I was okay with that, but I didn’t think of the negative consequences for my sister. She seemed happy now, right? 

   I sauntered back to the bedroom I shared with Alluka, opening the door timidly. My gaze met her sleeping figure, her black hair disheveled, and body sprawled on every available space of bedding. Carefully tucking her in, I remembered one night, a night I cursed myself for overlooking because she suppresses her honest emotions more than everyone in the family. Maybe she wasn’t happy, perhaps she’s suffering and none of us know; what if it’s my fault?

   “Killua?” she had asked. That night was masked as any other night. We were both in bed, my back facing hers, “hmm?’ I responded groggily.

   “What am I doing wrong?”

   I turned over, bewildered, “You aren’t doing anything-”

   “No, I must be,” her voice cracked, “I try and abide by every rule, always doing as told, yet…” She began crying, and me being startled, did nothing, but she continued, “yet everyone likes you more. My friends, my teachers, even the family . I always thought it was because you were talented. I mean, you were one in five people to get accepted into the piano department, you won various art awards, you were captain of the track team, you got all A’s, heck , you’re even better at video games.”

   “It’s because I’m older, Allu-”

   “That’s bullshit!”

   I winced. 

   After a wordless time, sniffles echoing off the tall ceilings, Alluka continued, “The family tells me I’m not committed enough, but I try to be. I try to like music, I try to like sports, I try , but I can’t help but give up.”

    I’m the same , I wanted to say. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her, maybe then she’d feel less alone. Perhaps she could still go to sleep happy like she so often is...or, so it seemed. I didn’t realize then, but perhaps it wasn’t too late. 

   Bringing myself back from memory lane, I plopped by the plain, white desk in front of the only window present in the basic bedroom. Grabbing a blank piece of paper and a few pencils, I began my craft. 

   ‘ Killua, what do you want to do when you’re older? ’ I remembered Gon asking.

   “I want to be happy,” I whispered to myself. Turning around, I watched Alluka snuffle with a plushie held close to her chest, “and I want you to be happy, too.”

~*~ 

   Dunlavy park was beautiful. It reminded me of an oasis amidst a dry, lifeless desert because even amongst Houston City, the city often categorized as having an awful climate and an unbearable amount of people, a city that no one lives in unless they have to, but even Houston had an oasis, a haven. It was spacious, rolling hills blurring in the distance, overgrowth neighboring towering oak trees, appearing almost purposeful, and the peace and quiet--the peace and quiet meant everything. Father had dropped me off, so for the first time since camp, Gon and I could be alone. 

   I ambled up a small hill, looking at the clear, blue sky as puffy clouds accompanied the light breeze of winter, my clothing crinkling as well. Here I could close my eyes and feel safe, here is where everything felt right . 

   “Killua!”

   I spun around to see Gon running towards me from a distance, and I wondered if I ever smiled so big in my life.

   Before I could catch a breath, Gon crushed me in an embrace. He hummed, “I missed you so much.”

  I shivered at his breath fanning my exposed neck, thanking whatever deity that Gon is here with me in his arms. Wet droplets fell on my shoulder, “Gon?” I squeezed his shoulders, laughing a little, “Are you crying?”

   He laughed, his face still tucked into my neck and my face still resting on his shoulders, “I guess I am.” He pulled away, and even though I knew it couldn’t last forever, I found it hard to push down my disappointment. 

   “This place is beautiful,” I said-- just to make conversation.

   Gon began walking ahead, gesturing for me to follow, “Isn’t it? I come here all the time. It’s the only place my aunt let me go to be by myself.”

   I trailed closely behind him, watching as his tank top revealed his bulging shoulder blades. Then my eyes traveled to his shoulders, his arms, his thighs, every part of him so firm--I knew from experience. Just observing him had me swallow hard. I didn’t think it was even possible for Gon to get more and more attractive each time I saw him. ‘Guess he proved me wrong.

   Gon had a whole picnic set upon a nice, quilted blanket. He flopped down, eyeing me with a suggestive smile, “you like?”

   I rolled my eyes, “yes, Gon, you’re amazing.” 

   I perked up when seeing a snickers bar invade my vision. Snatching it, I instantly tore it open and began nibbling on it.

   He laughed, “That statement is only sarcastic until I feed you.”

   “Yeah, yeah,” I said dismissively, munching between syllables. “So,” munch munch , “what’s the plan?”

   “I’d rather show you.”

   “Hmm, okay.”

   After finishing my chocolate bar, quite satisfied, I might add, he grabbed my hand, pulling me towards a humongous oak tree, probably the biggest one I’ve ever seen. “Yeah, I’m not climbing that.” I deadpanned.

   “Aw, but the view is great from up there. I could always pick you up again,” Gon added with a smirk. 

   “Pfft, you think because you’re taller and got all bulked up, I’d trust you with picking me up?” I suspiciously eyed him, “how do I know you won’t drop me?”

   He took a step closer, too close. Damn it, Gon!

    “Because I’m taller and bulked up.” His palm swiped across my shoulder, and I remained still as a statue when circled behind me. Suddenly, I’m feeling his breath caress my ear, “you said it, not me.”

   I tried so desperately to suppress a shiver, not wanting to give him any semblance of victory. Alas, that failed. “Idiot,” but the insult lacked bite. 

   Gon’s fingers feathered under the hem of my shirt. Red coated my cheeks, “Gon-”

   “I’m going to lift you on the count of three.”

    Just like the old days , but this time, I didn’t protest. His solid, calloused palms pressed my sides as he gently lifted me. My arms came intact with the rough bark of the tree, limbs entwining around the branch. With fluency, I pulled my body up. Gon followed close behind. Finally reaching the top with little assistance, I flopped down on the top branch, panting.

   “ The Killua Zoldyck getting out of shape?”

   “Shut up, moron. It’s not like a performing arts school has athletics.”

   “There’s the dance department.” He replied pointedly.

   “Like hell I could get into that.”

   Gon chuckled, “while I do like muscles, I’d rather not be topped.”

   “Of course you’d think of that, pervert,” I raised my eyebrows, bemused, “keep talking like that and you aren’t getting anything.”

  Gon moaned in distress, “I’m going to die a virgin!”

   We laughed.

   A moment later, Gon began climbing down, “I think it’ll be more comfortable to cloud gaze from below. After all, it took a lot of effort to sneak the quilt out of the house,” he grimaced. 

  I nodded. 

 Upon reaching the ground, Gon grabbed the blanket, and I followed him up the grassy hill. He gingerly flattened it out, laying down with a thud, then signaled me to lay with him after I caught myself staring. I awkwardly let my back rest against the softest blanket I have ever encountered. I sighed in content. Everything felt perfect.

   Gon pointed at a cloud above, “that one looks like a constipated dog.”

   I choked. Fucking...Gon.

   Laughing a bit, he continued, “but as lovely as naming the shapes of clouds is, I’d much rather look at you.”

   And just as quickly as Gon got me to laugh, I grew flustered. I couldn’t fathom how he could say such things with indifference, and I only grew redder when Gon leaned above me. His amber eyes glistened, his hair too tempting to sink my fingers into; his flawless smile accentuated everything in the right places. 

   “Killua, can I kiss you?” 

   I made a quiet noise. 

   His face inched closer by the second, my incredulous expression faded by the moment, and I finally gave in when our shared breath lingered. The fresh mint with something else present in his breath had all nerves spike, arousal twisting in my gut. Instinctively, my eyes fluttered shut.

   The first touch was swift and experimental. It came as fast as it went, but kissing the boy I was enamored with meant everything. “Haven’t done that in a while,” whispered Gon. His chapped lips brushed against mine as he spoke.

   I smiled, “too long.” 

   Our lips meant once again, gaining more momentum and confidence with each breath and prudent touch. His thumb swiped against my reddening cheek, and my fingers crawled upwards to gently tug on a handful of thick, black locks. Even though I relished every moment, the selfish desire in me wanted more. I yearned for him to lose himself in me, to break the ice-thin feeling of insecurity and uncertainty with much more confided ones, but for now, this would do. We had all the time we needed. Why rush it? 

   My heart thumped rapidly, and a smile stuck to my face as Gon feathered kisses along my cheeks, the bridge of my nose, my eyelids, and back to my lips with a peck before letting go and sitting up to fidget with something. 

   “What are you doing?” I asked, feeling a bit whiney from the loss of warmth. 

   Gon pressed his palm on my chest to prevent me from sitting up, “it’s a surprise.”

   After apparently finding what he needed, he tucked his face in my neck, flopping all his weight on me. He hummed, “I love you.”

   I hummed back a quiet response. He could say it a million times, and I don’t think I’d ever get used to it. I wouldn’t ever want to get used to it because I didn’t want anything to change from where it stood at that moment. 

   He pulled out a ring. I jolted up, “Gon, what are you doing-”

   Gon rested his head on my stomach like a small child, “it’s for you,” he mumbled, a grin tugging his right lip. He grabbed my hand, thick finger’s prying it open and dropping the ring inside. Slowly, he molded by hand into a fist, squeezing it with care, “Maybe, it can be another item you’ll have to remind yourself of me.”

   I opened my hand, and on my palm was a shimmering silver ring with crushed opal lining the middle. Colors gleamed like splashed watercolor, like Gon. I bit my lip to prevent it from trembling and gently closed my palm once more. “Thank you, Gon.”

~*~

    Nature’s first green is gold,

   Her hardest hue to hold.

   Her early leaf’s a flower;

   But only so an hour.

   Then leaf subsides to leaf.

   So Eden sank to grief,

   So dawn goes down to day.

   Nothing gold can stay. (Robert Frost)

   I read this poem from The Outsiders , the only book that didn’t feel mandatory to read in seventh grade English. It was a story about kids, and that’s all they were--merely children adapting to the unraveling injustices of society. Funny enough, it’s the kids that handled troublesome situations more like adults. Maybe we’re all children, maybe that’s the plague in our society: the utter selfishness of children, or perhaps it’s the light--the shining brightness of naivety, of innocence, yet even that can be destructive.

   For me, maturity came with the abandonment of others. It came with the harsh realization of the genuinely selfish nature of humanity and how we are all taught to avoid any risky situation to avoid danger as often as possible. All the social experiments conducted: kids starving on the streets, the kid getting beat up in the hallway, and all of us with our phones out recording--it’s all the same. But, did you ever think about the victim? If you’re honest with yourself, then probably not. We never think about the victim until we become one.

   A famous quote in The Outsiders is to “stay gold,” meaning, stay unblemished; stay uncorrupted by the corrupters of society. I couldn’t help but relate it to the fact that optimism relies on hope, and hope can be associated with innocence, and only children have that. Perhaps we’re all pessimists, and the optimists are liars, and maybe, lying to yourself is good. Hell, I wish I was better at it.

    Regardless, nothing gold can stay. 

   Annually, our family goes on a winter vacation to Keystone, Colorado--since Houston never snows. It was one vacation that we all gotta do what we wanted without it conflicting. Alluka loved skiing, and I promised to try snowboarding out with my dad as a teacher. The plane ride was strenuous, babies crying, nearly losing our luggage, and a hazardous snowstorm, yet here we were, hopping out of the rented vehicle at the base of the mountain. Alluka went straight for a pile of snow, shaping a snowball with her knitted gloves and throwing it directly to my ass.

   Remorsefully, I did not dodge in time. 

  “Alluka, that was an unfair shot!”

   She snickered, “since when were you one to play fair?”

    Touche .

   I grabbed four snowballs and began chasing her.

   After a vicious snowball fight that resulted in snow compiled in rather unfortunate places, Dad gave us our gear and helped us on the gondola. Mom stayed behind to get some grocery shopping done. 

   “Ready to go down the mountain?” Dad asked.

   Alluka responded with an enthusiastic cheer.

   Once reaching the peak, we started on level Green, which is the easiest path. What they left out is it was the easiest path for skiers and not snowboarders. While Alluka figured out how to ski, I was stuck walking down the mountain. Since snowboarders don’t have poles to get them through flat spots, we have to gain enough momentum to stay moving through those areas, but that meant going astray from the rest of the family.

   And since I’m already complaining about the injustices snowboarders frequently face, it’s only appropriate to mention: Ski Lifts. Now, I don’t know which motherfucker invented these, but it definitely didn’t aid my cause. I had always been considered indecisive, and sadly having a dominant foot or hand didn’t contradict that. While that did have its advantages in piano, it didn’t with snowboarding. On the first ski lift, Father told me I should never completely unhook my foot from the board. Though I was reluctant, I complied. 

   The first step off the chair lift, snowboard slipped, and I flew down the mountain. 

   I’m sure those pictures of me tumbling down the mountain and looking like a snowman will come back to haunt me. 

   Snow is unforgiving. 

   Anyway, the day came to a close. We made our way back to the base of the mountain, Alluka had the duty of not leaving out any detail of my adventure to Mom, and we packed up everything in the trunk. Father left to get something at a store temporarily and stayed gone for half an hour, but we didn’t care. Everything was perfect. Alluka and I had a constant smile on our faces.

   At least, until he came back with a bottle of hard liquor in his hands. 

   When he opened the car door, Mother and I went completely silent. As forceful as a blizzard, the stench of alcohol flooded the closed space, and my blood ran cold. 

   Father scavenged for his phone, “Any help, or are you that useless?” he whispered to my mother, but only her and I heard. 

   Mom hesitantly handed him his phone.

   “I heard from a buddy that they allow night skiing now. Alluka, how about you come with me?”

   My heart plummeted. She would be completely helpless alone with him drunk.

   Mother interjected, “Alluka isn’t going night skiing. She’s only ten.”

   An Alcoholic--an abusive one. He abuses the substance and others around him. The moment I saw the bottle of clear liquid in his hands, I knew everything we had was ruined. He would scream at mom, interrogate me, and leave Alluka alone like she never existed. When he’s told no, that’s when the danger gets severe. 

   Father’s face turned red from anger, he began to show his gritted teeth.

   “I’ll go!” I said suddenly. 

   Mom looked at me in horror.

   I continued, stumbling a bit on my words, “I didn’t get to snowboard much today, and I never snowboarded at night before.” I needed to save the family from him.

   Dad responded with a toothy grin, “great, I’ll get the gear from the trunk.”

   When he closed the door, all that was left was silence and dread. 

   I jumped out of the car, and Mom rolled the window down, our gaze never meeting, “this is the stupidest decision you’ve ever made.”

   Before I could reply, she drove away.

   The sun began setting, my clothing dampened from snowflake after snowflake landing on the fabric. I was sore, too sore, but I had to distract him. 

   “Killua, *hic* look at those snowboarders,” he pointed at a couple passing by. 

   I sweatdropped, “yes, let’s get on the gondola before it’s too late.”

   Dad was unresponsive.

   “Let’s get on the gondola before it’s too late,” I repeated. 

   Finally, he looked up, eyes unfocused, “Gondola...gondola,” he laughed, “Oh, we have to get on the gondola!”

   It was sickening, his disgusting breath, the smell of sweat, and I knew I had to be as obedient as possible. I was scared, terrified even, but I’m protecting Mom and Alluka, I told myself.

    ‘This is the stupidest decision you’ve ever made ,’

   If it meant saving them, I’d do it again, and again, and again.

   I threw my board down, coughing. Blood splattered on my frozen, and completely dysfunctional hand. It had to be past midnight, “Dad,” I called out over and over again, “Silva Zoldyck!” No answer. I lost him on the way down the mountain. He could be miles away, and I would never know. The wind was brutal, the feeling of needles pressed on my face. My voice weakened, and my throat grew hoarse as I called out my father’s name amongst the gushing wind.  

   My blood spotted the unblemished snow. “Silva...Zoldyck,” I chocked out.

   Giving up, I flopped down on the snow, “it’s all unfair,” I mumbled out, water freely streaming down my face. “It’s all so unfair.” I watched unfazed as the blood dispersed on the snow’s surface, I watched as the scarlet color clawed its way and eradicated all purity in the process; I watched, helpless, weak. 

   Suddenly, the ring Gon gave me glistened reflected starlight. What am I doing? I have to find Dad. We have to both get home safe.

   As I buckled myself back in, I stood up with a wobble. Gon was right, I was getting out of shape. I sped down the mountain, lifting the board and jumping over small hills, and smiling as the icy wind blowing my white bangs out of my face. Everything can still go well tonight. All I have to do is get us back safely, and Dad would have exercised off the alcohol, and Mom can sleep happily. 

   Around two hours later, I finally reached the base of the mountain, and my face lit up when finding Father made it down the same path, and only a few minutes later. 

  But I made a terrible miscalculation. 

 His water bottle wasn’t holding water. It was holding alcohol. My blood ran cold, my heart dropping to my stomach. He wasn’t exercising off the alcohol. Instead, he was more intoxicated than ever. 

   I scrambled to grab my phone. I needed to call Mom or somebody immediately. 

   It froze.

   In denial, I kept pressing the buttons, “come on, come on, come on-”

    Out of nowhere, a swift punch to the jaw had me slam to the ground. Coughing and spitting, I shakily reached forward to pull myself up.

   “You didn’t think to wait for me?!” yelled an all-too-familiar voice. 

   Another blow to the stomach. Blood splattered, dripped, and puddled. I waited for it to stop because that’s all I could do: wait . 

   And then it stopped, I glanced up to see Father passed out on the bench. It was my chance to shuffle through his bag, my fingers latched onto the water bottle. I threw it as far as I could and continued scavenging until I finally found his phone. 

   I didn’t know the password. 

    No, no, no!

   He woke  up again; I flinched, “give me my phone!” he demanded.

   I complied.

   “You didn’t even call that woman? How could I raise such stupid kids…” 

   I didn’t dare cry, but the words stung. 

    That’s when I was saved by a miracle--three men walked towards the bus stop. I never ask for help, but this time, I needed it. “I’m sorry to bother you, but can I please borrow your phone?”

   They paused, eyeing me suspiciously.

   Desperate, I began to ramble, “My father is drunk, I don’t know the name of the hotel I’m staying at, and I need to call my mother. Please...please let me use your phone. It’ll be quick, I promise!”

   They stared at me as if they were mocking my vulnerability. And then, to my utter dismay, they walked away. 

    Tears began gushing down--not because Father beat me up, not because of those hurtful words that played over and over again like a broken record inside my head, but because three men didn’t bother to show a single act of humanity for something as simple as lending a phone call; I was crying because they didn’t want to get involved with something so bothersome. It was then I realized the truth. 

   As my tears ran dry, I glanced back to find my father passed out again. Clothing wet, nose bleeding, blood stained on my jacket, my right hand frozen, and with a dead phone, I began walking. I didn’t know where I was going--it didn’t matter. 

   Maybe I’d find my way back, maybe not, but I knew one thing for sure: nothing gold can stay. 

Chapter Text

   “My mother found me lying in the snow later that night in a small puddle of blood. Apparently, I was headed in the correct direction, but I grew too sore to move. I was out cold for approximately two hours…” 

   Alateen: a recovery group for adolescents with guardians who are or were alcoholics. My grandmother figured it’d be a place for me to not feel alone, a place where other kids had similar experiences, but in truth, I never felt more alone. My life was far from the worst, but it was damaging, by all means. These kids--these kids around me weren’t damaged, and their parents were the ones taking them to these meetings, the alcoholics themselves. Their parents identified they had a problem; my father didn’t. There’s no use blaming a substance abuser if they never blame themself-- if they never even realize they have a problem. So who do you blame? The substance? Humanity? No. You blame yourself. 

   “That’s what alcoholism does,” The blonde woman, the individual leading the meeting, had said. 

   I laughed behind gritted teeth, blown out eyes focused maniacally on the disgusting tile floor, “Alcohol, alcohol, alcohol, blame the alcohol. Sure, this situation was caused by a drink, but that wasn’t the traumatizing part.” My voice escalated in volume, “Perfectly sober people left me behind. Oh, you’re probably thinking: those were three idiots. Even family discards the insane. That was merely the first time, but I still stupidly called for help.”

   Yet even here, the one place that’s purpose was to not feel like you lost your mind, I felt like I lost my mind.

   Why am I even explaining this when I know they’ll never understand? To pass time, maybe? Perhaps I strived to find some sort of relief that someone else will know the whole story. Perhaps, this was my final call for help. 

   I blinked open my eyes to a waking nightmare. A warm, damp rag rested on my forehead under my bangs, and a cozy blanket wrapped securely around my limp body. Downstairs, I heard doors slamming and Father groaning and yelling intelligible words. I winced as glassware shattered. Glancing to the right side of the condo’s bedroom, Mother clenched the bedsheets. Thank the lord Alluka was asleep. 

   “Are you awake, Kil?”

   “...Yeah.”

   Suddenly, Father slammed a kitchen cabinet shut, causing me and Mom to flinch again. “Does he know we’re up here?” I whispered.

   “...I don’t think he remembers there’s an upstairs,” my mother whispered back. 

   The rest of the night we waited in fear for him to remember the stairway to our bedroom, we watched in disgust as Father passed out on the toilet, and we over and over again told ourselves, ‘ It’ll get better ,’ when things never do. 

   Five more days of this so-called-vacation, I told myself. Father is going to act like nothing happened, same with Mom, but I wondered if I could do the same. He’ll notice the raging bruise under my chin, he’ll know what happened, but he will say it’s on me for falling so much while snowboarding. He’ll notice the limp in my walking, he’ll know what happened, but he will joke, ‘ did you hook up with the wrong sex or something? ’ Lastly, he’ll notice my hard stare, he’ll know what happened, but he will blame it on something else, and I’ll simply say, ‘I will never forget,’ just so he couldn’t, either. 

   But what’s the point in blaming someone who doesn’t blame themself? There isn’t one.

   So you blame yourself.

   Morning is lots of things. It’s a feeling of refreshment, a new start. It can be a welcome to a day of promised laziness under the cozy rise of the sun, but that next morning was nothing but a time on the clock. Purple circles discolored under my eyes and a red glaze pierced my irises. My movements were slow as I ambled downstairs. Alluka wrestled with Dad, Mom made breakfast, and I only stared in horror. Is this simply normal now? I guess so. 

   Upon being summoned to the table for breakfast, we all came together and ate in silence. 

   “Are we going skiing again today?” Alluka asked excitedly.

   Dad replied between mouthfuls of food, “I’ll help you go down the mountain once my horrible headache dies down. How about you, Kil?”

   I didn’t bother to look up, stabbing food with my fork in agitation, “why not.”

   Within only a few hours, we were back at the base of the mountain. I trudged with my snowboard in-hand past the bus stop, past Dad’s water bottle that still laid in the snow by the wooden bench, and finally to the line for the gondola. 

   “You have a wicked bruise right here on your-” my father reached over to touch my face.

   I slapped his hand away, giving him my coldest stare, “I will never forget.”

~*~

    Three-year-old me’s bottom bounced and legs dangled on top of Father’s shoulders. He marched through the fields of tall grass, the moon illuminating our way. Crunch, leaves will say, as my father trudges with heavy footsteps to a bonfire we built together that night. Upon reaching our destination, he threw me up in the air and gently put me down. I can still remember the joy of having wind graze my hair as I’d fly up then down, and I’d think it’s a shame birds didn’t have the mental capacity to feel the essence of freedom or enjoy flying when and wherever you want. I struggled to lift a sturdy piece of firewood, rolling the triangular shape and throwing it in the flames with an oof. Fire curled around it, sucking the crackling wood into a pit of embers. 

   “You’re thinking too loud,” Father jokes. 

   Confused with wide-eyed innocence, I questioned, “how can you hear my thinking?”

   He clicked his tongue, “good parents always know what their children are thinking.”

   “Oh…” I stared at the ground with knitted eyebrows and tiny teeth biting the scar on the inside of my cheek— caused by numerous surgeries I underwent due to respiratory issues. “That must be complicated. Not only do you have to sort your own thoughts, but you have to worry about another person’s, too.”

   “Siblings can sometimes do that.”

   “Whoa, really?” I jumped in delight, “do you think I’ll be able to do that with Alluka when she leaves Mom’s belly?”

   He shrugs, “who knows?”

   The wood continued to pop as fireflies buzzed around us, droplets of moisture from the humidity sticking to our bare arms and legs. I situated myself on my father’s lap, nuzzling my face into his chest and feeling the complete sense of security and unconditional love, but my mind never stopped thinking. “Daddy?”

   “Yes, Kil?”

   “When Alluka comes into this world, will you stop paying attention to me?” Like you did our pets when I was born? But that part went unsaid. 

   His calloused hands with palms that had enough surface area to cover my entire tummy, at the time, tenderly traced letters on my back— something we made a game out of, and since I knew how to read from the age of two, it became natural. 

   The pads of his fingers trailed straight up, diagonal, then down to the very bottom of my spine. “N,” I spelled out as he continued to trace, “E…V...E...R.”

   “Never,” I confirmed, smiling at the answer. 

   “But Killua,” his expression grew serious and I stilled, “just remember that having a sibling changes everything. She’ll probably be an annoying twerp as a baby-“

   I giggled.

   “But she’ll be your sister, and… when Mommy and I aren’t here anymore, she’ll be the only family you have left: a friend to play outside with, a partner in crime to cause mischief with, but most importantly, she’ll be family . So, promise you’ll always stick together, even when times are especially sticky.” 

   Nodding, I entwined my pinky with his. 

   December twenty-seventh, at the break of dawn, baby Alluka arrived. I watched through the window of the nursery and scouted the room for my sister. Even after complaining to the nurses over and over again— not to mention sneaking behind the Employees only area and getting kicked out-- they insisted four-year-olds had too many germs and weren’t allowed in the delivery room. 

   Suddenly, my heart sped as a new baby was wheeled into the room, pale skin glowing under the fluorescent lights and a tiny black curl sticking to her forehead. For hours, I didn’t take my eyes off her sleeping figure, watching with a focused intensity in my gaze. A kid next to me whined that I was hogging the only stool in the building, but I told him to shut up and that sent him crying. 

   Later that afternoon, Grandpa showed me what room Mom, Dad, and newborn Alluka was in. I tiptoed through the doorway, peering behind the corner with a newfound uncertainty. 

   “Come meet your new baby sister,” mom said, rocking Alluka in her arms, who bundled snuggly into plenty of soft, white blankets. 

   Forcing myself to relax, I moved forward until I set eyes on my sister for the first time. Her skin was wrinkly, long eyelashes fluttered close with a smile decorating her cheeks and tiny dimples already showing. Her skin looked like mine, but her hair was the color of Moms. With reluctant fingers, I squished her cheek, pure emotion— stronger than anything I ever felt before— fluttering in my belly. I paused when she made a high-pitched noise, her head tilting to lean into the warmth of my touch. 

   The dam broke, tears gushing down my face out of pure happiness. I knew this one baby would change my life completely, and every step of my future would never be without her. I knew I’d do anything to keep her from harm's way; I knew that even if it killed me, I’d do anything to keep her sleeping peacefully. Hiccuping, I vowed, “I will always protect you, no matter what.” 

   “Alluka, why didn’t you tell us?” I wanted to say, but the words never came out. The one person I knew the least… was my very own sister. How long did she suppress her emotions? And why?  

   I stared through the hospital window. It was rectangular, clean, and… just like the window that showed me my sister for the very first time. Except, tattered bandages now wrapped her head, and instead of the happiness of birth- No, that won’t happen, right?

    Beep, beep, beep . The health monitor ticked at a rhymic pulse.

   Until it didn’t.

   I guess it gets to all of us in the end, but which one of us broke first? 

~*~

  Every Friday before Christmas Break, the piano department held a winter performance. While it wasn’t Music Fest, it remained one of our biggest performances of the year. 

   “Did you ever decide what you’re going to play?” Ikalgo asked, messing with his unruly, ginger hair. 

   I sighed, renouncing to adjusting my tie correctly in the mirror, “Bisky mentioned I should begin the program with the Mendelssohn Scherzo Op. 16 and then play the Revolutionary Etude right after.”

   Ikalgo laughed, “Damn, that’s cruel. Not only is she making you play two pieces, but she’s assigning you to start the entire recital with a lightning-fast piece on a Steinway that doesn’t repeat.”

   I grimaced, “Tell me about it. If I mess it up, it’s twenty-five percent of my semester average. I’m playing one piece no one on the face of the planet has heard before and one that’s overplayed. What are you playing?”

   “I’m ending the program.”

   “Of course you are,” I rolled my eyes with a smile, “I bet it’s something unimaginably hard.”

   “Eh, I’m playing the Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No.2, Moderato.”

   “Eh,” I repeated, mocking his voice. 

   “Eh.”

   I flicked Ikalgo on his dumb, freckly nose to which he ruffled my hair in revenge. “Ikalgo!” I protested. “Now I have to tame it all over again.” I once again struggled to yank a comb through my now-tangled hair. Annoying...stupid...FloOF!

    “So... how’s your boyfriend?”

   Heat raced to my cheeks, “What-”

   Ikalgo hurled over with a bellowing laugh, “I was kidding. Your...your face!”

   I watched in indignation as he continuously laughed, “ha, ha, very funny.” I averted my focus to the mirror in front of me. 

   He suddenly went still, “Wait, do you have a boyfriend?”

   “I don’t,” I argued defensively. 

   “How could you not tell me this?”

   Proclaiming weakly, “I like girls.”

   Ikalgo sighed, “Killua, you never looked twice at girls. There’s nothing to hide. This entire school is gay, anyway. Guys come out as straight.”

   I laughed because it was true. The only semi-straight department in the entire school was Band, and that made sense. You had the dancers with their pliant tights that revealed a distinct outline of the size of their you -know-what ; it was rather distracting during plays. And it didn’t help hearing other guys speak of it, either. Ah, then there was the brazen theater boys--you knew who bottomed in that relationship. I could go on: vocalists, artists, writer—- all gay, yet for some reason, everyone, besides Ikalgo , assumed I was straight.

    Sorry, everyone! I’m gay, too .

   I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would’ve taken to decide that if it weren’t for Gon Freecss and his stupid attractive face. 

   “Fine, stupid. I’m dating a dude.”

   Ikalgo inched closer, “Oooh, that’s where you got the ring from!”

   “Dammit,” I scrambled to cover his mouth, “not... so loud,” seething a whisper. 

   He licked my palm to wiggle free. 

   I shrieked, “Ew, gross, gross!” wiping all of his icky saliva on his expensive, black suit. Formal wear was admittedly a turn on. Gon in a black tux invaded my cogitation. His spiky, black hair and dark, amber eyes, the curve of Gon’s nose I wanted to trace absentmindedly; I craved to slowly slip my fingers under the hem of his tank top, feeling his abdomen as it rolled beneath the pads of my fingers with each breath. And his scent, gods the smell of Gon’s cologne always had arousal blossom like spring roses. 

   Stupid, get a hold of yourself.  

   Suddenly, Ikalgo went silent. His gaze lingered on mine, dark, brown eyes— a shade darker than Gon’s, and minus the golden tint— wavering. Nonetheless, the emotion’s evident, and I tensed. It’s the way Gon looked at me back at camp, when we danced on the balcony, and when he kissed me. I frowned. No, Ikalgo doesn’t-

    “Killua…” Ikalgo shuffled nervously. 

    Please, don’t say it.

    I peered down, my heart dropping. 

   Silence.

   The school intercom sounded, “We welcome everyone to see our pianists perform in five minutes in the recital hall! You don’t want to miss out on talent! Thank you all for coming.”

   “I guess it’s time.” He whispered.

   “Yeah, good luck,” I tried my best to give a smile, yet I felt that I was consistently hurting Ikalgo each moment we spent together. Lunch, practicing, recitals, walking home— all of it, together. I wondered how I would’ve felt if Gon didn’t reciprocate my feelings. Even though I hid them throughout all of summer camp, I always sensed that Gon felt the same way, even if my insecurities masked it. But we all have things we have to face alone. At least, I knew I did.  

   Ikalgo and I went our separate ways. 

    Squish, squish, squish . 

   “Killua, my god, you’re murdering that handwarmer,” retorted Zushi.

   I continued to squish it, shivering backstage from nerves, excitement, and the damn temperature itself. They should make it illegal for schools to have the air conditioner set anything below sixty-five.

    No use. My hands were shaking enough for anyone to notice within a two-mile radius. 

   Zushi pat my shoulder, “Seriously though, you’re going to want to stop shaking before you play a piece as fast as yours.”

    Not helping, Zushi! “I know,” I said behind gritted, chattering teeth. 

   It’s pitch black backstage. Long and narrow, just enough space to not feel claustrophobic. An occasional spiderweb occupied the corners, and leathery, grey chairs lined the back wall. I apprehensively tapped my foot on the carpeted floor. Tap, tap, tap. Squish, squish, squish. When did I even develop stage fright? Well, it was different from stage fright. I played in front of others countless times before, but playing for others isn’t what frightened me. It was playing for Ms. Krueger— it was my self-worth relying on her praise because she’s the only one who had high expectations for me. Maybe, I wanted to prove to my suffering ego that I was finally capable of attending this school and being amongst ‘talented’ individuals. 

   Applause erupted from the opposite side of the wall. 

    Ah, great.

   I chucked the hand warmer across the room, quickly apologizing when it landed on a student’s head and rushed on stage.

   Blinding light had me instinctively squint my eyes, people, hundreds of people applauded. And though I have little to no explanation, I felt happy— like I belonged with my fingers dusting the keys and my feet brushing the sustain pedal under the spotlight. My heart raced, but I enjoyed the thrill. Letting my eyes fall shut, I began, nimble fingers snapping at the repeated notes and somehow not cramping. Octaves in contrary motion, octaves in a chromatic scale, octaves electrifying the base; how perfectly they fit in my hands.

    I remembered Gon’s face whilst playing, his heartwarming smile of pure, honest joy. His silky hair, caressed by moonlight, shadowing everything but his sparkling eyes. I watched as he played octaves, suppressing the urge to put my hand on his, feeling his playing with my very own fingers.

   To do something that makes you happy— just maybe, I found that something.

  I finished the Revolutionary Etude with a bite. Applause erupted from the audience, and for the first time, I genuinely smiled in turn. Once again backstage, Ikalgo leaned against the wall, a smirk across his face, “You finally found your voice.”

   Gon voice, asking, “ sing for me ,” surfaced my thoughts.

   “Congrats! You did amazing out there,” said Zushi.

   I felt all jittery inside, a constant-smile plastering my face. And that’s how the rest of the performance went: me finally feeling like I belonged— like I was equal to everyone around me— like I wasn’t a burden. I could play duets! I could eat lunch like the rest of the pianists! Endless possibilities that seemed dream-like raced through my mind. A new hope blossomed in me, one I wouldn’t mind believing in. Why? Because I was happy.

   Parents lined up to give their kids bouquets: lilies, tulips, orchids, roses— petals flying and filling the room with a sweet aroma, blessing my nostrils. Childlike playfulness washed over me, reminding me of summer camp two years ago, reminding me of the little paradise I discovered alongside Gon. 

   We all migrated to the fifth floor to receive constructive criticism from Bisky. Lining in a circular formation, I leaned back and forth, heels to toe, waiting for my turn. 

   “Killua Zoldyck,” Ms. Krueger began.

    Tell me I did well. I felt like I did well. Did I do well?

   She stared at me— an unapproachable look— a look I never wanted to see again. She threw the sheet music down with a furious slam. I winced, my heart, self-esteem, and everything in-between shattering into millions and millions of pieces, yet I didn’t even bother to try and piece it back together. Her stare gave away the answer, but the words stung. Because despite her being strict, she never gave me such a hateful look. 

   “ Never play like that again.”

   I felt too many emotions all at once. I stared at my piano in hatred, yearning to hammer it, burn it, stomp on it as it stomped on me. My father’s house had an upright that sounded everything like a concert grand. It’s glossy, back paint reflected the solitary lamp beaming in the background, and my face, a face with an expression I grew to loathe. Sheet music littered the floor, crumbling and tearing music of all different eras: Baroque, Classical, Romantic, Modern— all of it.

   But I don’t remember why I didn’t feel any resentment towards the people who made me despise myself. At the time, that didn’t matter because the only thing that mattered was I ruined everything that had the potential to make me happy because of some mistake or fault in my personality. I felt like a naive child, understanding nothing until I’m directly told, and blaming myself when there was no such answer. What am I doing wrong? What am I doing wrong? I crouched on my knees, covering my ears, and gripping my tangled hair, attempting, but failing, to silence the crippling voices inside me. 

   Beneath my foot, a particular book of sheet music caught my eye. The Chopin Ballade . With shaky fingers, I picked it up, flipping to the first page. It’s a piece said to reflect Chopin’s loneliness throughout the war. His broken self-esteem destroyed him, and his music reflected just that. It’s sad, really. His life ended before he found that sense of security that his music- or that he was worth composers’ recognition.

   I sauntered to the piano bench, reluctantly lifting the lid to reveal ivory keys. Absentmindedly, I set the sheet music on the rack. I sat silently, analyzing the piece’s structure. 

   It began with a simple introduction, an introduction that everyone has, an introduction into the world like an infant opening its eyes for the first time. Immediately, within the true beginning, resonates a melancholy melody, emphasized by the unchanging singular note in the left hand and accompanied by a slow, voiced melody by the pinkies of the right hand— gently, like the weakened beats of his slowing heart. 

   Placing my fingers on the keys with a swift glance at the key signature, I started playing.

   Despite unfairly disliking those who advanced in life through connections and natural talent alone— I was one of them. I enjoyed the piano, but I never took the time to practice, and sight-reading just seemed extra. Why count the rhythms when you can hear them? Relative pitch is what my teachers called it, nothing as extraordinary as perfect pitch, but it sure guided me down the path of laziness. 

   I was accepted into the High School for the Performing and Visual Arts by practicing no more than thirty minutes a week. Ignorant at the time, it boosted my confidence to unspeakable levels. But getting into the school is one level, skip to the last level and you’re talking about thriving amongst kids who dedicated their lives to the instrument. You had the kids that were decent and worked their asses off, you had the kids who were lazy and relied on talent alone, and then, there were the kids who had both talent and determination— the truly frightening pair. 

   It’s entering a whole new world of competition— like winning a school track meet versus a national marathon. Contestants from The Voice, foreign exchange students who played in international orchestras, and even students who won the title: best in North America. 

   “Don’t compare yourself so much,” Mom will always say, but how can I not? It’s nature to observe your surroundings. How do you find worth in yourself when everyone looks down on you? 

   Maybe it’s possible, but not easy. 

   Practicing thirty minutes a week turned into six hours a day. 

    The Chopin Ballade in g minor . Ikalgo would laugh at me for how overplayed it is, but pieces are overplayed for a reason: they’re better. I sight-read through the first three pages at a glacial tempo, trying to tell myself I improved, yet my mind couldn’t help but flashback to the student who sight-read The Carmen Fantasy on stage. 

   I shrugged to myself. I’ll never play this in front of anyone, so I might as well make it my own. A twinge of regret twisted my stomach into a wrenching knot. If only… if only I skipped those few stages of childhood and practiced or studied or done something useful to keep the feeling of hopelessness away. 

    But I always stayed too committed and to the wrong things… the things that brought suffering. 

    I stopped playing upon a sudden realization. 

   I remained to stare at nothing in particular, focused on my thoughts. Why do I even have to think? Why can’t I just be normal and think: oh, what football team is going to make it to the Superbowl in January— like a normal boy?

   ‘ Those who are smart think ahead.’

    While I considered myself far from intelligent, I knew one thing for certain: my mentality, my surroundings, this world— everything is a prison. 

~*~ 

    “Gon, why do you never talk about your family?” I asked. We ambled side-by-side, both of us watching our feet as we kicked pebbles on the rocky pathway leading to the clubhouse. My face reddened when Gon’s mid-thigh brushed against mine from time to time, and I only remember focusing my gaze on his scuffed green boots. 

   Green. It became my favorite color. 

   He sighed, “Is there anything you want to know?”

   “Hmm, I guess not because there’s no need.” At least, for now .

   Gon halted, and I slowed to a stop, looking at him curiously, “Is something wrong?”

   A grin appeared, tugging the right side of his lips.

   My eyes narrowed, “what’re you thinking about, creep...?”

   He looked at me, intentions unclear. I backed away slowly as he advanced forward. 

   “Gon, you’re being extra weird.”

   Suddenly, he lunged at me, curling an arm around my waist and lifting me off the ground. “Gon, what the hell are you doing?!” I kicked with flailing limbs, biting my lip when my face buried in his tank top. He sped to a sprint, yet I couldn’t see where he’s taking me. And before I knew it, freezing lake water surrounded me. My feet struggled to find the mud ground. Finally successful, my feet sank into the flooring and I pushed to the surface, gasping for air. “What was that for?!”

   He didn’t answer. Instead, he stared with widened eyes, mouth slightly agape. 

   Was something wrong? Was there something on my face?

   “Gon?” I tilted my head, “You’re acting weird tonight.”

   He waded closer, wrinkling black waters shining under the bold moonlight. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered-- a finger skimming across my damp cheeks.

   I splashed him, water slashing his dopey expression right off of his face. “Next time you’ll know better than to be creepy, moron.”

   That confrontation escalated to a water fight, Gon and I walking back to Base with dripping hair and soggy clothing. 

   I didn’t know why he was acting weird that night. We never knew what each other was thinking. We understood feelings, and at the time, that was far from enough. 

   Well, for a time.

   Suicide. There aren’t justifying justifications, so I didn’t know how to feel about it. It crossed my mind a few times, but I’m sure it crosses everyone’s mind, at least once, but that’s different from being suicidal -- the act of constantly resorting to killing yourself in troublesome situations. I didn’t understand them.

   But it became too much for Gon. He began calling more and more, reasons for it dwindling and dwindling. 

   It was Christmas Eve, the one time of the year where my family all comes together with little dispute. Father horsed around with my sister, my mom cooked in the kitchen, and I would do everything in-between. We weren’t religious, so the meaning of the holiday wasn’t anything more than a wholesome gathering. I liked it better that way.

   It was the first realization of the flaws in my relationship with Gon. 

   ‘I’m going to do it,” Gon says over the phone. 

   “No, please,” I begged. It was torture, someone you love the most threatening to end their own life at arbitrary moments. What if it happened tomorrow? What if I miss a phone call? What if it happens right now?  

  ‘I’m lonely,’ he’ll say.

   It’s unintentionally manipulating, selfish. 

    ‘You’re the one she loved the most.’

   ‘I want to kill myself.‘

   ‘How could I raise such stupid children.’

   ‘Never play like that again.’

   ‘I want… to end it all, leave everything behind.’

  And then, I lost it. Tears clouded my vision, threatening to fall, “am I not enough?!” I yelled. My voice croaked, “you’ll… you’ll be leaving me behind.” How pathetic I sounded. I know some of you will tell me: that’s not the kind of thing you say to someone about to kill themself, but I’m not some robot, I’m not some psychologist; I’m a child-- helpless, naive, and blaming everything on myself. 

   Suddenly, Gon hung up. 

   I stared at the contacts screen in disbelief, water gushing down my face. I tapped the call icon. No, no, no. I’m sorry. Please…answer!

   He never answered.

   It’s my fault. 

   My voice broke. I wailed, falling to my knees and clenching my heart. A puddle of tears formed rapidly beneath my crouched figure. Listening to Gon’s voice mail on repeat, I cried and cried and cried. I’m so stupid. It’s all my fault.

    I flinched as my bedroom door creaked open, a sliver of light fighting the encroaching darkness.

   “Big Brother… what’s wrong?” Alluka asks timidly.

   “He- It’s my fault. It’s...” I couldn’t breathe. My throat clenched shut. A high-pitched noise escaped-- the sound of someone’s life coming to an end, the sound of someone’s entire purpose shattering within the hands of self-destruction; the sound of loss.

   Mom slammed the door open, “Kil, what’s wrong?!”

   ‘ Never tell anyone...please ,’ I remember Gon saying with pleading eyes. 

   It spilled from me-- my words-- because it’s all meaningless now. ‘Gon. He’s going to-,” I choked, breaking into a coughing fit. Mom rubbed circles on my back until I regained my voice, “he’s going to kill himself, and It’s my fault!”

   “He won’t do something like that,’ she says, and I stare at her in disbelief. “Gon will be okay. He should’ve never put a burden like that on your shoulders.”

    But you don’t know if he’ll be okay, and I may never know . 

   For the rest of the night, I didn’t move from my curled up position on the carpet. I hardly blinked as tears ran dry, my body twitching uncontrollably on occasion. My mind was blank, and so were my emotions. That’s what I wished for, right? Not feeling anything-- not thinking? No, it hurt badly. At that time, I was no more than a lifeless doll, waiting for something to change-- something good. 

   A smile curled on my lips, “wait, this is no different from every other situation,” I mumbled from myself. An incomprehensible of happiness washed over me, “This is no different! It’s a pattern. I’ll see Gon in a few weeks and everything will be okay! It’ll be another little haven…”

   But the hope disappeared as fast as it came.

   “That won’t happen… because this time, it’s my fault.”

    Gon . 

   Water, once again, streamed freely down my cheeks. 

   “I want to marry you someday,” Gon announced against my lips.

   We were at the park, under the swaying trees and warmth of the welcoming sun. 

   I smiled, “Yeah?” Another kiss.

   “Yeah,” Gon sighed. He put his ear to my chest, listening to my, rather fast, heartbeat, and fingers stroked his hair soothingly. “As-” I started, cutting myself off to rethink my words.

   “Hmm?’

  Taking a deep breath, I shifted in my seat, finally answering after a hushed moment, “as long as you’re here… Alive and happy. That’s all I want.”

   Silence.

   “... Yeah,’ he whispers, but I knew he couldn’t promise me, so I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know the answer.

   Was his heart still beating? Was his skin still warm, comforting to touch? Does he still have the glint in his eyes? Is it hopeless… is it inevitable?”

   I wouldn’t find out until three days later. 

Chapter Text

   “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle bell rock…”

   Music blared from the stereo as my entire family gathered around the Christmas tree, holding a toast to everything they’re thankful for with a clank of crystalline wine glasses. Mother laughed and passed around presents while Alluka tore the wrapping paper to shreds in whimsical delight.

    It’s all wrong, I thought. 

   I absentmindedly checked my phone for any messages from Gon, scrolling through hundreds of my texts-- all with zero response. Suddenly, the phone slipped out of my grasp, and Mom snatched it, “you don’t need this on Christmas.”

   I stared at her like a stranger had just stolen a possession of mine; a stranger she was. She knew about Gon, but she didn’t care. It instantly reminded me of the three individuals who turned their backs towards my call for help. The situation was an inconvenience to them, such as Gon was an inconvenience to Christmas for my mother.

  They’re all the same… even my family-- especially my family.

  Sighing, I wandered to the piano. My left hand struck a low octave C, resonating the beginning of the Chopin Ballade in g minor . I hummed along mindlessly as my pinkies latched to the melody, caressing the keys with tender touches. 

    ‘I want to be a songwriter with you by my side.’

    My lips quivered. 

   Chopin: the language of loneliness, from the light presses of the sustain pedal to the resonating melody accompanied by sub-voices of harmony.

   Suddenly, the bench creaked. I side-glanced to see my father listening with his head tilted back and eyes closed in content. When I stopped playing, he stared at me with a warm smile— oh-so-welcoming. “That song is beautiful,” he said. 

   My voice wavered, “Y-yeah, I remember you mentioning that during the last recital.”

   He hums, “it’s like an entire movie within a single song. A story. It goes from a sad, melancholy beginning, to a small moment of paradise with tragedy in between.” 

   My mouth fell open slightly. Father never cared about music— let alone piano . It’s strangely comforting knowing we had the same mindset. 

   There’s a moment of silence. I simply stare at the keys, feeling lost. 

   “I’m sorry for what happened to your friend.” 

   I bit my lip, tears threatening to fall, but I wouldn’t cry in front of Father. 

   “I- I had a best friend who committed suicide. We grew up together; I regret not doing something sooner. He hinted towards killing himself, but… I never imagined he’d actually do it.” My eyes widen when I hear his voice crack. Father is… crying? 

   With caring touches, he threaded large fingers through my hair, patting my head as he did when I was young. “The song, play it again, please.” 

   So I did. Over and over again. 

   For those who are dying from cancer, it’s common for them to have that one ‘good day.’ The final one. My dad wasn’t dying of cancer, but we considered that Christmas to be the last ‘good day.’ 

   The final one. 

   The day after Christmas, we rotated to live at my father’s house for a week since my mother wanted us to be at her house during school. I lugged my laptop bag on one shoulder and Alluka’s belongings on the other. She skipped ahead, poking at a flower she deemed beautiful here and there. Dandelions— those were her favorite. 

   Our uncle, aunt, and my only first cousin, Kalluto, had just moved a few units down. Alluka and Kalluto would often walk back and forth, mingling, raising havoc, and everything else bored kids would do. My aunt and uncle wanted nothing to do with Kalluto. They always had to make it evident that they did not want kids, so Kalluto was shipped around from house to house day after day. Mother’s close to Kalluto and she figured the reason our family moved close to my Father was so Kalluto would spend less time at her parents’ house and spend time at Father’s instead. But for some reason, the entire family always wanted to spend time with me— even my aunt and uncle. I flashed back to Alluka crying her insecurities away— crying from feeling abandoned. Did Kalluto feel that way, too? 

   Now that I think about it, we never had a strong relationship. All the memories I have of Kalluto are simple waves and passing by, nothing more. In that way, I was unapproachable. 

   I fidgeted with the house key and turned the knob. Suddenly, an awful, rotten stench flooded my nostrils, tugging a shudder out of me. I put my palm up, “stay back,” I ordered the two girls. 

   Kalluto listened immediately, her figure stiffening and taking a large step backward. Alluka, a bit more protestant, rolled her eyes and skipped away to probably pick some more dandelions. 

   With reluctant steps, I entered the familiar territory of Father’s living room, which was also a bedroom(?) Despite having an entire room to himself upstairs, he replaced the spot for a couch with his bed. 

   Around six empty beer cans tipped over like fallen dominos, and cigarette buds trashed the floor. Huh. Nothing too bad . 

   So I slid the glass door open, cringing as the metal screeched from friction. No one in the garden: clear. Plants that seemed to come and go, because of Father’s lack of nourishment, swayed as a sudden gust of breeze slammed the garage’s screen door wide open. 

   And there stood a young man. 

   He wore a black hoodie, his clothing was ragged, and unkempt blonde hair stuck out in all the wrong directions. I was frozen in shock as I saw the man shuffle through my father’s toolbox— scavenging, it seems— for something valuable. 

   “Get out,” I finally say. 

   The man jumps in surprise, immediately whipping around with a sharp screwdriver in his right hand. Foggy blue eyes traced mine, his pupils contracted. The expression he wore reminded me of a cornered animal, and I immediately knew, without a doubt, that his thoughts were unstable, unreliable; unpredictable.

   I lowered my gaze, deciding to hold my place. Father is ignorant, naive. He’s rich and drives an expensive viper, somehow thinking everyone that wants to ride home with him is genuinely interested in his personality like some twisted version of dependence. And where does that mentality lead him? To this very scene before me. 

   Worse of all, Alluka gets home from school earlier than me. Her getting off the school bus would mean there’s a chance she’d walk in, vulnerable to people like him.

    Not a chance. 

    “What're you doing here?” I ask, trying to feign being generally inquisitive rather than suspicion. 

   “I-I was just on my way out,” the man proclaims, and I could practically see sweat forming on his sickly forehead as my gaze tracked his every move. 

   I clear my throat, “excuse me, but I believe that belongs to my father.” I pointed at the Phillips screwdriver in the stranger’s right hand. 

   “Right! Of course!” He says a tad too quickly. Even his movements were frantic, his feet hastily shuffling to the toolbox to return the screwdriver. I watched, eyes boring into his back and tracing his every move as the man grabbed his backpack and left through the front door without a single word. 

   “They’re all the same,” I mumbled to myself. My eyes glanced to the stairway. This is the part I dreaded the most: seeing the disastrous state of my room, which seemed to change quite creatively every time I stepped foot inside. 

   When I opened my bedroom door, the sight greatly disturbed me. Alluka’s dirty laundry basket was tipped over, all of her undergarments littering the wooden floor. The bedsheets, clean and made before I left, barely clung to the mattress with the blankets piling into a fabric pool on the ground. Water bottles, water bottles, water bottles were everywhere. I kicked one angrily and smashed another, “selfish bastard!”

   A bedroom, my bedroom, was the one place I was supposed to feel safe in, yet with each and every visit, that privacy was invaded, promising a twisted sight before me. 

   Then, I entered the bathroom. Bile threatened to climb my esophagus. Cherry ice-cream, red as blood, smeared all over the mirror and splashed in a trail to the toilet on the white, tile floor. Brown pubic hair— no one in our family had that hair color— stuck to the bathtub, counters, and toilet. It was a crime scene of disgust, but it was a solo mission for me and me alone. 

   I told uncle Illumi to watch Alluka and Kalluto, to which he replied, “is Silva unable to?”

   But I simply responded with an icy-glare, sharp enough to cut steel, “you know the answer.”

   I got to work immediately, cleaning until it was a room I could once again live in with Alluka. Well, at least until the next visit.  

   The moment Mother returned my phone, I checked for any message notifications. None. My heart dropped, despite common sense telling me I wouldn’t have received any other answer, anyway. 

   “Big brother, wanna play Phasmophobia?” She held her gaming headphones in one hand, crystal blue eyes bright with a playful innocence.

   I smiled, turning my phone on silent and placing it on my piano, “sure.” 

   Father interrupted us, “sorry, kids, but Bizeff and I need to be working on The Deal. Once we’re trillionaires, you’ll have as much time as you want for video games.” He gently shoved Alluka aside and opened up saved tabs on his internet browser. Various mansions in the area popped up, and the sight made me bilious. “The Princess says The Deal is authentic.” 

    Says Bizeff— the guy who’s been ripped off by so many Tinder girls that he’s now homeless and mooching off of my father.

    Bizeff always played into Father’s delusions, and Father’s delusions were worsening. He somehow pieced together that his company was going to make him marry a process like some sort of fairytale. 

    It’s almost like he’s becoming schizophrenic.

   “Did you sign a contract?” I asked, glowering. 

  Instantaneously, with the most hateful gaze I’ve ever seen come from my father, he glared at me, yellowing teeth grinding and clenched fists making his knuckles turn white from friction. “Do you not trust me?”

   The sudden spike of anger stimulated my fight or flight response, and memories of me in the snow, getting beat kick after kick invaded every aspect of my consciousness. 

   It was the first of my complete submission to my father. First of many. 

   “I trust you, Father,” I said, looking him directly in the eye no matter how much I wanted to stare at the ground. It was also one of the first times I lied to my father. 

   First of many. 

   “Killua, can you promise not to tell anyone?” 

   “Gon-“

   “Please!” He begged over the phone, “I never said anything to anyone about that night on the bridge.”

   I flinched, “I wasn’t,” my voice cracked, “I wasn’t going to actually jump.” There was a small silence— silence if you don’t include the small hiccups coming from the phone’s speaker. “But I won’t tell anyone,” I promised. 

    ‘I won’t tell anyone.’  

   I jolted awake in a gasp. My heart pounded against my ribcage relentlessly, and a shaky hand carefully dabbed the dry tears that stained my cheeks. Another nightmare.

   I glanced next to me to find Alluka sleeping peacefully with a stuffed animal hugging her chest. A small smile graced my lips when I used my finger to wipe away a bit of drool escaping the corner of Alluka's mouth.

   Sighing, I slid the clean bedsheets off of my legs. Whenever waking up in the middle of the night at Father’s house, I’d go downstairs to play on the electric keyboard with my headphones in. Putting my hands in my short’s pockets after gently closing the door behind me, careful not to wake Alluka, I slinked the halls. 

   That’s when I came across Bizeff’s bedroom. 

   In my peripheral vision, I saw a picture of Alluka as the desktop background of his computer. A gasp caught in my throat; I hid behind the corner of the wall as fast as possibly could. 

    Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. My heart pounded, my mind screamed, and my limbs felt weak, powerless. No, I could’ve just seen it wrong. It could be my eyes playing awful tricks on me. 

   I swallowed hard, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, peering my head around the corner once more. Bizeff stuck his hand in a bag of greasy potato chips while he scrolled through Venezuelan girls on Tinder, but then, my eyes caught his desktop background once more. It was Alluka getting thrown up in the air by Father and waving her arms playfully like she was a bird, but the picture zoomed in on something nauseating. 

   It focused under Alluka’s dress, her baby pink underwear showing right between her legs. 

   As fast as I could, I ran to the bedroom Alluka and I shared, shutting the door. Frantic fingers twisted the lock, but suddenly, I remembered. I remembered Father’s threatening gaze, a gaze that told me ‘don’t disobey me or something bad will happen to your mother.’

    “Never lock this door!” He threatened, the memory of his outburst fresh in my mind.

   So I unlocked the door once more. 

   My back slid down the wall, tears gushing down my face with no sign of stopping. I can’t lock the door. I can’t lock the door. Bizeff is only a few steps away, but I’m not allowed to lock the door! 

   It was then I truly realized, Father’s house is too dangerous to live in. 

  I remember drifting between slumber and consciousness— the fine line between the two never quite clear— under silken blankets with my phone next to me. Listening to Gon playing the piano was by far one of my favorite things to do in the world. He always played this one song by Debussy, Arabesque No.1. 

   I have one particular memory, the memory of his playing in the background as I stared at a painting in my room of a forest with a sleeping river that remained undisturbed by any external forces. The colors, all the bright colors created from the gentle presses on the keys, came to life. It’d make me think of a future I never knew I was capable of, a future I never imagined I’d deserve, and for the first time, I truly wanted something all for myself— it was a goal I’d sacrifice anything to fulfill. 

   It was a dream, a dream imbued with optimism. I imagined living in a house with Gon— all other conflicts existing within the outside world non-problematic. I was sitting on a comfy couch in a living room, the moonlight and the starry sky beaming through large windows that were covered with transparent, white curtains, and Gon played Arabesque on a mirror-like Steinway identical to the piano we played at Summer Camp. A small smile appeared on my face; my insides filled with warmth. It was the first dream I could actually see coming true. 

   But in the end, it was merely a dream. 

   Three days have passed since Christmas Eve. I was at Mom’s house, curled in my blankets and scrolling through all of my text message histories with Gon. My fingers grazed the ring around my fourth finger, my thumb caressing the crushed opal. 

   A thought crossed my mind, something I wished to never have to think about ever again. If Gon is truly gone, would it be considered self-destructive to continue wearing this ring?

   I stopped all movement. Hesitant fingers carefully slid the ring off, but then I paused once more, shaking my head and sliding it back down my finger. I can’t do it . I can’t let go of him. 

   Suddenly, I received a call from Gon, and for a moment of disbelief, I stared at my home screen incredulously. Am I hallucinating? 

    Gon.

   Not waiting another moment, I jolted up and swiped to answer. “Gon-!”

   “You told someone. You told your mother and she called my father!”  

   All words died on my tongue, confusion sprouting, but that quickly morphed into sheer anger. And my voice didn’t mask any of it, “for three days, I wondered if you were alive . What were you thinking about, huh?” It took everything in me to refrain from screaming, “for that time, I didn’t know if I lost you forever. I didn’t know if I was responsible. I-,” my voice cracked. 

   There's silence, and I wait patiently.

   Finally, he responds, “Sorry, my aunt came in, could you repeat that?”

   My heart dropped to my stomach, “I was just worried. I’m… glad you’re okay.”

   “Well, now my father knows and it’s only a matter of time before the news spreads to my Aunt.”

    “Yeah… I’m sorry.”

    “It’s okay. Just… don’t do that again.”

   I winced, too many emotions welling up inside me. Why, why did this confrontation remind me of my Father? I knew it was wrong of Gon, but when did I lose the courage to fight back? 

   It doesn’t matter, I decided. I should be grateful. 

    It’s okay because the good outweighs the bad.

Chapter Text

   It’s strange how a certain object can stir so many emotions caused by memories alone. It’s meaningless until an impactful experience shines a whole new light around it. There may be a symbolism only you will understand, or perhaps it’s shared with someone else— which adds yet another meaning to the once-ordinary object. A bond. 

   Everyone who knew me raised a skeptical brow when seeing me wear a ring. ‘A ring? It’s pretty, but since when were you one to wear jewelry?’ is what they’d say. I’d shrug it off because an excuse wouldn’t change any of the suspicions from the people who knew me. 

   It was a silent agreement to keep our relationship a secret, a unanimous one. We both had our reasons, some the same, some different, and word getting around to our families seemed… fatal. 

   Sometimes we’d wonder, what is the biggest obstacle holding us back from seeing each other? It wasn’t Ging; while my mother was a bit more difficult, she isn’t completely against the idea, either. My father was perhaps the easiest of all, but only if he never found out that they were ‘dates’ and not ‘hangouts.’ Even our sexuality didn’t seem to be the worst of it. The biggest obstacle: Aunt Mito. 

   No, it was the religion. 

   My family never cared enough about religion to attend church more than twice in my lifetime. I felt as though I had a clearer head because of it— as if I could truly contemplate what I believe in without bias. Yet, because I grew up without the constant claims from preachers that God is real and this and that happened, the contradicting versions of the Bible had me raise a skeptical brow here and there. As I researched religions, I found some that I respected, and some that I didn’t. 

   Gon’s aunt was a Jehovah’s Witness. The people themselves were possibly the kindest beings on the planet, but the masked manipulative nature behind it had my lips curl in distaste. Perhaps I only despised it because it stood as an unbreakable, titanium fortification between my dreams, a dream that’s craving grew more profound as hours passed. 

   But there were always loopholes, and it was our job to find them. 

   My phone vibrated, and on the home screen was a fresh notification. 

   Just now. 

   Gon: Killuaaaaaaaa

    As I reached for my phone, I saw Alluka roll her eyes beside me. “Go ahead. It’s not like we only play video games together once a week or anything,” she pouted, turning her spinney chair the other way and facing her back towards me. 

   Suddenly, my phone blew up, vibrating obnoxiously and alerting our dog from three rooms down the hall. 

   Gon: HEY >:0

   Gon: I HAVE A SURPRISE!

   Gon: Killua.

   Gon: Killua.

   Gon: Killua.

   Gon: Killua.

   Gon: Killua.

  Gon: Don’t ignore me! >:p

   Gon: KilluaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAaaaaa!

    Alluka threw her hand up, exclaiming, “even his texting is loud!”

   I bit back a laugh, fingers automatically typing a response as it was now muscle memory. 

   Killua: If my phone blows up, you’re buying me another one.

   Gon: That’s not fair! Killua’s the rich person here >:0

     Killua: What does that have to do with any of it?!

   Gon: Nothing, really, but Alluka stole your phone and told me to shut up yesterday. She also told me you have the oculus. I like to know these things, Killua. 

    I snorted aloud. 

   Alluka grumbled, “take your snorts upstairs. It’s crouton I get gold during this season of Overwatch.”

   “Crouton?”

   She spun around, glare sharp as steel, “yes, crouton.”

   “Do you mean crucial?” 

   She rolled her eyes and faced her back towards me once more, going straight back to gaming, “Crouton, crucial, whatever,” waving her hands dismissively. 

   In order to soothe my jittery phone, and my dog, I decided it’d be easier to call Gon. “Hello?”

    The boy on the other line whispered, “Killua, I have to be quiet, so listen closely.”

   Turning the volume up, I put my phone next to my ear, listening intently. Gaze narrowing down the hallway, I thought to myself, it’s about last week. We haven’t spoken of it, and I wasn’t sure whether I liked that better or not. The subject matter in itself left a bitter aftertaste. 

   But that serious concept was thrown out the window the moment Gon’s fingers came intact with his keyboard, banging the living shit out of it. I dropped the phone as if it caught fire, stepping on it as if that would silence it. 

   Alluka screamed from downstairs, “Jesus CHRIST!! I have never encountered a human that loud in my entire life!?!”

    Utterly frazzled, I picked up the phone, speechless because what does one say to that?

   Gon laughed his ass off, and if it were camp, I would’ve performed the good ol’ drowning-him-in-the-river ritual. I did try it once, but it was on Gaito-- also known as Gon’s long-lost twin that we happened to meet at camp. Kids would always joke about how much Gon and Gaito were similar, though, Gon was definitely the bigger sibling. They’d poke fun that Gon ate all of Gaito’s muscles in the womb, which turns out since they were in fact twins, that conspiracy isn’t entirely impossible. 

   I cleared my throat, “Well, now I understand how you blew up your last keyboard.” 

   “I’ll pay your hearing aid fee with chocolate,” He said between laughs. 

   I scoffed, “you owe me chocolate whether I go deaf or not.”

   “Tell him he owes me Funyuns, or I will shank him!” Alluka yelled. 

   Gon didn’t need me to tell him. He heard. “Did your sister just say she’ll shank me,” He asked timidly, as if genuinely afraid she’ll perform the action. 

   “Yup!” I chirped. 

    “Scary,” Gon whispered under his breath, and after a small pause, he brightened up to say, “Anyway, Gaito is going out to the movies tonight. Mito won’t be home, so I was wondering if you wanted to come.”

   “Is it one of those cheesy horror movies kinda dates?”

   “Absolutely.” 

   “And Gaito’s tagging along? Isn’t he one of those kids that never likes to leave the bed?”

   Gon laughed, “Pretty much, but there’s some surprising news to go along with that.”

   But the ‘surprise’ doesn’t sound all that pleasant from the tone in Gon’s voice. 

   “I’ll check with my father. He’s more lenient on letting me venture out into the world.”

   He sighed, “that makes the two of us. Text me how it goes!” and then he hangs up. 

   I let my head fall on the sturdy wall behind me, a smile gracing my lips as I listen to the distant hum of Alluka committing mass murder on a video game, which was strangely calming. 

   Unexpectedly, I heard an object fall from across Bizeff’s room, and I immediately snapped from my reverie.

   Bizeff left for ‘business’ an hour or so prior to now, so I decided now was as good of a chance as any to scavenge the room. 

   With a quick glance behind me, I entered. My eyes darted to every corner, under every pillow, and through every crevice, but what was I searching for?

    What am I expecting to find?

   
   The complete cluelessness behind that foregoing question lured fear into my consciousness, and motivation is what I received from it.

   That’s when something caught my eye, light reflecting off the silver. It laid beneath the mattress, and I scoffed. ‘What an original place to hide things,’ I thought to myself sarcastically. 

   A flash drive.

   It could either contain everything or nothing and if it was in fact everything, would I want to know what everything is? Convulsing images of Alluka’s underwear on his backdrop flashed before me. 

   Jaw set, I shoved the flash drive in my pocket. 

   The movie theater Gon picked out was a nice one. Tall ceilings, crystal chandeliers, escalators with golden lining, and towering portraits of famous actors and actresses. Fingertips grazed the scarlet woolen walls. 

   “What movie, sir?”

   I put two-hundred-dollar bills on the counter, “Venom 2. Seven pm.” Though, it was only until later I realized how wealthy I was. 

   Once receiving the tickets, I ventured to the arcade. The room was tempting in multiple ways. LEDs shining overhead, and the music, that somehow sounded ‘pixel-y’ to me, played on top of each other. It reminded me of my Father’s game room.

   I make my way to a simple Pac-man machine, entering twenty-five cents into the slots. 

   “Why did I guess I’d find you here?”

   My eyes widen. 

   Gon.

   And that’s when I see him, hair ruffled to the side, and to make matters riskier, a black, leather jacket over compact shoulders. I thank whatever gods that this wasn’t middle school and I could control my hormones. Well… mostly.

    How long has it been since I last saw him? A month? It felt like years. 

    Then my eyes wander to the man behind him. “Oh, aren’t you that kid from Camp that would always follow my brother around?” He says. “Killua, was it?”

   I opened my mouth to make a snippy comment, but suddenly, my gaze locks on the teenage girl he has an arm around. A pregnant teenage girl. All words died on my tongue. 

    So that was the surprise— Gaito getting a girl pregnant sophomore year. 

   I bit back a frown. That’s going to be hard on both families. 

   I was discreet with my gaze, careful not to make the girl uncomfortable. I’m sure she deals with much of that daily. “I see Gon is still the taller sibling,” I retorted, knowing Gaito is sensitive on the matter. Back at camp, everyone called Gaito a ‘short Gon.’ 

   “And I see you got shorter. Stopped growing?”

   I rolled my eyes, grumbling, “idiot,” before turning to Gon and eyeing him expectedly, “you going to play with me or what?” 

   “Air hockey?” A smirk curled his lips. “Sure, but this is the one thing you won’t win, Killua.” 

   The challenge didn’t go unnoticed, but Gon surely wasn’t expecting violence to be incorporated in the match. Our family called it the Zoldyck Touch. The moment our striker comes intact with the puck, it’s advised bystanders clear the area. 

   The entire game Gon had to dodge the puck that flew at the speed of lightning, nearly hitting his nose, forehead, and actually hitting his wrist. I could already see the bruise forming, but I won the match thanks to Gon surrendering. He said he’d rather not lose limbs this early into the date.

   The Freecss twins were responsible for gathering the snacks, and I was stuck with Gaito’s girlfriend. We sat on the bench in silence, but pulling my phone out seemed rude, so I waited there. 

   “How long have you known the two of them?” She asks. Her long blonde hair caught my eye. Somehow… it seemed familiar. 

   “A year or two,” I shrugged. “We met at a summer camp before Freshman Year.” A pause, “and you?”

   “Gon is a childhood friend,” she replied rather vaguely. 

   Suddenly it clicked. She was that girl in Gon’s contacts; I finally understood the misunderstanding of it all. “...Oh,” I replied offbeat.

   “Were you expecting a different answer?” She smiles. 

   I bite my lip guilty, “perhaps.” 

   There’s a marked silence, but the girl breaks it with a huff, “I’m Retz. Gon sure talks a lot about you, Killua.” 

   Heat rises to the surface of my cheeks.

   Retz’s gaze tracked the two boys wrestling each other in the line, probably fighting over stupid shit like who grabs the straws. I noticed a small smile graced her lips that were glossed a cherry red. “Gon told me how you guys met. That night.” She frowned; I begin to fidget uncomfortably. “I think right now that family is more torn than what meets the eye,” she continues, “actually, I don’t think any of us have the sunny childhoods cartoons and storybooks promised us, but I know as a fact it’s the little meetings like this that get Gon’s lazy butt up in the mornings.” 

   I hummed a response of agreement. “Thank you,” I say. 

   She replied immediately, “it’s the truth,” and suddenly, her voice lowered, hardly audible, barely above a whisper, “this baby… the family doesn’t know yet.” 

   “Mito?” 

   “...yeah.” She took in a shaky breath, “one night of stupidity and this is where it gets you.” Her slender fingers caressed the roundness of her belly as if protecting or even soothing the baby inside. “My family doesn’t care. In fact, they probably expected it, but I’m worried for those two,” she looked at Gon and Gaito.

   “Yeah, it’s not going to go down well,” I admitted. 

   Before the conversation could continue, the two boys returned, Gon holding bunches of snicker bars in his hands with a dopey grin on his face. “I got chocolate for Killua!”

   I grab some of the load.

   “You think this will cover the hearing aid?” He whispered into my ear.

   I punched him in the gut. 

   Retz and Gaito decided to sit in the front rows, but Gon, trying to be discreet and totally failing, decided he wanted to sit in the very back corner with darkness masking the seats. He even managed to come up with the pathetic excuse, “horror movies are scarier in the back.” 

   Scoffing, I replied, “if you're expecting a blow job or any make-out sessions back here, you're grossly mistaken.”

   “W-what?” Gon scratched the back of his head awkwardly, “that didn’t cross my mind…”

   “Yeah, sure,” rolling my eyes.

   As the movie played and the nearby speakers busting our eardrums, and as I shoved chocolate down my throat, not giving a damn if it was smearing all over my face, I couldn’t help but concentrate on the scent of Gon. Or rather, his cologne that clung to his leather jacket. I’d steal glances here and there, admiring his side profile when the brightness of the screen highlighted his sharp features, or I’d watch his Adam’s apple bob arbitrarily. 

    As time passed, too quickly, I might add, my head eventually rested against his warm chest. In this position, I could hear his hitches of breath when a jump scare rumbled the theater, and I’d wonder if maybe his scent would cling to me as it does his jacket. 

   There was no further intimacy despite Gon’s thumb grazing the ring on my finger. He whispered, then, “you’re wearing it. The ring.”

   I laughed airily, “it’s a reminder of you.”

   We could’ve kissed there, but we didn’t. To this day, I wonder what stopped us. It’s not that it felt unnecessary. I’m fact, I felt that we were both restraining ourselves with every ounce of strength in us. Nothing was there to stop us, technically, but some abstract barrier stood in the way, and I realized, it wasn’t only religion. 

   I came home to flashing lights of reds and blues, sirens hurting my ears. 

   Someone had broken into our house, Mother’s house. 

   But Mother’s house was supposed to be the safe house.

   Yet everything felt normal when we went to bed that night-- easily, even. 

   Because like my family, I acted as if nothing ever happened. 

   My phone and its irritating brightness buzzed next to my ear. Bzzt, bzzt, bzzt! Groaning, I grabbed my phone with floppy arms and squinted at the notifications on the front screen.

   Fifteen minutes ago.

   Gon: I decided I’m going to your house tonight.

    Yeah, right. I rolled my eyes. I returned my phone to its place on the nightstand and flopped over on my side again, grumbling. 

    Tap, tap, tap.

   My eyes shot open. Heartbeat accelerating, I stared at the window in anticipation. Fear crawling up my spine. The man was arrested, I tell myself. The man was arrested-

    I heard it again. 

    Tap, tap, tap.

   Grabbing the scissors from my desk, I slinked towards the window, hands sweating and strained knuckles turning white as I gripped the base of the scissors with too much force. Gingerly, I peeked between the shutters, and who was it?

   Gon fucking Freecss. 

   I yanked the shutters open, gritting my teeth, and texting him as fast as my fingers would let me.

   Killua: Are you an idiot?! You must have balls for brains if you think you can just sneak into my house that easily. 

   Through the window, Gon must’ve heard his phone buzz and shot me a bewildered look. After seeing the message, he looked up at me, shrugging. He rubbed his palms together, breath clouding in the air, indicating that he was freezing his ass off, and he wanted in.  

   This is how I respond to that:

   Killua: Not a chance.

    Gon: You’re just going to leave me out here?!

    Suddenly, a white car caught my eye.

   And in the distance was none other than the patrolling police car.

   I tapped on the window instantly, frantically signaling him to hide, but he just quirked his eyebrow cluelessly.

    ‘Gon, get the fuck down!’ I mouthed to him, slapping myself on the forehead when continued his lack of reaction.

   The dumbass finally got the hint, but then he managed to exceeded dumb by jumping into a rosebush. He even stayed in there for a solid minute after the police pass, and I stared at him, doing everything in my power to not laugh my ass off. 

   The tip of his ebony hair was all I could see as I saw him crawl to the front door. Panic arose.

   He’s going right for the cameras.

   I pulled my phone out once more. 

   Killua: There are cameras at the front door. You’re going to have to jump the back gate. 

    The tuft of hair paused before turning and taking a different route. 

    God, what an idiot.

   I threw a shirt on and crept across the house.

   Thump, thump, thump. My heart raced.

   Mother was by far one of the lightest sleepers on the face of the earth, and tonight's previous occurrences were sure to only enhance that. 

   I didn’t even bother to put shoes on, opening the back door and stepping onto the backyard’s pavement, the cement cold on my feet. The moment my feet came intact with the driveway, it hit me. 

    How did Gon even get here?

    There’s no way he ran here. That’s a full fourteen miles. 

   Across the driveway, Gon attempted to climb over the gate. As he places a leg over the metal spikes, he lost footing, stabbing his balls with the metal rods, and belly flopped on the cement, whimpering. 

   When he lifted his head, facial expression painting the picture of pure agony, he asked, “why are there so many strip clubs by your house?”

   Speechless. Unfathomably speechless. I still wonder what was going on in Gon’s head. I wonder the honest-to-God thoughts he had when he came up to me, asking with perplexion, “What’s wrong, Killua?”

   I smacked him over the head.

   Sneaking Gon into my room was no easy task. Mother was only a hallway away, and I had to jab him in the stomach every time his footsteps grew loud, which happened to be every other step. 

   “I know how to sneak, Killua,” Gon said matter-of-factly.

   “Then do it!” I shot back in a sharp whisper. 

   I still think it must’ve been a miracle I was able to get Gon in my room without any unfortunate sightings from my family, but now we were alone. A single shutter in my room was still open, the ceiling fan pushed the scarlet curtains, and suddenly, I grew very aware of Gon’s presence beside me.

   “So what now?” I ask. And when did I become breathless?

   My heart rate speeds in a gentle accelerando when Gon shifted beside me. 

   I ask again, “Did you really run fourteen miles not having a-”

   Gon’s mouth on mine cuts me off, nose buried in my cheek, and hand sliding up my back to cradle the back of my head. Instinctively, my arms wind around his neck, pulling myself up to his height, fingers sinking into his shoulder blades. I shivered as Gon licked the seams of my lips, receiving a shaky groan as a response. 

   When we part for breath, I stare into Gon’s eyes and ask, “why did you run all the way here?”

   He pulls me into an embrace, tucking his face between my neck and shoulders, tranquil breath tickling me. “I love you, Killua.”

   I kiss him. I kiss him again and again. 

    ‘One night of stupidity and this is where it gets you.’

    My back falls against the bedsheets, body arching to reach Gon’s as he crawls on top of me, undoing the buttons of his top and sliding off his shirt, throwing it somewhere unimportant on the floor. My eyes widened; my palms slid down the carved muscle of Gon’s chest, so warm, but shivery at the touch. 

   I sat up to kiss Gon again, parting to undo my own shirt this time before falling back on the mattress. But fear washed over me when I saw Gon had effectively stopped all movement. “Gon?” My voice is hoarse enough to surprise both of us.

   He smiled, wrapping his arms around the small curvature of my waist and pulling it towards him, splotching his mouth in delicate kisses down my stomach. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

   My body warmed. “How long?” knowing the question is unnecessary.

   Gon didn’t answer, biting his lip and staring me in the eye, uncertainty swirling in those pools of amber. “Are you sure this is okay?”

   I nod.

   He shook his head, “I don’t… I don’t want you to regret this, ever.”

    I’ll only regret it if you regret it.

    I offered a small smile, hands feathering down to place a palm over the collected warmth between his legs, blushing at the contact. “I don’t have any reason to regret this,” I whispered. 

   Our limbs tangled together once more, and it stayed that way until it was time to send Gon back home again. We managed to sneak him back through the back door without getting caught, and I unlatched the gate for him.

   He whined, “There was a latch the entire time?!”

   I laughed, “don’t get picked up by strippers on your way back,” then added, “or the police.”

   “Yeah,” he grimaced and turned to leave, but my hand suddenly reached for his shirt before I could stop it.

   Gon turned around, sending a questioning look, “Is something wrong, Killua?”

    Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.

   A series of pleas surfaced my thoughts, but I bit my tongue, hoping to keep them as thoughts only. My eyes managed to wet, and I let my bangs cover them.

   It all dawned on me-- the impatience and attachment of it all.

   This could be the last time I see Gon.

   “I love you,” I say-- almost frantically. 

   Gon’s eyes widened before a dopey smile stretched wider than his face. “We’ll see each other soon. Even if it takes me running fourteen miles, jumping in thorns, and impaling my balls, I won’t leave you behind.”

   He waved goodbye, “someday, it’ll get easier.”

   But that someday was much further than we could’ve imagined.

   “Yeah,” I whispered. “Someday.”

Chapter Text

   “Are you ready for the vocal performance?” Ikalgo asked, sitting down at the nearby Steinway and playing a sustained glissando just for the hell of it.

   I shrugged, “as ready as I could be. Four-eyes doesn’t realize my hands aren’t large enough for ninths. Tch, I could hardly reach an octave.”

   “Oh, yeah, doesn’t your father have huge hands?”

   “He’s huge in general.”

   Ikalgo snickered, “then how come are you so short?”

   I pushed him off the bench.

   Ikalgo and I accompanied the freshman vocalists. Mr. Wing is who taught it, to whom I heard was also taught by the piano teacher, Doctor Kreuger. Wing is a graduate from Julliard, a pianist, but he decided to teach the vocal department instead. The vocalists were known to be the laziest students in the entire school, whereas the pianists were considered the most diligent alongside the artists. The classical pianists were at the top of the school’s fabricated hierarchy that was socially constructed way back when. 

   It was right before a recital, and it was the first freshman vocalist recital-- pianists had over five, already. At this point, wearing a suit became natural. 

   Ikalgo pointed at the piano, “play it for me.”

   “Play it yourself.”

   He curled his lips.

   “I haven’t memorized anything I enjoy playing,” I grimaced, “er… nothing hard enough, at least. Bisky keeps assigning me whimsical pieces.”

   “Because your strong suit is depressing shit.”

   “And I’d rather keep my strong suit like that. I’m tired of staccatos.”

   Ikalgo hummed a response. 

   The recital lights dimmed, fading over scarlet sheets, suddenly making the room feel cold.

   “It’s time to go backstage,” he whispered.

   “Yeah.” 

   Nerves always settled backstage. It wouldn’t matter if I performed every day of my life, fear always lingers. I rubbed my hands together, attempting to create warmth through friction. Ikalgo, face darkened by the shadows, put a warm hand on my shoulders, squeezing them to get me to relax. However, it had the opposite effect on me. I wasn’t accustomed to intimacy displayed physically, and Ikalgo was very physical. I feigned shuffling through my music for something as an excuse to wiggle from his grasp. “I’ll page turn for you if you can do the same for me,” I said quickly.

   “Sure.”

   It began like every other recital: bow as people clap, adjusting the sheet music wrack, measuring your distance from the piano, etc, and for that reason, relaxing came a bit easier for me. Until it was my turn, and the vocalist ran off stage. 

   Not knowing what to do, I kept playing, substituting the harmony in my right hand to the melody sung by the singer. It’s what you’re supposed to do when a vocalist stops mid performance until they catch back up again. Mistake one: made.

   When the next performer came on stage, she seemed equally as nervous, shivering in her heels, and voice overflowing with vibrato. I read the music with ease, pausing where I marked her breaths, picking up the pace when she hit higher notes due to her lack of air.

   But then, Ikalgo didn’t turn the page.

   I quickly nudged him in the knee and shot him a questioning look, but he didn’t respond. Relying on my fuzzy memory seemed disastrous, so I promptly used my right hand to flip the page with too much strength.

   The music book flew into the audience. 

   “Ruined!” Wing yelled, slamming his books on the desk before me; I winced. “We spent an entire semester for this performance just to be completely ruined by an accompanist!?! ”

   “It was an accident, sorry.”

   “Well that’s for damn sure!” He pinched the bridge of his nose, jaw set, “these freshmen are going to be traumatized. Their stage fright is enhanced all thanks to you. Think of that next time you join a music school.”

   Ikalgo stepped in, “It was my fault. I didn’t turn the page-”

   “You shouldn’t have to,” Wing snapped. “You’re dismissed. Leave while you still have an A in the semester.”

   Ikalgo shot me a sympathetic look before leaving through the doors, and when the doors clicked, I couldn’t help but wish he stayed.

   How pathetic. 

   “...is there anything I can do to make up for this?” I asked, biting my lip.

   Wrong question to ask, apparently.

   “You failed, Killua, this semester. You can’t just make up for the fear you put into those freshmen.”

   Downright taken aback, I exclaimed, “but I’ll get kicked out of the school if I don’t pass a piano course.”

   “Good,” he said, “leave!”

   The rest of the day I felt sick to my stomach. I told Gon what happened later that night over the phone, and in a small voice, he questioned, “why stay?”

   “Huh?”

   More sure of himself, this time, he asked, “why stay at a place that does that to you?”

   I went silent. I had nothing to say to that because I didn’t know why. Why would someone do that to themself? 

    Because music means everything to me. 

   Despite all of the hatred born from the school, I remembered those mornings where it seemed all was perfect. I could walk the halls with music books in my hand, and knowing I had the opportunity to play piano whenever I wished. Lunch was festive and bright, students singing angelically down the halls or the jazz band improvising on stage. I’d remember how colorful the walls were, natural sunlight beaming through the windows and onto numerous paintings art majors donated after graduation, or I’d watch them paint on the patio, dance kids behind them competing with one another depending on the station playing on the portable speakers. I wanted to be a part of that community, even if I didn’t belong to it. 

   “I have to stay.”

   Everything I liked seemed to have a sacrifice, and I always chose sacrificing my worth. 

   Returning home felt like the true beginning to the day, like I stored my entire day’s worth of energy to find the single motivation to take one step forward, turn the rusted, once-golden doorknob, and take one step inside Father’s house. Even the air unsettled me, chilling to the bones and goosebumps prickling all over my skin. I placed my backpack down softly, but I already knew father heard me come in. I peeked around the corner, wondering when it changed. When did I stop bursting through the front door with open arms and words of excitement rolling off my tongue? When did this house turn dark, not an inch of sunlight reflecting off the furnitures’ surface? When did I begin to be too afraid to see what sight welcomed me? 

   It didn’t matter when. This was the beginning of another day.

   Another step forward, and I was in the living room. Dad stared at my figure for a moment before his eyes brightened, a huge smile stretching his face-- it reminded me of the innocent, joyous smile Gon had. I missed it. “Killua! How was school?”

   And just like that, I’d instantly regret everything I was feeling. 

   Later that night, I wandered down stairs after hours of homework. Bisef was still absent from the residence, and Alluka spent more time at Mom’s house, since her school was closer. I saw beer cans sleep, undisturbed on the floor. Absentmindedly, I step over them, almost like a game of hop-scotch.

   One, two, three…

   …seven, eight…

   I bent over to pick up the ninth can, staring at it for a moment, then trudging to the trashcan and throwing it away.

   “Killua,” Father shuffled on the couch. I thought he was asleep. “Tell me about what you’re learning. You study so much, I’m proud to have such a hardworking son.”

   Warmth blossomed in my chest, a smile daring to inch across my face.

   He cares. It’s just like old times.

   I instantly plopped down on the couch and began rambling the new piece I was assigned to work on for my performance class. I told him it was he piece he liked from the recital that my classmate played, and that I thought of him while asking to play it. 

   Thirty-minutes of this was worth everything, worth sacrificing.  

   He seemed genuinely interested, responding with enthusiasm lacing his tone and eyes bright and welcoming. It was my favorite part of Father’s personality. He seemed to care as much as you, and that always made him seem young, like you were talking to someone else the same age, someone who understands, someone who puts in the effort to try and understand. It was like taking a long breath of the freshest air imaginable, chest suddenly weightless. 

   Summer camp had the freshest air, and after the first day of meeting Gon, we spent every moment there together. We played day after day. Laughter, freedom, and something else. 

   Tree tag. Gon invented it. It was simple, really, a game of tag, but in the trees. We did different things every day, of course. Gon was always leading some sort of expedition, but each afternoon resulted in tree tag. 

    “Killua, have you ever jumped from tree to tree before?” Gon asked, standing on an oak tree branch, leaves swaying in the wind. Green. Bright. 

   I stood there, eyebrows raised and back rested against the trunk of the upper tree, “No, and I don’t think I’m the only kid, either.” A small smile tugged the right corner of my mouth, mumbling “not everyone’s a squirrel.”

   “Try it,” Gon smiled. 

   I raised a skeptical brow.

   “When I didn’t eat my vegetables, Aunt Mito would tell me, ‘once you get used to uncertainty, possibilities are endless.’” He scratched his head bashfully, “though I never really knew what that meant, I think it works to say it now.”

   I understood it immediately, but I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to surpass ‘uncertainty.’ After all, how could someone become comfortable with the instability of the future? 

   I took one step, hopped the next, and Gon jumped to the next tree with a delighted cheer. It was then, as I was flying through the trees, wind grazing my hair, dusting my cheeks, the sunset dyeing everything pinks and gold, I realized that quote wasn’t about fear. It wasn’t a test of bravery. It was saying to not live for the future, or dwell in the determinants of the past, but to live now. 

    Gravity didn’t weigh me down, neither did the past. All that lingered was the excitement of nearly catching up to Gon-- not only stare at his back in front of me as he consistently remained one step ahead.  

   Living was fun, then. 

   But sometimes, looking in the past or future is better than the present. Sometimes, the present is all but a nightmare, brewing uncertainty in violent, rippling waves, crashing on the shore and stirring sand, taking it far, deep into the depths of the ocean. 

   I was still talking to my father, cheerful, vulnerable, until a sudden spike of anger quickly passed over his gaze. “Shut up! I hate hearing you speak” He boomed. His sharp blue eyes shifted manically with mine. 

   My mouth went dry, but I managed to reluctantly stand up, hoping to inch away slowly with the least hostility possible.

   I was forced down by overwhelming strength, back into my seat where I then decided I was staying. 

    For hours, hours, hours, hours, he drilled thoughts in my head: 

   “You’re selfish. Wasting all of your potential on useless music, art, no matter what you do, it’s useless.”

   “Like an emotional girl is all you are, whose importance only relies on their virginity.”

   “I wish I had a better son. It’s all of your mom’s fault.”

    At some point, the voice in my head turned to his voice. 

    Tears welled up, uncontrollably streaming down my face, despite my resolve to hold them in still remaining high.

    Why am I crying? I’m not hurt.

    No. I might be hurt. I could be hurt. 

   “Stop crying.”

   I nodded, aggressively wiping the wetness from my cheeks.

   “Stop crying!” He jumped up and pushed me off the couch. The wind knocked out of me as I hit the hard wooden floor. A thin film of dust coated my face like the filthy beer cans, discarded, only used for temporary happiness.

    Why is this happening? I’d question over and over again. It made no sense. He’s no longer drunk, and I don’t think he’s on anything-  

   “Look me in the eyes,” he demanded sharply.

   And I did, coughing. Everything felt tight. Everything hurt.

   “What’re you sorry for?”

   Flabbergasted, I didn’t know. I’m sorry for focusing on dumb things? But my father encouraged it. I’m sorry for speaking for too long? 

    Wait, this is wrong. Father is wrong. There’s no way he isn’t. 

   I stood up, and with a cold, piercing stare, “I feel so sorry for you.”

   There was a moment of silence.

    Unease.

   My heart didn’t dare to even beat as fear crawled up my spine. I watched his expression widen. Blood-shot eyes began quivering, the muscles in his face twitching. He lunged upwards, and I bolted to the door, opened it wanting to run away. I needed to run away.

   Run, run, run. It can’t end up like last time. 

    I was grabbed from behind, but I kept fighting, kicking and screaming, “Please, help! Help, help, help me, please!” 

   We were in a tight-fitted townhome complex. Someone had to hear me. Hell, my uncle only lived a few doors down. I fought and fought and fought, trying to buy time, as much as possible, but my feet were slowly sliding further away from the open door-- the door I never wanted to open again, no matter if there was a small chance of happiness was behind it.

   The moment you enter this house, you will never leave. 

   No one ever came. 

   This is a pattern, I realized. It’s a pattern that will never end. 

    A small thought entered my mind, one that would solve everything. It would ensure this would never happen again, no matter what. 

    Father didn’t let go of me, taking hold of my neck. Slowly, I tried to lead him towards the kitchen with all the strength my body allowed me to exert. My fingers grazed the wooden cabinet, curling them around the rusty, silver handle and taking out a knife.

   Father let go immediately, frantic eyed and stepping back slowly.

   I panted. “Come anywhere near me, and I’ll do it.” I pointed the blade towards my neck, the point sharp enough to draw a tranquil stream of bloody. I couldn’t afford to risk losing the battle of aiming the knife at him, so… “I’ll do it. I don’t care, not in the slightest.”

   He didn’t say anything.
 
   Silence, again.

   And then he’s laying on the couch passed out.

   I used that opportunity to bolt upstairs, leaving it unlocked, fumbling to call Gon. 

   I called over and over, but he never answered. 

    I didn’t sleep that night. Instead, I sat on the stairs, staring at the still-open front door. It was swaying in the forceful wind next to the sound of falling leaves, revealing a sliver of burnt yellow from the porch lights of all of our neighbors.

   A tawny cat stopped by, taking a step inside with it’s pink paws and sniffing the dirt trail leading from the door to the kitchen. “Meow,” it said, and left. 

   I mumbled to myself, “I could step out of this door, at any moment, but I know...” cold tears dripped onto my hands like oozing blood, “…but I know I could never leave.”

Chapter Text

   Chopin once said, “I wish I could throw off my thoughts which poison my happiness, and yet I take a kind pleasure in indulging them.”

   Indulgence.

   In the solitude of the practice room was a simple upright Yamaha and a dimmed overhead light a shade too dark to see what expression my face carried from the outside.

   My fingers did as I told them, as I programmed them, hitting every note and memorizing the sensitivity of the instrument, lacing each layer of voicing.

   The Chopin Ballade in g minor seemed to have a different meaning every time I played it, yet the melancholy sound always remained. Somehow, the piece was captivating. I could play it over and over and over again like an addictive poison. The piece had peaceful moments, invariably to be interrupted by a frantic tragedy, and each time I remembered a different one. 

   Sometimes I played piano to lose all thoughts.

   This time, I played to find them. 

   I tried to think of a solution, a solution to everything before all I worked to conserve collapsed, but my mind always turned up blank, reminding me I’m a bystander to it all. I bit my lip. A metallic taste seeped into the crevice of my mouth. 

   I played the ending of the ballade with power. My right hand cramped at every note. I ignored it and continued. My left hand jumped, and my right-hand thumb pivoted my hand to and from. When I played the final chord, I realized I gave up on trying to find an answer to a solution. The only thing that echoed in my mind was why?

    “Holy shit!”

   Startled, I scrambled from my chair.

   Ikalgo stood at the entrance of the wide-open practice room, mouth agape. “Are you playing the Chopin Ballade?!”

   “Uh,” I answered, dumbly.

   “I normally dislike Chopin, but Killua, holy shit?! You have to show Bisky!”

   Suddenly, an awful feeling turned in my stomach, swirling my organs into a knot. I shook my head, “I learned this myself. I don’t want the teacher to know about this.”

   Ikalgo nodded. “I understand, but Killua, that’s amazing. I think it’s even performance level.” 

   My eyes widened, and the awful feeling was instantly replaced with happiness and joy. 

   “Anyway,” he put his hands in his pockets and reopened the practice room door, “I’ll see you in Masterclass.” 

   I watched the door shut with a click, and got back to playing, now, without solitude. I needed  praise like that. Why? Because I needed to know I was doing something right in this world.

   Something.  

   “Killua, do you think about the future?” Gon asked. Though it was over the phone, I always loved having Gon’s voice so close to my ear. 

   “All the time,” I whispered. I was on my bed, staring vacantly at the ceiling, dimly memorizing every ridge and crack. My feet hid under the blanket, cold air from the fan blotching warm spots on my cheeks. 

   A long sigh resonated over the static phone. “I’ve been thinking about it more, lately.”

   I hummed a response. “Do you think about the past, Gon?”

   “All the time.”

   I smiled. 

   “I’ve been thinking where to meet with Killua next.” A short pause, “I want you to meet my aunt.”

   My jaw dropped. His aunt? Weren’t we trying to keep everything a secret? No, he must’ve thought this through. 

   Gon must’ve noticed my silent confusion, so he elaborated, “I don’t want to keep you a secret like my brother did with Retz, and whenever I think of the future, I think of you!”

   Heat blossomed in my chest. Fuzzy. “That’s embarrassing.”

   “Killua thinks everything is embarrassing,” I only imagined he said with puckered lips. 

   We stayed silent before yelling on the other end rang in my ear. 

   “Is everything okay?” I asked.

   Gon laughed sheepishly, “I have to go, but I’ll call you later, okay?”

   “Yeah, I love y-”

   He hung up. 

   I frowned, staring at the vacant lock screen and moving it back and forth with my thumb. Neither of us discussed much of what went on these past days. I guess it was a unanimous decision to use our time on focusing on the time we had together, our little haven.

   Perhaps, that isn’t always a good thing, I thought to myself.

 The next day, an unexpected cold front passed through, freezing all the pipes downtown. School was supposedly out for the week– which normally met spending those long hours at Father’s house. However, my mother had a different idea in mind and decided to take the family to Six Flags, a large amusement park. Alluka was practically squealing at the mere mention of it.

   But for some reason, it was during the long, four-hour car ride there that I looked through mine and Gon’s message history. I noticed it was mostly my messages, Gon responding in vague, short words. I surely noticed, and was disappointed, that the recent conversations have been quite short, but it was only until then I realized how long it’s been happening.

    Ever since he ran to my house. 

    Maybe it’s always been like this. Maybe I’m overthinking. Perhaps I’m clingy.

   It still made me uneasy. As I proceeded to brush it off, again, a message lit up my home screen. 

   Gon: I want to be left alone.

    It took my brain a moment to truly process the words; my heart stopped. I understood space, it’s all I ever wanted in my household, but it seemed so uncharacteristic of Gon– unless something awful happened. Pathetically my train of thought resorted to, did I do something wrong? Maybe he no longer wants me around?

    I shook my head and put my phone down. He wants space. I won’t dwell on it. 

   Scattered thoughts and buried memories rose to the surface: His mysterious crying on our museum date, even perhaps his strange mood swings during camp– the way his gaze would sometimes drift, his light-hearted persona slipping for as short as a mere glimpse of the eye. 

   At the time, it made me feel closely connected with him– like perhaps we were the same in some way, a deep sadness lingering in the back of our minds, but happiness always brought to the surface around each other. Like perhaps he felt the same troubles at home; like our situations were exactly the same, and only we understood each other. No one else. 

   The more I learned about Gon, the more I understood that Gon was not as open about his feelings as someone may think at the first meeting. 

   There are six levels of someone’s inner self. The first one is: name, favorite, color, all those basic questions you may hear on the first day of school during those annoying games the teacher makes you do. The second level goes into vague detail about family, home, and determining safety– the third being not much different. It’s after that, information is only shared with close friends– the last two layers people only tell best friends or one trusted family member. What surprised people with Gon is he could easily jump to level four to any stranger he met within two seconds, but what they don’t realize is, that Gon, in fact, deep-down– where all his strongest emotions lie– opens to no one. He tells no one of his pain; perhaps he doesn’t even admit it to himself. He faces it alone, pushing anyone away who tries. 

   I realized I was no exception, even though Gon was mine.

   There was one time I felt he truly opened up to me.

    Long ago…

    At two in the morning, we snuck into clubhouse with a couple of pillows, some snacks, a dim lantern, and we made a small fort under the grand piano. Gon created a small opening in the fort so he could see the stars through the large windows. I laid on my back with my arms folded behind my ivory head of hair, looking at Gon, who was on his tummy, legs swinging back and forth as he seldom reached down to run his fingers through my hair as if I wouldn’t notice. It felt strangely intimate, yet I watched his gaze closely and didn’t look away when it met mine. For some reason, I was fine with him knowing how close I felt to him. Only him. 

   His gaze was serious. Beautiful. I adored the way starlight reflected off his dark brown eyes, unreadable; somehow familiar.

   “Gon, you’re thinking too hard,” then said with a smirk, “it’s weird.” The sound of my voice seemed to echo for miles. Everywhere in the nighttime forest was asleep.   

   He smiled sheepishly, “It is, isn’t it?”

   Though I was smiling, my gaze remained serious, “I’m not dumb, you know. It’s pretty obvious something is bothering you.” Obvious to me, but I knew most wouldn’t have noticed. 

   He sighed, his shoulders slouched. He peered off with an unfocused gaze at the large windows and said, “everyone says I’m just like my dad. I know I’m just like my dad, but…” he paused for a moment, “but I don’t think I like that.”

   “Why’s that?”

   “Hm,” he puts a finger to his forehead, gently scratching his rather strange hairline, “in many ways I find my dad admirable, but I’m still kinda scared to be like him.” His voice lowers to a whisper, “I don’t want to hurt others like my father does. I don’t want to shut people out like he did with Aunt Mito.”

   I didn’t say anything for a bit after that. I let the meaning of the conversation sink in. 

   Taking a deep breath, I rolled over to my side, back facing Gon. “I fear the same thing,” I finally said, breaking the silence. I tucked my face into my arms, creating a ball out of my body. I was too embarrassed, really– warmth splotching bright red across my cheeks. What shocked me at the time, was what occurred next. I feigned indifference as I felt Gon shuffle next to me, our bodies now touching side-by-side. His nose nudged between the curls of my hair as a gust of warm air fanned my neck, shooting goosebumps and heat straight down my spine. “Thank you, Killua,” he whispered, and the only thing on my mind for the rest of the night was why? What did I do? My eyes narrowed. 

   Sleep was not an option that night we spent in Dallas. With Father snoring atrociously, and Alluka still sucking her fingers– despite nearly being a teenager– Mom and I shifted uncomfortably through the plastic-like hotel sheets until giving up by a tip of the sun touching the horizon. We ambled downstairs with warm coffee and breakfast in our hands. Mother, selfless as ever, always thought of Father and brought him some cold food, since warm food would cool by the time he woke. 

   The night before is all I would have wished for: quality time with the old father. The father that didn’t have issues. His charisma, the type that made even the common people smile and join in small conversations here and there– the type that brought warmth, and brightness to the atmosphere, it reminded me of Gon, even. The sheer light, positivity. I always gravitated to it like a moth, craving more and more to quell the deep sadness that never faded.

    I gravitated to it even when it hurt. I’d kill myself to obtain that luminosity. Anything to keep the sadness away.

   “Warm food,” he demands, after waking three hours later.

   Mother went to retrieve some as he fell back asleep.

   I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance as Father did so. He kept everyone up all night, and now he only wakes to throw Mother’s previous food in the trash and demand more. 

   The situation only repeated. As predicted, the food cooled by the time Father woke again. 

   “Is it so hard to get warm food?” Father remarks grumpily. Mother scrambles downstairs, again. This time, I followed Alluka at my side. “You don’t have to listen,” I say.

   Mother shakes her head, “I don’t want to cause drama.”

   Eyes narrowing, I suggest, “let him come down to get his own damn food.”

   And he did.

   Father stomped down the hotel lobby and into the breakfast area. He was too late. Noon passed, and the platters were clean and stainless. Alluka and I sit at a round wooden table, a few families around us enjoying a game of cards or looking at pamphlets in hopes of exploring the city. I raised an unimpressed brow as Father flounced over to the table. 

   “It’s all gone now,” he directs to Mother with gritted teeth.

   I sighed, “yeah. It’s noon,” though the remark was ignored. Father only paid attention to mother, his tense stance looming over the frightened woman. Mother’s eyes were lifeless, the bags under her eyes now present. 

   “You’re a pitiful wife, you know that? You-”

    I clenched my fists, nails imprinting in my palms. Red was all I saw as I jolted from my chair, slamming my hands on the table. “Fuck off.” 

   And then I’m on the ground, head bashed into the table as I kick and yell. Alluka’s screaming, Mother’s crying, parents covering their children's eyes, bystanders watching with phones out recording. Next, the police– then, child protection services. 

   I watched, detached as sirens and flashing lights shone through the now-night sky. Acceptance was easier with detachment. Everything was. 

   “Child protection services were called,” the blonde woman in the support group clarified.

   “Yes,” I responded in monotone.

   “And they didn’t help?” Her face was shocked. Ignorant .

   A frown etched my lips. “It’s not so simple of a solution.” I sighed. “In total, child protective services were called seven times since then. Each time they came, it only caused more problems.“

   Those in the Alateen held expressions of doubt.  

   My gaze narrowed

   The hope that everything would get better…  

    It does get better.

    That’s what everyone says. 

   Father wasn’t arrested, but he spoke to the police for hours. He drove home before us, or so we heard. We didn’t see him for a week going forwards, nor did I hear from Gon. 

   There was this huge vacancy in every corner now. I’d walk in the school hallways and begin to notice every corner, every shadow. Loneliness, it was. I don’t belong here, I thought, as I watched kids laugh and eat lunch with one another, music books draping from my bags. No one wants me here, no one ever did. The glint in my eyes lifted for a moment, but that’s the way it always was. I have to keep pushing forward. 

   I did push forward. I did keep working harder, harder to the point I got sick. I still went to school, of course, but the moment I stepped foot into first period, I was slapped in the face with, “Killua, are you okay? Go to the nurse immediately! You look as if Casper died twice!”

   Over the last few years, I became acquainted with the school nurse. Despite having quite a decent immune system, not many individuals’ bodies can healthily withstand not sleeping for three days on average. Even as I was sent home for seven days until my fever quelled, I rested with a multitude of textbooks in hand. Mother would amble in the room, worried here and there, “shouldn’t you be resting?”

   “I am,” I responded nonchalantly. Despite continuously working my ass off, despite throwing up everything that entered my body, this was so much easier than staying at Father’s house. Corners and shadows weren’t noticed at Mother’s house, but birds chirping and beams of sunlight– flowers of all colors in the backyard and our dog rolling around happily in the grass. Every moment of this illness was great because it meant dodging hell.

   Anything to prolong hell.

   Throughout the sickness, I’d find myself scrolling through my message history with Gon. I felt more at peace with it, less anxiety weighing down my shoulders and more positivity brimming the atmosphere.

   He’s probably going through something, or simply busy. If he wants to talk to me, he will.

  The negative thought of why he may or may not want to talk to me if something happened never crossed my mind. 

   He did call on the fourth day of my sickness. I answered immediately. 

   “Killua, I thought I’d call,” He didn’t sound as distant as I thought he would, but neither as warm. Just passive. That’s okay.

   “Gon, is everything alright?”

    “Of course.”

   His answer was genuine, and that stung. Nothing happened, it was relieving yet disturbing.

   Gon sighed over the phone, anyone would think he was bored, “anything on your end?”

   My mouth fell open to speak, but the sound of silence resonated.

   What happened? Everything happened. Does he want to know? Did I want to tell him? We don’t speak of such things, that’s a good thing, right?

   “I’m just a bit under the weather.” It felt weird telling him even that. We were so close that I always knew everything he was doing, as did he with me. Everyone and their mom knew I was sick at school since my absence has impacted many with their accompaniment studies, but Gon didn’t know. 

   He didn’t want to tell me what happened, and I didn’t want to tell him what happened.

   Our haven, our shared space of doing nothing important and basking in each other's presence, worked at times. But it slowly morphed into a maw, growing with each and everything it devoured hungrily. 

   “So Killua’s okay?”

   “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

Chapter Text

   Love seemed like the most beautiful thing on this planet. I recognized the concept as a small child, running through a wondrous field of velvety bluebonnets. Dark indigoes and blues and purples were captivating under the sun. I thought, there’s nothing prettier than this, as I sunk my face into the grass, laughing as the greenery tickled my nostrils. 

   Happiness. I loved it, and I wanted to keep it forever as mine.

   I perked upon hearing others’ laughter chime in the wind. Searching the perimeter, I noticed two humans walking together hand in hand. The female, with a white summer dress draping from her shoulders squealed as she led the male down the ethereal field.Their expressions were unfathomable, something I didn’t comprehend but somehow understood was natural; I knew that’s how faces were supposed to look. The boy looked at the girl like her being in itself was the best gift in the world. 

   “Love,” I whispered. 

   I wanted their type of love. This flower field was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, but I just knew it was nothing compared to what they saw. A boiling, enraging jealousy arose. For it to be shared with someone who loves me for everything I do, even when I mess up. I locked my fingers together and held them tightly in contemplation. What must I do to obtain that? 

    Suddenly, it all made sense. Love was mutual, so if I loved them and gave them the world, they would do the same for me, right? Giving love is easy, I thought to myself. 

   I picked one of the flowers by the stem, twisting it and hugging it tightly to my chest, but when I looked at it again, I noticed that I bent the petals, tainted them. A frown formed on my face. 

    I dropped it and stared at my hands. 

   Laughter still rang, and I watched. 

   I thought he was my soulmate. There’s nobody better than you . 

   During the dizzy days of summer camp, I’d observe as kids huddled around Gon with similar faces that I saw that boy have. The face that meant Gon could do anything, laugh, eat, sleep, and they’d still want to stay around him. I was no different, but what interested me was not the incomprehension of what he wielded that was so difficult for me to mimic, it was that despite all of that, I recognized something of his demeanor. I related to something buried deep in a hollow masked with brambles and vines of charisma and jocundity.

   As we grew closer and shared night after night by the piano. I recognized the undercurrent of loneliness in his gaze, brought forth and presented amidst nightfall when no one was watching.

  Loneliness. Is that what friendship is meant for? To eradicate loneliness? I identified friendship as a pact to help each other out when one was feeling lonely. Warmth rushed to my cheeks at the idea of such a thing, a smile even twitching the corners of my mouth.

   I understood my duty immediately. During the day, Gon had all of the other campers, and during the night I would cling to his side as a bodyguard, searching to shoo away any semblance of loneliness and area of self-loathing. He was that bodyguard to me, so it only made sense I make it mutual and give him everything in return. Because he was my everything. 

   As I would saunter close behind him when we called it a night after an adventure of some sort, it dawned on me if anything I tried to give was even good enough. If I opened up everything about me, would he want the darkness, as well? 

   No, no one wants a broken child. 

   Often, I think about the night Gon ran to my house. It made me so happy, being touched so tenderly yet messily— illustrating that he was exposing himself just as much, just as delicate and confused and hopeful and terrified. Both of us undressed as curious hands experimented with the feel of each other, the temperature of skin, the scars screaming how much the past has affected the present. A kiss on the neck, warm, soft. A deeper kiss on the mouth, passionate and yearning. Fingers trailed down to a destination both of us were too scared to venture across. There was still not enough trust, in not each other but ourselves, to continue on that journey. I wanted more of this type of love. I wanted to give back, as well. Prove, that despite time and time again of my love being valueless, that I was prepared to do anything in my capability to make it of value to Gon. 

   “I love you, Killua,” he said. 

    Thank you, thank you, thank you.

   “ I wanted this for so long.”

   I liked being wanted. 

   And when he looked me in the eyes— a warm, melted honey— and stated, “I don’t… I don’t want you to regret this ever.”

    I’ll only regret it if you regret it. And even still, I knew if I had known what would follow and given a chance to turn back, I know this selfish craving for affection would’ve urged me to make the same decision, regardless. 

    Chopin’s first ballade resonated from my upright piano. When Gon wasn’t around to chase away the loneliness, the piano was. It was a far inferior substitute. Gon had the ability to postpone loneliness; the piano could only project it in concrete forms. 

   “You’ve been playing a lot more, recently, Killua,” Father said.  

   The piano stood just left of Father’s office within his small townhome. The only natural sunlight that existed were large, sliding glass doors that struggled to serve its purpose through thick, black curtains. 

   “Have I?” I feigned indifference. Bisky assigned a classical piece written within the twentieth to twenty-first century, which an untrained musician would assume means it has a chance of being more likable. In fact, modern-day classical music is very dissonant, to the point where it sounds like I’m hitting many incorrect notes. Both my mom and dad banned the song from being practiced under their roof. It stressed them out, which evidently stressed me out because it was twelve pages of sheet music I was required to master within a week, practicing at home being no option. So I had to get to school even earlier, preferably six o’clock. Since I was at my father’s house, it took thirty minutes to drive there, and no buses stopped anywhere close to where I lived. It was a rule that to wake Father up, you had to wake him gently over the course of two hours with coffee up and ready to go. 

   I moved from the piano to out ice on my swollen pinkies, swollen from hours upon hours pressing them into keys of ivory and ebony. 

   That’s when I received a call from a person I’ve wanted to talk to more than anything, but haven’t talked to in a week. “Gon!” I answered with enthusiasm. 

   “Hello, Killua. Do you have a private place to talk?” 

   I frowned, “yes, is something wrong?” Anticipation coursed adrenaline through my veins, burning like a poison. 

   “I’ve been thinking a lot lately about that night.”

   Happiness bubbled in my chest. I loved thinking about that night; I loved thinking about any time with Gon. 

   “I wish-“ my heart stopped when I heard his voice crack on the other line, “I wish that night never happened. I’m sorry, Killua.”

   I couldn’t label the feeling that dropped bricks upon bricks into my gut. “I see. Did anything happen? Is everything okay?” 

   A long, shaky breath, “no, nothing happened.”

   “… I see.” So nothing sprung this upon Gon other than how he truly feels. 

   “Killua?”

   A marked silence. 

   “Yeah?”

   “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Killua.” 

    Crying. Why is Gon crying?

   “I wasn’t ready. I… I lost feelings and I didn’t realize it until that night. Look, I won’t break up with you. If you want, we can say-“

   My eyes narrowed, “what’s the point of that?” My tone was much sharper, meaner than intended, and even though Gon wasn’t there in front of me, the shocked silence that followed said everything I needed to know. 

   “Killua?”

   “Yeah?”

   “Will you still wear the ring?”

   Grief swelled, “do you want me to, Gon?”

   “…Yes.” 

   “Then, I will.” I took a deep breath. “Does that mean you still want to be friends?”

   “Ummm, I’ll text you when I’m ready.” 

   “Okay.”

   I heard a sigh of… relief? Jealousy, anger even mixed gratitude for someone I adored, all combining into one tangled, dangerous fusion. 

   “Well, goodbye, Killua.” 

   “Goodbye, Gon.” 

   And the line went dead. The darkness seemed brighter now. I wanted to embrace it, every pint up feeling revealing and relieving itself like Gon had the luxury of doing. Free me, free me , said sadness with long, shadowy hands. No.

   I stared at the ring in my finger, its purpose unchanging. It was a reminder that everything is only a matter of time, and it’s my duty to wait it out. Wait wait wait. 

    ‘It’s only time.’

    Lonely… so very lonely. I stared in demise at my bare palms. 

    Perhaps I don’t deserve love. 

   Across the upstairs hallway, where Bizeff rested, I heard him laughing cynically with my father. “When you get rich, you can give that wife of yours hell. Everyone will love us like kings!” 

   I felt dirty. Suddenly finding the urge to cleanse myself, I shuffled hastily to the bathroom, but right as I opened a cabinet to retrieve a towel, used needles fell to the ground with a plastic thud. 

   My gaze narrowed. 

   The sun wasn’t down yet, so I had a little bit of time. 

   Throwing my shirt back on, I ran to Illumi’s house next door and knocked. 

   “Yes?” He answered. Expressionless. Emotionless. 

   “Can Alluka spend the night with Kalluto? I’ll pick her up to take them both to the bus stop tomorrow, so it doesn’t trouble you with waking up early.”

   “Okay.” 

   Relief. Darkness grows in corners no one visits. I had to save Alluka and make sure she remained a visitor and not an inhabitant. 

   Locking my bedroom door wasn’t allowed at Father’s house, as of recently the rule extended to keeping the door closed. Night served no meaning to me as I would stare in fright under the bed sheets, praying, please don’t come. Please, stay away. 

   But no one ever heard those words of prayer. Whether I said them aloud or not, they were as meaningless as me trying to return my love.  

   Father did visit that night. He trudged through the open door, dazed. “Killua?” He sat in the corner end of the bed, his immense size and weight sinking my legs towards his. “I’m sorry.”

   My eyes shot open. He’s sorry? It’s words I wanted to hear more than anything. I was worth an apology, what he was doing was wrong , after all. “Father-“

   “I’m sorry you had to wait so long to get help.”

   Words died in my tongue. Before I could even process it, a singular stream of tears flowed down the right side of my face. 

   Father choked tears of his own. “I’m so sorry I never got you psychological help.” 

   Frozen. Frozen like a lifeless doll as a large hand cupped my only dry cheek. 

  “Such…"

   “…such a broken child.”

~*~

    My alarm clock was an old design– the type that quite literally hammered bells relentlessly until driven out of slumber. However, even that didn’t stop me from sleeping in. I scrambled out of bed tangled in a wad of sheets. “Fuck!” I yelled. I was supposed to get Kalluto and Alluka ready for the school bus. I cursed at myself for sleeping in, even though I knew why I did. It was a Friday, and since this week was spent at Father’s, I collected about seven hours total of actual rest. 

   I raced downstairs. Instead of following regulation and slowly waking my father with Chopin and preparing coffee, I shook him vigorously. “Get up, dammit!” I couldn’t afford to be late, not when our performance assessment was today along with an AP chemistry test piano didn’t give me time to study for. 

   Father’s eyes jolted open, furious, but the cloud over his irises showed he was still trying to collect everything going on around him. “Killua, what the fuck?!”

   “Look, I’m sorry, I woke up late. I have to go get Alluka ready. Please, please, be ready by the time I get back.”

   Alluka, though also hard to wake at times, thankfully I had much more of a pleasant experience with, so I raced back with hardly any time to stop and breathe. I come barreling through the door. “Please, please be up,” I prayed to whatever deity up above.

   Which, of course, Father was not awake. Panicked, I ran over and smacked a pillow over his stupid, drooling face. “Wake up!?!”

   He took no reluctance in responding, lunging forward and pushing me to the floor. I landed with a heavy thud, dusting the dirt off of my performance pants and racing to get my books together. Father groaned and trudged to the kitchen. “You didn’t even bother to make me coffee,” he said with malice dripping with each and every harsh syllable. 

    I don’t care what happens to him. I don’t care what happens to anyone. Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone!

    “Make your own fucking coffee you useless bastard! I’ll walk to school by myself no matter how long it takes. Poor disgusting man,” I didn’t even process the words spilling from my mouth, “can’t raise his own children because he can’t escape his own miserable past.” I slammed the door behind me. I wanted to scream, yell until my voice died. 

   “Come on,” I grabbed both Kalluto and Alluka’s hand with care, “let's wait for the bus to pick you both up.”

   Despite anger tinting every color a deep scarlet, beneath it all was an unimaginable fear. My uncle, Illumi, happened to be waiting outside the gated community when I arrived. As my gaze followed the school bus fading into the far, far distance, I mumbled, “Illumi, I’m begging you with all my worth, could you please take me to school.” When I saw his eyes narrow in distaste, I began rambling, alarmed. “Or, could I just stay at your place for a bit? I’m sure my mother will come to pick me up. Father isn’t okay right now, I-... he isn't-!”

   “Maybe some other time, Killu. I have to go to work.”

   My knees weakened as I saw him walk away with not a single bother, hands tucked in his pockets in a slow, distant stride. 

    Not again. Why? Tears never wielded so much strength before, so much power breaking an already deeply, bruised , broken barrier. 

   That’s when Father’s car rolled up, window down. 

    Blurry. Is that a rope? A small smile graced my lips. Ah, of course, Father wouldn’t be carrying that without reason. 

    “Get in the car!” 

    The car? I don’t want to get in the car. I don’t- I can’t-

    “Get in the fucking car?!”

   Parents ran away, not wanting to get involved in the obvious mess about to unfold. 

   “No, wait. I won’t bother you. Mother will take me to school, I promise. Here, I’m calling her right now.”

   “Get in the car!”

   “No, no, no, no, no,” I began drabbling, “I won’t get in the fucking car!”

   Hysterical relief flooded every limb in my body as Silva Zolydck slammed on the gas and drove away.

   “Hah,” tears streamed down, liberated from all the burdens. “Hah.” I pointed my middle finger to the air, and began my journey, twenty miles to school. Mom seemed to have her phone off, but that’s okay. I was fine with walking. I was fine. I’m fine. 

   Suddenly, I noticed that same, cursed vehicle behind me, following me until it was closer, closer. I ran as fast as I could, nothing but pure adrenaline fueling every muscle fiber. “Help!” 

   I screamed until my voice ran dry and ran until I reached the school campus. 

   Step, step, step. I started with unfocused eyes at the colors of black and white. 

   “Killua,” I remembered Gon’s voice as we laid by the fountains of the museum during our date, wrinkling our noses with stray droplets that would splash our faces, “are you sad?”

   “Aren’t you?”

   Gon allowed a soft smile through his otherwise blank expression. 

   I sighed, oddly content, “I think I’m always sad, but I know I’m happiest during times like this.”

   “Cloud Gazing?”

   “No.”

   We both smiled in understanding.

   “Do you think we’ll ever find happiness?” Gon reached his hand to the sky, observing the beams of sunlight passing through his fingers.

   “Do you?”

   “I think so.”

    Step, step, step. 

    “Oh my god, are you okay?!” 

   Voices, are they real, this time?

    “Someone get a teacher, fast!”

    Is someone in trouble?

     “Killua, is everything alright? You get dumped on Valentine's Day or something?” 

   It’s Valentine’s Day? How stupid. I brought my head up at the familiar voice, squinting at ginger hair and freckles all over pale skin.

   It took two attempts for words to spill from my lips, raspy, “Oh, hi, Ikalgo.”

   I continued walking. 

   Step, step, step.

    Where was chemistry again?

   “He’s right there!”

   I saw a student point in my direction from a distance. Wing’s gaze locked on mine. “Killua, come here!” He yelled from across the hallway.

   Suddenly, I’m on the floor. It’s so cold, I thought as I helped myself up with wobbly limbs. Everywhere is so cold.

    “Killua!” A figure is now running towards me.

   ‘Get in the fucking car! I’m going to fucking kill you if I catch you. When this light turns green, you’re dead along with that precious sister of yours!’

   “No,” I screamed, “get away! Don’t come any closer! Leave me alone!”

   When did the world get so blurry?

    Breathing heavily, I began to notice the whispers of students around me. Their face of horror as they clung to the wall. Whispers. Why all the whispers? I covered my ears.

   ‘It’s only time.’ 

    That’s right, Killua, this is merely the beginning.

   ‘Someday, will you come and see the Northern Lights with me?’

   ‘I want to kill myself.’

    “Don’t hurt me!”

    Voices, voices, voices. 

   ‘ Will you still wear this ring?’ 

     I can wait, right?

    ‘I love you, Killua.’

   Liar.

   ‘I want to marry you someday.’

   ‘Never play like that again!’

   ‘Then why stay?’

   ‘Such a broken child.’

    And then one sentence, one haunting sentence that came from Gon’s lips, rose to the surface of my mind: ‘someday, it’ll get easier.’

    I fell to the floor and screamed, a horrible screeching wail of despair, emptiness, loneliness. “I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself!!!” Banging my head against the tile floor until it bled. Teachers pinned me by the wrists, legs, feet, students working together to hold my head still, blood pooling onto the floor, tainted just like everything else I touched. 

   A tainted blue-bonnet, never to sway in the wind again, never to grow and prosper. Shriveled and twisted, it was. Lonely and scarred, and more importantly, just one of thousands– thousands of others that continued life without it. After all, why focus on that one when there’s a whole field of flowers that were not broken?

   No.

   It's just the beginning.

Chapter Text

   “It appears I’m a jealous person.” 

   “Idiot, I don’t see how you could be anything like that.” I said, shoving chocolate I still had from Halloween down my throat. I was seven at the time. Canary, my oldest friend, licked a popsicle next to me. Even that seemed reserved. 

   I met her in my private elementary school, both of our families wealthy yet both of our parents being the ‘disgrace’ of the lineage. Canary and I were the generations that were supposed to ‘make up’ for it, and because of our wealth, we were taught to speak and write eloquently with every word dripping of money. Later, for those reasons, Canary was sent far away to another prestigious private school. 

   Canary stretched under the large oak tree. “Your father plays with children. He plays with me and you.” Her eyelids narrowed in sadness, yearning for something I didn’t yet understand as she watched my father play with young children that were strangers, jumping on him and hugging him like they knew him their entire life. Father was good with kids. He loved them. 

   “Yeah,” I shrugged, “we should ask him to play tag with us.” 

   Canary hummed. “I-,” her voice seemed more delicate than normal, and that caught my attention, “I don’t have a dad. That is what I’m jealous of. I dislike this feeling.” 

   I unfolded my arms from atop my head, gingerly putting them down to physically illustrate her voice was heard. “You…” a blush of slight embarrassment rose to my cheeks, “…you can share my dad.” 

   Canary’s gray eyes widened, warmth coloring her face. “I’d like that.” 

   A toothy grin, “come on,” I beckoned her with enthusiasm, “let’s have fun!”

   She hastily nodded and chased after me, and after we ran and ran and ran until our legs were wobbly and sore, we collapsed like starfish onto a patch of dandelions. 

   “Thank you, Killua.” 

~*~

   “I’m tired.” So very tired. 

   I was in Bisky’s office. A white, linen bandage was wrapped around my head and my hands still shook. Bisky stared at me with deep concern in her gaze, arms folded together and sheet music neatly stacked by her laptop. “Killua, what happened?” 

   “Just a bit stressed, is all. I need to go take the chemistry test.” 

   She shook her head, “no, Killua, you aren’t doing anything of that sort, today.” 

   “I see.” I closed my eyes and brought my arms behind my head. “Well, everything is fine, and I’d rather not get behind.”

   She shook her head, again, “Killua, you’re allowed to speak to us. I’m sorry I’ve been tough on you.” 

   Tears welled up; I hated it. 

   Tell? Not tell?

   The music camp of gray practice rooms and dinged pianos. 

   Tick, tick, tick.

    My teeth clenched; Bisky clapped her hands. “Killua, can’t you hear the metronome?!” Fingers were not working. My pinkies were not working. They cramped as nerves tangled, not moving fluidly like held by stiffened puppet strings, stiff even after freed from the puppeteer. Panic arose. Tick, tick, tick, said the metronome; my playing said differently. 

   And then my fingers were slammed into the keyboard by a wooden cover. I held back the hiss of pain.

   “Again. Try again, Killua.”

   As my heart wrenched in pain, the guiltiness of doing something wrong, the guiltiness of disappointing someone, I proceeded until I made up for it all. When I was forgiven, only then I would forgive myself, and that pushed me forward. A twisted success. A ticking time bomb.

   When I performed correctly, Bisky smiled and gently clapped her hands. “Good job, Killua. You have the makings of an excellent pianist.” She put two warm palms on my shoulder with praise. 

   I liked the relieving aspects of those moments. I needed more relief, after all. 

   “I think my Father is going insane. He’s an aggressive substance abuser and…”

    I did it. I broke the forbidden, unspoken rule of my family of bringing outsiders into this. As I rambled, I realized that it was yet another call for help, and that confused me. Shouldn’t I know that no one will come? Everything felt so out of control. 

   Somehow, after opening up, and Bisky actually listening to me speak, I felt closer, attached . Thank you, thank you, thank you. Someone found worth in me and was tough on me in school because they saw that worth and still had hope for prosperity. 

   A sliver of happiness even crawled from the depths of the ocean, and I fished it up and clung to it, determined to not allow it to wiggle free. 

   Until- 

   “Killua, did your father physically hurt you? If that’s the case, it’s a serious problem that the school could get sued for if not brought to attention.” 

    Ah, I see. 

   “No…uh-, I ran away before-“

   She clapped her hands, “perfect. I’m terribly sorry all of this has happened. It can only get better, right? I’ll give you a masterclass to practice more on your piece. Don’t forget the recital is coming up!” 

    No, this is just the beginning.

   After waving goodbye, I left her office. The door shut with a click, and while ambling to the nearest practice room, a message illuminated the Lock Screen of my phone. 

   ‘ Just now.

    Father: I’m picking up Alluka from school today. Neither you nor your mother shall see or talk to her until I receive an essay after forty hours of watch time of the psychology list I prepared for you and your mother. Extra credit will be awarded. 

   The deal is going through in two days. When I receive the money, I’m keeping it. Because of your actions, Killua, your mother will suffer from further financial burdens. 

 From,

King Silva Zoldyck’

   Previously, I mentioned that there were five stages that lead to one fateful destination, a horrid one. 

   Stage Three: The Public 

   Everyone knew.

   When I exited Bisky’s office, students stood side-by-side, wide-eyed dolls. My eyes glued to the floor as I walked down the hall of shame, my fingers fidgeting in my pockets. 

   “Killua!” 

   My head whipped around to see Ikalgo running behind me, only to not stop running, grabbing my hand, and me being dragged like a rag to the nearest practice room. 

   And just like that, I was pulled into an embrace I haven’t felt since the moment I first made physical contact with Gon— that same hug that was firm, delicate, warm – arms wrapped around me securely and a rough palm gingerly bracing the back of my lower neck. Simultaneously, warmth dispersed throughout my body. I like this. I like being touched like this . 

   Craving for affection, rare and treasured like water in a desert, more, more, more. The simple pats on the head of validation from Father, the concept of being accepted– good enough through Bisky’s enthusiasm that gives any student the desire to please and be around, and then the words, touches, thoughts of Gon… everything Gon. 

   Grief welled up all the same. My shaky hands gripped Ikalgo’s shirt and I let my body completely relax, melting into his frame, his torso, his warmth. I want this. I miss this . 

   Ikalgo stroked my hair the same way I’d stroke Alluka’s, so very soothing. “You’re allowed to feel things, Killua.”

   Tears fell for the upteenth time that day. 

   Feeling like a small child, I shook my head, further gripping the taut fabric. “I don’t want to feel anything. I despise it more than music theory.” 

   He laughed. 

   A knock on the practice room door. “Killua, your mother is here to take you home.”

   “You didn’t tell anyone, correct?”

   “I spoke vaguely of Father’s substance abuse.”

   Mother gripped her hair, a bundle of stress. Her eye bags were the same, staining fair, porcelain skin— though still just a bit darker than mine. “I could get into a lot of trouble, Killua. If child protection services are called once more-“

    I know. I could be separated from Mother and Alluka. Bangs covered my eyes, masking my expression, “I don’t want to stay there, anymore.” 

   “Killua, you know Father is who funds us to live the way we do.” In a smaller voice, she said, “I’m trying my best, and you know how he is when you disagree with him.” 

   “Divorce him. Please . I don’t mind living poor; I’m sure Alluka doesn’t mind. Father has-“

   She slammed her hands on the table, “he has what, Killua ? Issues? Those issues are the reason I haven’t divorced him. Imagine if he gets custody of you and Alluka. What then?!”

   “Seriously?! What’s worse at this point? Half-and-half custody or the very obvious CPS on our asses?! His issues are worsening. You aren’t around him.” My throat began closing, “ please , how long must we wait before everyone’s insane? The drugs, the strange visitors, the hours of long manipulative conversations that go in complete circles-“ Suddenly, my eyes widen. While my mother processed the shock of my outburst, I ran into my room and shuffled under the many books stacked in the shelves of my nightstand. “Where… is it?” I mumbled to myself. 

   My fingers feathered over the plastic-like object. 

    Bingo!

   “You need proof? Here.” I slammed the USB I picked up from Bizeff’s room onto the coffee table. 

   Mother shook her head.

   I wanted to bang my skull against cement in agonizing frustration. “Why?!” I exclaimed. 

   “It’s not that simple, Killua. You’re too young to understand.”

   “ You’re the one who doesn’t understand. I can’t sleep at night. Every moment in that dreadful house is suffocating. How many more moments are going to result as it did on the mountain. You can leave.” I can never leave. “ You aren’t the child bound to legal guardians!” Only time will allow me to escape, but how many scars will serve as shackles and chains before then. It’s just a ticking time bomb . 

   “You want things to get better, Killua? Then go tell everyone just like you did in school today. Have child protection services take you along with Alluka,” her voice strained with tears, “I’ve done everything to try and keep this twisted family together, and everyone…”

   “…everyone just wants to tear it apart!”

   Later that night, after Mother raced over to Alluka’s elementary school to keep her from harm's way, we all sat in silence, watching Alluka play Xbox on the television screen. Alluka asked many questions on the car ride home. “Why are we avoiding Papa?” Why, why, why. Mother explained the situation and cut out every ounce of truth and dysfunction she could to still explain properly. Alluka didn’t understand. The family labeled her as too young to understand. 

   Suddenly, a thundering, gravely sound of Father’s race car sounded. Instantly, a frost-like fear turned my blood into a stagnant, black ice. Thoughts racing: He’s coming for Alluka. He’s coming for me. What will he do to Mother?

   “Alluka! Go to your room and hide in your closet!” Mom yelled frantically. 

  I stepped in, “no, I have a better place.”

  I grabbed Alluka’s hand, entwining her slender fingers with mine and hoping to give every bit of reassurance I could produce at the moment. We ran up the velvety stairs and through the darkened hallway. Slamming the master bedroom door open, I shuffled through the closet until I found the loose, wooden floor planks I discovered as a child— when exploring everything seemed like the most interesting thing on the planet. Once we were situated in our hiding place, I took out a glass I grabbed during our grand escape and placed it between my ear and the floor. 

   The front door opened. Murmurs, murmurs, murmurs. 

    Though I couldn’t make out solid words and phrases, the tone was… happy, joyful even .

   And then the front door closed again, followed by Father’s car zooming away. 

   Reluctantly, Alluka and I shuffled to the living room, slapped in the face with twisted beauty. Bundles of roses, blood red, poisonous pink, a fearful black. Tulips of new beginnings were placed in vases on the coffee table, the kitchen, the hallway cabinets, and the front room. Daisies, poppies, bluebonnets, sunflowers, orchids— a myriad of colors, colors, colors splashing dysfunctionality, chaos. 

    Beautiful , said the child inside— the child that wanted to think of nothing besides the cherishable aroma, the room that appeared to be a watercolor painting, the fallen petals like a pathway to an enchanted forest. 

   Flowers were given when something good happened. They were given when I did something right. Flowers make me happy. 

    No. 

   This is twisted, disgusting; wrong , said morality. The colors of morality were black and white, unable to process, fathom all of the colors before me.

    What does all of this mean? Demanded logic. Father is upset, isn’t he? Why did he sound happy and give us flowers? We didn’t do anything right. 

   “Pretty!” Alluka exclaimed, throwing the fallen petals in the air and cheering. 

   “Disgusting,” Mother grumbled. “We’re throwing them away.”

   Panicked, “no!”

   Mother turned to me in shock. 

   I couldn’t explain why, but the thought of Father’s face entered my mind. He spent all of this time giving us flowers. He cares . Somewhere in my brain I needed to cling to that idealism even though logic, morality pierced it with unfixable holes– the idealism of him caring for and rewarding us for doing something right. 

   The prison of unconditional love.

   Mom sighed, “well, if we keep all of them, they will attract insects. Each of you pick a bouquet.”

   A bundle of roses and bluebonnets then sat on my nightstand. I watched them sway from the breeze of my fan as I waited for slumber to take me away. 

   Loneliness. 

   Father is just lonely, isn’t he? Guilt, heavier than a grand piano, settled throughout my uneasy body. All of this time, I was listening to what I thought was right and wrong, but that strong sense of righteousness grew weaker as time passed. I’m so… selfish. All of this time, we’ve been ignoring Father’s cries for help.

    No, he doesn’t want help. He just doesn’t want to be lonely. 

  After staring at the flowers a good bit longer, I picked up my phone and began typing the message— typing the words that should’ve been said to him long, long ago. Stories and events that shouldn't have been buried behind short happinesses. Sadness is needed for happiness. Darkness is needed for light. 

    Gon. 

~*~

   Bright, fluorescent lights shone brighter than the sun. Surrounding it was encroaching darkness and abyss blanketing over hundreds upon hundreds of people, waiting. One person coughed, followed by another.

   Eyes squinting, my dazed eyes danced around the room. Piano keys, people, the spotlight. Whispers, whispers, whispers. 

    “Why isn’t he playing?”

   “Killua,” harsh whispers from backstage, “Killua, what’s wrong?! Play.”

   “Is this part of the song?”

   “Stage fright, perhaps?”

   “No, this is Killua Zoldyck,” said one student in the audience, voice confident and sure.

   “I heard he has mental issues,” whispered another.

   More joined in, “I heard his family is abusive.”

   I stared at those taunting, reflective keys. Nothing of the piano seemed familiar. It was like reading a book of a foriegn language, letters swirling and the brain scrambled. 

    I can’t…

   I waddled to the electric keyboard my family owned. It wasn’t even a full length one, and as songs played, red keys would flash. 

   I stopped before reaching the living room once I heard sniffles. 

   The moon was a cream color, round and taunting. Stars weren’t often seen in the city. Like stage curtains, colorless, dark clouds always loomed overhead. Large windows, decorative furniture, a carpeted floor, and Father– Father and his slumped over figure. His shoulders were hunched, face downwards and hands cupping falling liquid. Greensleeves auto played on repeat, echoing the dead-silent room, engulfed around the nothingness of nightfall.

   My mouth was shocked open as I stood there like a lifeless statue. 

   It was the first time I saw Father cry, and as he hiccuped and sobbed, I realized the depth of this sadness– this sadness that I couldn’t label, but I knew I felt it, looming over my mind just as the dark clouds loomed over the stars. It wasn’t the type of crying I was used to when a kid got hurt on the playground. 

   This crying wasn’t asking for help. This crying was wondering if help was even possible. 

   The next morning, when Father was off at work, I spent the entire day memorizing Greensleeves. I’ve never memorized a piano song before, so Mother was perplexed by my sudden determination and stubbornness.

   “Why are you so focused on learning this song, Killua?”

   “Because Father likes it. I want to make him happy.”

   When Father arrived home that afternoon, and I greeted him with the normal jump-on-him hug, I grabbed his pointer finger and led him to the keyboard. “I learned a song, Dad.”

   “Will you show me?”

   I nodded furiously. 

   My cheeks flushed with nervousness as I jaggedly, to the best of my ability, played Greensleeves. The keyboard didn’t have the capability of dynamics, so I strategized how an organist would and held the keys of the melody down longer to feign voicing. I added a violin sort of ambience in the background; once I finished, I turned to face Father with inquisitive, searching eyes. I searched vigorously to understand what emotion plastered on his face.

   His deep blue eyes were widened, a wet glaze reflecting all light through them. Tears didn’t fall; his lips wobbled into a smile. 

   “Thank you, Killua.”

   Gon and I laughed as we horsed around the clubhouse. Just as I was about to catch him, he jumped on the piano.

   “Gon, there are enough trees in the forest. Leave the piano alone,” I huffed.

   Gon stuck his tongue out and plopped down on the lid, rolling on his stomach and hovering his face over the keys. He grinned and looked at me expectedly. 

   I raised an eyebrow, not amused, “only if you give me my chocolate bar back.”

   “Pinky promise!”

   I sat down on the bench and began playing. I had to blow puffs of air to get Gon’s wiry, tickly hair away from my face. Heat rose to my cheeks. It smells good, like the gentle pine of the forest.  

   I played Greensleeves. It was a very simple song, so I harmonized the base to make it more impactful, a fuller sound than when I had originally learned it as a four-year-old. 

   In the reflection, I observed Gon’s curious eyes, the details of his face, and the curvature of his mouth. His eyes bounced between my right hand and left hand, so simply entranced like a small child. A smile twitched my lips.

   My heart stopped when Gon lifted his head to meet my gaze, my fingers still playing the chorus. 

   The color of his eyes, the chocolate brown, silky, enthralling. His expression mimicked mine, mouth slightly agape, breathing softly as if breathing any louder would break whatever was in the air before either of us discovered the hidden melody amidst strings of emotions. 

   He smiled softly, gaze everlasting as he began singing: 

   “For I have loved you so long, delighting in your company. Greensleeves was all my joy; Greensleeves was my delight…”

   “Killua, why aren’t you playing?!” A student whispered harshly from backstage. 

   My pinkies were purple along the joints, stiff and robotic as I curled them into a fist. Memories of the balcony feathered over my consciousness.

    “Sorry, Killua. If I attended that school, I know I would end up hating the instrument.”

    My mind reeled back to the days the sun perched above the buildings, shining through the piano lab’s wall of windows. The pianists, a community of unbreakable bonds, laughed as they played every meme song they could think of to show Bisky when she walked in. Bisky fell to the floor, hysterical, patting the heads of the students and smiling.

   I thought of all the Fridays we’d travel to the restaurants nearby and bring a keyboard to offer free, live entertainment– the smiles that brought, as well. 

   “I would never indulge in something I love with something I hate.”

   And then the loneliness. The loneliness as all of the pianists hugged each other in relief when the nerves from the completion of the winter recital washed over, Bisky handing out letters in a shiny, red envelope as I sat in the corner, looking for a family that didn’t show. She came to me last, sighing and wrapping her arms around me. “You did well, Killua. Read this.” As she turned to leave, she leaned in and whispered with a mischievous grin, “I left a giftcard to the nearby chocolate factory inside.” 

    Later that night, in the solitude of my room, I opened the letter. 

   “Dear Killua,

   You’ve improved so much! I know you don’t realize it, and I know that in this school, it can be difficult to lift your head high and proud. But Killua, whether you realize it or not, you deserve to be one of us just as much as the others. You’re so much different from the freshman-Killua, who couldn’t read sheet music! The audience pays attention when you play. Know this Killua, you have so much talent and capability of being an amazing musician! 

   Merry Christmas!

  -Bisky”

   Tears dropped on the paper one-by-one. Gratitude, strong enough to break every barrier of restraint, filled warmth down my body and shivers rippling through my spine. 

    Bright.

   “Killua, are you okay?” asked Bisky somewhere in the audience. 

   My gaze searched blindly, then back at the piano. Hands shook, fingers hurt, pain, pain, pain .

    I can’t…

   ... play the piano anymore.

~*~

   “I remember that day better than any other.” Sighing, I briskly glanced at a clock above the Alateen’s leader’s head. I wouldn’t go home after this. 

   There isn’t a home to return to.

   That blurry, dizzy night of the recital, I hid under the stairs after running from the performance. I texted my family to pick me up, but I didn’t care if they did or not. Under the stairs felt safe. 

   I curled into a ball and drifted off to sleep, and once I woke, the entire building was dark. Everyone seemed to have gone home and gotten cozy. 

   I didn’t feel abandoned when my family forgot about me. No. I felt abandoned when it was Father who pulled up in a brand new Tesla. 

   My head felt fuzzier than ever as I sat on the plush seats. Father hasn’t made money in two years. 

   We’re fucked. 

    “I bought this for you, Killua.” His body quivered, and his eyes were bloodshot and blown out. 

   A feigned smile, horrified of both the present and the future, “thank you, Father.”

   I stared out the window as Father drove, head leaned against it. 

   “They’re writing books about me, Killua. Do you think I’m crazy? Do you believe me?” 

   “Yes, Father.” 

   Screaming, “Do you realize how rich I’m going to get, and you’re not even proud of me?!” 

   And then when we arrived at his house, he had completely forgotten his anger and resentment, hugging me as I stepped out of the car. 

   “I’m so proud of you, Killua.” 

   Visitors were over, their intentions quite clear. Father had me introduce myself and show videos of me playing piano. While they all disappeared in the garage to do who-knows-what, one man stayed. 

   “You’re good at the piano,” he said, smoking a cigarette. He seemed around twenty, if not younger, his body bulked and strong. 

   “Thank you.” 

   A marked silence followed. I had nothing to say; I just wanted everything to end. 

   He must’ve picked up on my discomfort, so he picked up a nearby guitar. “Do you play?”

   I shook my head, “I only learned piano.”

   He played a few chords before smiling and shaking his head. It was a warm smile, a welcoming one I grew so familiar with aside Gon. “I bet you’d be amazing at this, too.” 

   As much as I appreciated his kindness, I was too afraid to accept it; too afraid of vulnerability. “Stop.”

   The man tilted his head in confusion. 

   “All of this, I know you’re just using my Father. I know we both understand he’s an easy target.” 

   He frowned, “I guess I’m technically using him. I’m using him for some company, just as he is with me. Those other guys I’m not friends with. Not into drugs.”

   My eyes widened slightly.

   “Here,” he gestured to the kitchen. “Bake some brownies with me.” 

   As weird as it was, it was the kindest thing anybody has ever done to me at Father’s house. He told me of his little sister, his single-mother, and his career. He told me of how it was his dream to be a musician, but economically, he never had the option of pursuing it. We laughed as dough was flung around, and once the brownies were finished, we ate as many as we could until our stomachs were about to explode. 

   As I sat on the couch with a full belly, I didn’t bother to look out the window and into the garage. I wanted to do anything but escape that fact. 

   Everything was carefree until… 

   “Hey, Killua, you want a drink?”

   My blood froze. I stared, horrified as he held a beer out, grinning. My throat dried instantly. 

   It was then that I realized my absolute fear of substances.

   “Come on, take it.”

   “I… I can’t. I don’t want to.”  

   I sound like a child.

   Thankfully he understood my distaste, and put the drink down. 

   My heart blossomed.  

   With a plop, he sat down on the couch next to me. “If-,” he breathed in, “if I’m reading anything wrong, tell me.” 

   Before I could question what that meant, I was surrounded by an embrace. 

   Even though my mind screamed danger, I let it happen. Being touched brings happiness. 

    This warmth, safe. If it makes me happy, it has to be safe.  

   And then…

   “Wait, what’re you doing?” A scratchy hand snaking under my shirt. 

   “I can’t tell you’re sad, Killua. Let’s make you feel better,” he said. Following, was the sound of a zipper. A wicked laugh, dominating, thrilled.

   Attempting to squirm from his grasp, “stop. Stop!?!” 

   My body was forced down, hands pinned behind my lower back as my shoes were torn off. Slimy fingers pursued while I kicked and flailed helplessly. If he were any normal male, I would’ve had the strength to kick him off, but I tried and tried and tried.

   The sliding glass door was thankfully open, and the man got off of me as soon as Father walked in. “Sounds like a party in here!” 

   He was too high to grasp the severity of the situation. He wasn’t in touch with reality to understand my clothing on the floor, the fright in the man’s eyes; the very cry that left my mouth a moment prior. 

   I shakily grabbed my shirt and wobbled to my backpack. “I want to go to Mother’s house.”

   “Fine. Leave. No one wants you here anyway.” And disappeared back into the garage.

   You were prepared for things to get worse, Killua. Prepared. 

   Shivers seemed to permanently ripple down my body that night. 

   I didn’t say a word to Mother when she picked me up. 

   There was no need to. 

   Candlelight flickered the dining table and Mother’s hunched figure. Her silky black locks tangled in knots and her slender fingers decorated in expensive jewelry fidgeting with stress. 

   “Killua, is that you?”

   I stepped from the shadows engulfing the hallway. 

   “It’s too late, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. She knew that much.

   My lip quivered, but I stubbornly stared into the distance, refusing to meet her gaze. 

   She choked back a quiet sob, while I coldly watched. 

   “Okay,” she wiped away her tears. “I’m getting a divorce. I just filed for one, we have to be packed up and out of here the second the papers are placed in your Father’s hands. 

   I nodded, determined. I was willing to get rid of everything and live dirt poor without lavishing showers and delectable meals. At least it was safe, stable, consistent . 

   The entire night was a nightmare, scurrying through everything we didn’t want broken or stolen and packing it securely in cardboard boxes. I didn’t receive not even a wink of sleep as I memorized a rhythm. Dust, fold, tape, label. 

   Alluka cried, asking and asking why we’re running from Father. “If he needs help, why are we leaving him?! If you do this, I will hate you! Killua!” She grabbed the fabric of my shirt, but I could only watch, unphased as tears clouded her light blue eyes, “Killua, do something! Killua! ” 

   And sometime before the sun rose, a notification popped up on all of our devices. A notification that brought the true beginning of chaos and tragedy. A notification that ended everything: hope, opportunity, happiness, a future. The notification that silenced all of those who had domestic troubles.

  Stage four: COVID-19

Chapter Text

My Father was abused. 

His mother was, too. 

And her mother before that. 

Each of them struggled with drugs and alcohol. 

Neither of them wanted kids. 

Neither of them wanted to be alive. 

I understood that. After all, death is as beautiful as love. Being alive is painful whereas death is the most peaceful thing on the planet. When you can’t escape, death is there for you, and it is the universal, guaranteed way to escape. I rested assured that dying alone would be the happiest thing to ever happen to me in my life, in my future. It meant I was there to hold the hands of everyone I cared about and watch as their eyes closed forever and their pain subsided for eternity. 

It was my duty: To be alone.

It was my duty to love everyone I cared about enough to stay in this world, even if it meant being alone in it. 

My duty was to watch their limbs untense and say goodbye as a nice, soft blanket covered their fading skin and to remember the feeling of their fingers that interlaced mine that ran cold knowing they were loved until the very end. It was my duty that I helped to assure everyone else's dreams came true and died knowing they were loved. I mean, love is so beautiful. Love is so happy. Perhaps I wasn’t loved like that, even though I craved it more than trees craved rain during a dreadful summer drought, but I could still give it to others… right? And you can’t find life beautiful if you don’t find death beautiful.

But I knew I was alone in that belief.

Dying alone meant my duty was done, and I could finally escape– not just life but the constricted feelings and obligations that followed. Only then would I find happiness. 

Though my duty was being alone, being alone is lonely. 

So very lonely .

I wouldn’t fear raw loneliness until much later. I didn’t yet understand what loneliness was. Afterall, how could I have known? I wasn’t ever truly alone until then. Though, I’m alone in that, too. Not many people know about pure loneliness, but that was a part of my duty, too.

I hoped my love was good enough to keep others in this world.

But it never was .

Maybe that’s why my great-grandmother, my grandmother, and my father never wanted kids. They knew their love wasn’t good enough– that they had yet to learn how to love. Perhaps they’re actually selfless, and they hoped from the bottom of their hearts that they would learn to love along the way. 

They didn’t want kids, but they had them anyway. 

They each had two– maybe because they knew what being lonely was like and wanted to have one person who understood their hardships, one person who understood them .

However, that was sadly never the case.

I didn’t know how little I understood Alluka – how little I understood everyone.

Grandmother was abused. 

Her responsibility was to take care of her younger brother instead of herself. Her responsibility was to hide the truth and ignore the harsh realities from her brother along with herself. 

Her mother was broken. Her mother broke her, too.

Her mother didn’t know how to love, and she feared that– therefore she feared her daughter’s existence. She feared being a parent because the only parents she knew were her own, and they were painful. She feared being that parent. Yet she was.

Both my grandmother and her mother hoped to kill themselves slowly– like they were asking for help but didn’t want to bother anyone else, like they were asking asking for help but didn’t want to risk facing anymore pain that came with it, like they were asking for help but knew dying was the only way to escape.

Father was abused. 

His responsibility was to take care of his younger brother instead of himself. His responsibility was to hide the truth and ignore the harsh realities from his brother along with himself. 

His mother was broken. His mother broke him, too.

His mother didn’t know how to love, and she feared that– therefore she feared her son’s existence. She feared being a parent because the only parent she knew was her mother, and her mother was painful. She feared being that parent. Yet she was.

My father and his mother and her mother before that hoped to kill themselves slowly– like they were asking for help but didn’t want to bother anyone else, like they were asking asking for help but didn’t want to risk facing anymore pain that came with it, like they were asking for help but knew dying was the only way to escape.

But they hid from that truth just like they hid from others.

When Father was drunk, sometimes he’d remember the truth, and then he’d drink more to not think of it again. When Father was drunk, sometimes he’d forget that he feared me or the past, and he would talk about it, and he would cry about it.

His mother hit him because she hated him, but she loved him, too. She just didn’t know, and neither did he, that love and hate are two sides of the same coin.

I wish I didn’t know that.

His mother demanded she be called by her name and not be called ‘mother’ or ‘mom’ or ‘mommy.’ 

His mother only had cheese in the fridge when my father was allergic, so he’d steal food for him and his brother. He went to jail multiple times for that, too, but they never bothered to ask him why he stole. 

His mother would yell, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” and he’d hate himself, too. 

His mother hit him when he gave her gifts, when my father tried to show that he still loved her no matter what, so maybe she would love herself enough to love him back. 

And his mother hit him when he loved her because she still couldn’t love him back, and it made her feel guilty. Deep down, I knew my father wanted to love me as well, but he couldn’t, and that made me feel guilty, too.

I thought that maybe if I was never born, he wouldn’t have had to face that reality.

Alluka was abused, but we never knew. 

Nobody knew until it was too late.

We were family. I helped raise her, and I thought I knew everything about her.

But I didn’t.

I did her laundry and helped pick out her clothes. I brushed her beautiful, silky black hair and learned how to do the hairstyles she wanted done for the sight of her eyes sparkling like stars in her light blue irises. I walked her to the bus and picked her up from it, helping with her homework when needed or dabbing damp rags on her body when she caught a fever. I stole . Because Father only had beer in his fridge despite us being millionaires. I knew Alluka’s favorite color, favorite video game, favorite series, favorite animal.

But I never knew her .

Nobody did. 

Even to this day, I still don’t know her. She stays shut behind those doors, locked behind the pain forever. 

Just like Father. 

Just like everyone else, COVID-19 was awful . We packed our belongings and rented storage, and then we had nowhere to go. We stayed in hotels, then friends’ houses, then the streets . 

Father, however, was living his best life. He racked up almost a million dollars of debt and stole my college money. The school counselor told me I could no longer receive the scholarships I earned and that financial aid was also impossible— that all this pain from piano was for nothing. 

Everything felt like it was for nothing.

We couldn’t pay the phone bill. I had no hope of contacting Gon. I shouldn’t have worried about it, since it was unlikely he would have responded to my long text, but I did. 

I still wore the ring. 

Sometimes I hated it. 

We lived in a tent hardly outside the city. Part of me liked it. It reminded me of summer camp, and I’d close my eyes as the wind blew aside my bangs. I slept under the stars and finally learned to climb trees, and I tried to find the dust of the milky way in the sky that I longingly stared at with Gon, but I never could . 

Gon and I were still under the same night sky. Was he looking at it, too? 

I imagined the warmth of his body next to mine like what felt like so long ago, his gentle puffs of air snuffling against my nape. He’d sleep when he felt safe, and so did I. 

So I would constantly sleep. Sleep and sleep and sleep. It got worse… until I was only awake for around four hours a day, but when I was asleep, I wouldn’t feel alone. When I was asleep, my skin didn’t feel tight and my fingers didn’t shake. When I was asleep, time would pass. 

People say being homeless is dangerous, but I never felt more safe. I didn’t sleep at Father’s house for that reason, but some days, I couldn’t help it. It was a double-edged sword.

Later, I would regret staying awake. 

Later, I would regret falling asleep. 

Alluka held a grudge and distanced herself from me, Mother ignored me, Gon was gone, and so was Father. 

I couldn’t play piano because of my homelessness or attend online school, either, and I couldn’t go to school because of COVID-19.  

But I had one last performance.

We took the bus there, and we all wore masks. 

And there I was, backstage, again . I was asked so many questions by everyone, but I didn’t respond to anyone— not even Ikalgo. I thought: this is my last opportunity to make Bisky proud after I disappointed her constantly. 

I needed to prove it was okay for me to play piano. 

I needed to prove it was okay for me to be alive. 

I haven’t touched a piano in two months, but I had faith in my memory. 

The “Tempest” by Beethoven. 

And then there I was, opening the door from backstage to those blinding white lights, to the darkness of the audience where shadows masked all, to the chilliness of the room that felt as cold as Father’s house. 

And then there was the piano. It was so glossy and so alone, so beautiful and rarely heard. 

I walked towards it and bowed as people clapped monotonously like the brutal inconsistency and torturous stagnation in life.

And then my blood turned ice cold. 

There, in the back of the audience, stood Father. I expected his face to be angry, betrayed, disappointed, but it wasn’t. It was sad and lonely. 

And to this day, I never forgot that look. 

My first thought was to say, “I’m sorry I left.” My second thought was to say, “you destroyed everything. I never want to see you again.”

My third thought was: I don’t care anymore. 

I pulled out the bench and sat down, and I stared at those keys of black and white. 

I realized the piano, just like my family, caused so much pain yet so much happiness. It projected loving sounds that people wanted to listen to without judging looks of hatred, pity, or disgust. When someone plays piano, people stop. They listen. 

I just wanted someone to listen to me.

I’ve always wanted that from the very beginning, when I received those disturbed looks since I was three– looks that showed I was different and made people unhappy, wide eyes and scrunched brows that screamed that they felt uncomfortable and wanted me to stay away…

 …frowns of pity that said, “your life is foretold to be nothing but pain.”

I took a deep breath and placed my hands above the keys, but then I stopped myself. 

Whispers once again mingled in the audience. 

“It’s happening again.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Did he forget how to play?”

I could never forget how to play. Ever. 

But somewhere deep down, a voice told me that this would be the last time I’ll ever play piano. 

Tears welled up in the corner of my eyes. 

This is the last time I’ll tell people my feelings. 

I didn’t have energy for anything else.

I… 

For the first time since summer camp, the thought crossed my mind: 

I don’t want to be alive anymore .

I placed my hands on the keys, and began The Chopin Ballade in g minor . 

My first octave echoed the recital hall hauntingly. 

I ignored the immediate anger of Bisky that I wasn’t playing the piece I was supposed to, but I didn’t care. Nothing could stop me from playing this. 

This was my final message to everyone. 

This was goodbye to Father, to my dreams, to piano , to this world .

I passed the intro, and gathered the courage to start the main melody, full of the emotions of loneliness and hopelessness that rang from the hammers against the strings of the inside of the piano that was opened up towards the audience. The base sub-harmony sounded like a heartbeat. 

Thump thump.

Thump thump. 

Right, this is where it all began. 

It began with a loss of a heartbeat. 

But later did I realize it wasn’t the heartbeat of my grandmother that was lost. It was the waning heartbeat of love that I scavenged for piece by piece that blew away in the wind.

I thought of Gon, my right hand feathering over the soft trills that reminded me of Gon’s singing as I couldn’t help but smile and stare at the welcoming look in his eyes that felt like a comforting embrace on a cold winter morning.

Now that I think about it, I never did sing for him.

‘It’s only time. Remember that we’ll always be friends. Know that someday, we’ll meet again.’

When I heard those words, I thought: I’ll never be alone.

But then I was.

My pace quickened.

Stagnation, sadness, hatred.

The song grew frantic, right hand blurring and my fingertips biting the keys.

Pain pain pain .

My wrist was on fire, and my blood burned. It hurt just like everything else. I hated hurting.

Endure endure endure. 

The silent shock of the audience, the eyes of Father boring into my lonesome self on stage– everyone was listening, no coughs, no hushed shufflings, no whispers. 

Good. 

Listen. 

Listen as my arpeggios fly up and down the keys. Listen as the cycle repeats and repeats and repeats.

Listen as…

My lips quivered, so I bit my lip hard in hopes of ignoring it.

… Listen as…

The arpeggios dwindled down into gentle fourths of the left hand. It sounded like a dim memory flickering like a star, growing brighter as the night darkened to black. Time slowed, slower than it’s ever been during a performance, and my mind began scrolling like a tape film through so many memories of the little havens I treasured in my life. My fingertips caressed the keys, each note singing its own voice like a distant reverie of the dreams I shared with Gon. 

I remembered the words Gon spoke and the feeling of them rumble in his chest against my ear. “One day, I want to see the Northern Lights. I believe people get distracted from what really matters, but I guess that’s something everyone has to discover for themselves.”

The dream I shared with Gon.

It symbolized escaping far… far away, where nothing is heard but each other, and the wind chimes like the melodies humming from the piano’s harp-like strings, where snow is puffy and white instead of dirty and trampled, and where jackets are snuggly and warm and loyally protecting from the painful cold, cold like the snow on the mountain where being a child was no longer possible, cold like the gaze of the men who left that were disgusted by my vulnerability, and cold as the blood dripping down my chin froze into my shirt as I collapsed on the snow, wishing for help no longer .

The Ballade began to sway like the leaves on the trees that Gon and I rested beneath. 

Ah, yes. Dreams…

The left hand rocked like a boat aimlessly drifting across a sleeping lake during the hours of dusk, reminding me of that dream I had as I curled under the safe blankets of Mother’s house, reminding me of Gon’s piano playing so close to my ears as I let my eyelids finally give into slumber. That dream that made me, even for just a brief moment, regain hope of a future I’d never imagine I deserved– the intense longing that brought. That dream that was full of a myriad of colors after living in a gray world that looked black and white in my eyes. They were bright like Gon’s eyes, and full of life like the bright green clothes he always wore. 

The dream that truly did remain merely a dream in the end. 

Looking back I thought we’d see another beautiful spring. I took it all for granted because I thought that’s how it’d always be.

Yes.

My limbs began to quiver from the intense emotions that rippled through me.

It’s only time. No matter how long or painful that time is, no matter if we’re apart, no matter if you hate me or I should hate you, even if this love were to become something like a curse, I will always love you, Gon.

Forever and always .

The Ballade finally slowed to a close, the enchanting melody, the small haven within the tragic world of sound, returning once again to the cycle of the lonely melody. However, the left hand was no longer the simple, rhythmic thumps of a heartbeat. It was a ticking time bomb: hours, minutes, seconds before exploding and destroying everything in the world people worked so hard to create. The ticking time bomb Gon noticed in me earlier when we listened to the live music on the balcony, when I asked why he didn’t attend my music school. The ticking time bomb of my self-destructive nature finally catching up to me… where my toes dipped into the icy waters of Rock . Bottom . 

I took a deep breath.

The finale.

The coda. 

The powerful, unforgettable sounds of the tragic sixths down the keys echoed the recital hall louder than ever before, making the room sound that much more quiet and lonely and focused on me and my playing alone. 

It began.

The ending of the Ballade was fast, hands bouncing octaves and hands bleary to the eye.

Faster.

Faster.

Faster!

I pushed myself to go faster than I ever played before, adding more and more anxiety-induced tension to the piece. My hands were burning, it hurt and hurt and hurt, and my pinkies cramped together, nerves bundling at the base of my wrist, where it already began to swell. The self-destructive nature of this Ballade, written during the unheard depression of Chopin’s life around the time of the war– the self-destructive nature that was inflicted on my hands.

I knew that after this, my music days would be over.

I knew everything I cared for was over.

But the emotions coursing through me, the frustration, such overwhelming frustration, pushed me forward. 

Forward .

My fingers tired from the strenuous activity, my fourth finger catching on a flat key and ripping off the nail, blood, blood like the insanity and selfishness of others’ unbandaged and exposed wounds bleeding onto those who didn’t cause it, splattering down the keys as the final scales rung.

The dam broke, my vision blurring as tears streamed down my cheeks and onto my keys as I played the final note.

The final one.

I stood from my seat and faced the audience, who stayed silent for a brief moment of shock before standing from the seats as a chorus of applause deafened my ears.

I continued to cry as I put one hand in front of me and bowed.

I was saying goodbye to so many things:

My father.

My dreams.

My family.

Gon .

And lastly… music .

I locked eyes with my father, who made a face of shock I’ve never seen before, and it was a face I’d never seen again– realization that I craved from everyone so I’d finally get validated for all my silent hardships.

I looked away.

And then my gaze drifted to Bisky. She no longer looked mad, but she wasn’t clapping either, just standing in shock, my eyes widening upon noticing glistening tears gather to free themselves.

I looked away.

I took one step towards the exit, two, and then I opened the doors and heard them shut behind me with a click.

I never returned to my performing arts school.

I never saw the flickering embers of Father’s old self.

And…

I never played piano again.

The last barrier of sharing my deepest, darkest thoughts and secrets was a secret hidden from even myself. So many memories I blocked out for the sake of moving forward– so many memories I will probably never remember again. Singing was one of them.

Alone, in the mini secluded forest that just barely escaped the city, that night after the recital, I cried to myself as I stared into the night sky desperately as if still after all of this time searching for hope and answers. 

I never sang to Gon.

The only recollection I have of singing was that it was my everything just as piano was. I sang when happy, when bored, when energized, when upset, and then I did no longer. I don’t even remember the despairing moment that led me towards that concrete decision like I did with piano.

But nonetheless, I never sang again.

I always had problems with oversharing in hopes of never being truly vulnerable– despite seeming relatively closed off to others at first– whereas Gon was completely the opposite. Gon was pure-hearted and honest and acted truly happy, and we all believed it, same with Alluka. But deep down, they hid things away behind those same doors that closeted me singing. They were too vulnerable inside to risk being vulnerable to the pain that comes with ending vulnerability. 

Because of those doors, it made me ponder the concept of how little I understood everyone closest to me. And pondering that concept made me think back to the moments with Gon that I never understood but ingrained in my memories.

I remember waiting in my sleeping bag that laid atop a stale smelling, stiff mattress all the kids were assigned to in summer camp, waiting for the moon to reach a certain placement in the sky and for all my roommates' breaths to even out before making my way to find Gon. 

Gon was always in the same three spots: either on the bench of the clubhouse piano, atop the large oak tree near the campfires, or by the river beach.

We never specifically agreed on certain areas of meeting. After all, we still have to sleep, so we didn’t meet every night.

But one day, he wasn’t in one of those three locations. 

I shrugged it off, guessing he wanted to be alone. Being alone was nice at times, so I didn’t question it.

Mother always talked about loneliness like it was a punishment for being bleak, a punishment for being weak, a punishment for doing something wrong .

“No one wants to be around someone who makes them depressed,” she would say.

“If you have nothing positive to say, don’t say anything at all.”

“Showing you are sad is selfish. It makes those around you sad.”

I wonder if Gon thought that way, too. He was always so happy despite sometimes seeming so… sad . He always spoke positively, yet his actions were results of negative thinking.

But still, he liked being around me.

He liked being around me even though I was a broken child, and that made me feel less broken. 

Maybe it was because he was broken, too. I never once thought that Gon didn’t have any issues– that he didn’t have some tear in his soul even though it was admittedly easy to miss.

But one night, he wasn’t in one of those three locations. 

He was sitting on the ledge of the bridge that started everything.

I knew Gon wasn’t truly happy, yet the sight shocked me– the sight of him looking so trapped despite seeming so free. He didn’t look like he was going to jump or anything, he just dangled his legs in melancholy solitude, watching the river gently ripple at the surface. He didn’t particularly look deep in thought, in fact, he didn’t seem to be thinking at all because thinking would make the solitude suffocating. 

Suddenly, an acorn snapped beneath the weight of my foot, causing Gon’s attention to shift towards me.

A small smile failed to complete itself on his lips, like his body was too worn for it. “Oh, hi, Killua.”

Somewhat embarrassed of staring, I looked away, shoving my hands in my pockets nonchalantly. “I just thought… you might be lonely,” I mumbled with a light blush. 

For some reason, I remember noticing Gon’s eyes when I said that. He looked back at the river, and I began making my way towards his side.

“You know,” he started, “most animals like being alone. Even though the weaker ones will travel in packs, they care for themselves knowing they’re the only one they can really trust, knowing the value of their life is their own responsibility. I realize humans are the same.”

I scoffed. “That’s a depressing realization.”

He laughed sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess so.” He rested his chin on his palm, and I didn’t look away from the subtle shift in his expression, from the dewy, infrequent gusts of wind that would blow the small hairs from his face and gently tug at his clothing. “But…” he continues softly, “it’s sort of reassuring, too. Don’t you think so?”

My eyes widened. 

I thought of my mothers threats of loneliness, the lax concern of teachers when I didn’t like the company of other kids my age, or even the distant expressions of worry on peoples faces when I played piano alone. They viewed it like it was unnatural to find peace and reassurance in being alone, it made me feel unnatural and wrong, but after Gon said that, it made me wonder why that was… why being alone still felt so lonely.

“It’s still lonely though.”

“Yeah. It is.”

A small pause.

“Killua?”

“Hm?”

“Is dying alone all that bad?”

“... I don’t think so. Then you’re not leaving anyone behind, right?”

Another pause.

“I won’t leave you alone, Killua.”

“I won’t leave you alone, either, Gon.”

Yes, I won’t leave others alone in the world.

So it is my duty to die alone.

It is my duty, it is my duty, it is my duty .

But I hated my duty. 

I hated staring death in the face because it always made me think of that suffocating loneliness.

Death is beautiful.

I hated death.

Those were the conflicting emotions I felt over and over again as it was slapped in my face, as I was one day walking along the bayou nearby where my tent was…

…As I found the fresh body of a sixteen year old boy– my age.

No doubt, it was an act of suicide.

I remember not particularly feeling anything, yet the sight burned into my retinas.

I remember crouching down and moving the dusty blonde bangs that covered the stranger’s eyes, my body going rigid upon finding his expression:

His horrified expression like he regretted it at the very last moment.

I couldn’t get the sight out of my head as I told my mother, as the police handled the scene and the parents showed up crying, or as I laid my head back to indulge in slumber– slumber that would last thirty-two hours without a single thought.

Later, I would regret staying awake. 

Later, I would regret falling asleep. 

We received news that Father was arrested for fraud and for sleeping with a trafficked minor, so it was safe to move back into our old house temporarily until it’s taken away by the court to pay off debt. We still had our wifi bill paid off, so as long as we remained in our house our cellphones were working. 

Life seemed so stagnant. So still. We were all so focused on ourselves.

We didn’t know what was happening with Alluka.

I remember seeing a message from an unknown number pop up on my phone screen. Because of all the things happening with my father, I was used to getting alarming messages from random individuals– most of which were just used for intimidation and were untrue, but this one caught my eye.

It read: “Might want to check on that sweet sister of yours.”

At first, I didn’t believe it to be a threat, but the anxiety dwelled in the pits of my stomach, so I walked into her room. 

She was fast asleep with a smile on her face, Mike curled on her legs. There wasn’t anything alarming on her nightstand or any leaking wounds, so I closed the door and went to sleep.

Sleeping was my drug, and just like people on drugs, I wasn’t present when the worst happened.

I woke up to a rotten stench flooding my nostrils.

I shot out of bed and slammed open my bedroom door. Vomit trailed from Alluka’s room to the bathroom, where Alluka leaned over the toilet with a hand fisting her stomach in pain. 

She looked up at me with a weak smile. “I’m sorry, big brother.” Tears welled up in her eyes as blood began dripping from the corner of her mouth. “I… I messed up.” 

My eyes widened, and my phone slipped through my slack fingers and fell on the tile floor of the bathroom with a thud.

Alluka’s figure wobbled before collapsing on the floor, her head thudding on the bathmat. 

“Alluka…” My screaming heartbeat drowned out the sound of the world around me. I ran over to her, crashing to my knees and firmly shaking her. “Alluka. Alluka! Alluka, wake up!” 

Mother screamed behind me, calling an ambulance on speaker while the woman's voice sounded monotonous to our panic. Water clouded my vision, and my fingers curled tighter into Alluka’s silky nightgown. Her beautiful strands of black hair tickled my skin and clumped together on her forehead. 

That’s when I noticed.

In the shower, were nine bottles of emptied medication bottles.

“No…” While shaking my younger sister, a spew of pleas tumbled from my lips, "don’t leave me. You can’t leave! You can’t die, please!”

And then the wooden door of the bathroom is slammed open, medics pushing through me to grab Alluka and swing her carelessly onto a cot. 

They questioned me relentlessly: 

“When did she overdose?”

“What did she take?”

“Are there any other forms of self harm on her skin?”

“What caused her to do this?”

And then I’m watching as the doors of the ambulance close. I’m watching as they shove a tube down her throat and as they hook her up to multiple breathing machines.

Lastly, I watch the doors of the ambulance close and it drive away with those dulling sirens and piecing lights, remembering those crushing words out in the open of the chilly night: “It looks like the drugs were taken over five hours ago as an act of suicide. We don’t know the exact drugs, but it’s likely it's too late.”

Mother was scream-crying by the curb, and my knees gave out, crashing hopelessly on the concrete streets of our neighborhood. 

This world is cruel. This world is tricky. So many wish to leave it, and so many ignore it. While some are eating dinner with their families, some are mourning the loss of a child. 

Life is disgusting, death is disgusting, but there is one hard truth that no one could ever change– a hard truth I realized I could never change– and it’s that life and death have one thing in common… That in the end…

…You’re always alone .

Chapter Text

We rushed to the hospital, and it took nearly an hour before they let us visit Alluka. It took even longer for the staff to let me into the room.

“You can’t cry,” they said. “It’ll make her feel guilty and sad.”

Not crying was never harder. My throat felt so tight I could choke. Not crying was also harder when everyone around me was crying. In the child emergency room, children were dying all around me– mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters all breaking around me. Children suffering from car crashes, children with cancer, children undergoing CPR, and children, like Alluka, dying from their own actions caused by their own hands. 

I stopped crying– stopped by a fragile dam about to give after a fearsome flood by an intense hurricane. 

Walking into the hospital room was like a fever dream, one that feels so surreal yet knowing you can come out a different person with a changed life. Like a metronome, the heart monitor beeped. The steady tempo signified life and how robotic it truly is. 

Beep, beep, beep.

Alluka was resting on her side, snuggled in a thin hospital blanket. Wires all over seemed to stem from her body like they were a power supply charging a waning battery. Bags of fluid, a bag of blood, and many bags of vomit reeking from the nearby trash can.

Mother was able to stop crying first, so she had time to visit Alluka. Upon noticing me, she nodded and left me alone with my sleeping sister.

With wobbly legs, I made my way next to Alluka, gently falling to my knees to see her face.

It was peaceful. She was peaceful. 

Why did dying suddenly become so peaceful when it was torture a mere hour ago? 

Perhaps she’s not dying after all, I hoped desperately. 

Regardless, I wanted to be there to make her as content as possible, though somewhere deep and dark within me, I knew it was for a selfish reason of ridding the guilt. 

If Alluka dies here, the blood of my own sister is on my hands. 

I ignored the warnings because of them happening so frequently. I grew numb. I ignored the warning because I began to trust my sister and distrust everyone else. 

My throat felt tighter, the voices in my mind screaming louder and louder. 

The weight of a life. 

I clenched the collar of my shirt. 

Is it really my fault?

Yes.

Do I really have to face this alone?

Yes.

Will I ever be free?

No.

It was so heavy. It was excruciating. And my body, my soul, my hope— everything was about to be crushed under its immense weight.

My skin grew itchy, and it was the itchiest where arteries pumped blood that kept me alive. My neck, my wrists, all flowing this warm liquid that felt like poison. 

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

No. 

Being alive is so uncomfortable. 

I looked at Alluka’s face, again. 

Comfortable. 

Suddenly, she began to stir, and her heart rate slowly beeped faster, indicating she was waking. Her brows gently knit together, and she fluttered her eyes open. They widened upon noticing me. “Killu-“ she sat up, coughing. The nurse came over with water but she rejected her. “Big brother,” she said clearly this time. Her expression saddened. “Where am I?”

“The emergency room.”

She sank back into the bed, the sound creaking loudly in the echoey room. “I see.”

I couldn’t tell if it was disappointment or regret on her face. 

We sat in silence for a long time, and the beeping on the monitor made time that much slower and that much more noticeable. 

Such a horrendous sound. 

Taunting. 

“Stay steady! Don’t rush the tempo!” Bisky’s voice rang in my mind. 

Its beeping was a time bomb and fear was on its side. It begged to be feared because without it… without it…

“Big brother?”

“Hm?” I met her gaze again.

Her eyes looked as sparkly as glass after rain, glistening in the light. “Can you hold my hand?”

The waters held by the dam rippled. “Y-yeah. Okay.” I bit my mouth hard to keep it from wobbling, but I couldn’t do the same to my eyes that blurred in and out of focus as I lifted the blanket to find her hand. 

Her hand had three wires, and it was as cold as ice. My fingers interlocked hers. I gave them a light squeeze, but all I felt was a slight nudge back of her fingers failing to work— just as my pinkies now fail to work.

Beep, beep, beep. 

Her voice came out as a hushed whisper, “this isn’t the first time I thought of this.”

My eyes widened before I could stop them.

“Yes. I really did want to end it.” I could hear her words begin to strain, and she hiccuped, “but I-I’m really scared. I don’t want to die. I want to live.” She broke down, and I shadowed my face under my bangs to hide my expression that was no longer possible to control. 

When she said those words, I thought of the teenager’s body I found under the bridge… how scared his face was…

“Big brother, please, don’t let go of my hand.” 

“I won’t.”

Beep, beep, beep.

“Please don’t leave me alone to die.”

I gave her another squeeze. “I won’t.”

Suddenly, the heart monitor began to spike, and an alarm was set off. The hospital curtain was yanked aside as doctors rushed to the scene. 

“Sir, we need you to let go of your sister,” said one of them. 

Alluka sat up, gripping me in absolute terror. “Big brother? What’s going on? What is-!?!”

A nurse began to pull me back as the monitor blared and the ticks began to plateau. 

“Alluka!”

My warmth left hers, but by that time, she was once again passed out. 

Tears flooded my eyes. “Alluka, no!” I had no energy to fight as I was dragged out and as the curtain closed. 

It all felt like a movie, each frame of the scene slowly burning into my retinas: a flash of white coats, the loud creeks of pressure on the hospital bed, inky hair spilling all over white pillows, vomit suddenly spewing from her still mouth… 

The curtain closed, and I fell to the tile floor. It felt so similar to the tile at my performing arts school— all so cold and shocking to my skin. I didn’t bother to care about my appearances, allowing myself to weakly fall to the ground completely and curl myself into a ball. 

“Make it stop,” I whispered. “Please… please, make it stop.” 

So many things were happening around me, and I couldn’t keep up. Time was passing around me, and I couldn’t keep up. 

I can’t keep up with living while everything dies around me. 

Except one sound did grow silent, and that silence drowned out the noise as if it put the world on mute, on pause. 

The heart monitor no longer beeped. 

That metronome stopped, no longer haunting my ears. 

My cheeks felt tears swim around them against the floor, falling like pouring rain. Everything felt so weak and powerless. I couldn’t even itch the unquenchable stinging along my veins. 

And just like when anything important happens…

…I fell asleep. 

I was out for two whole hours, and I woke up somewhere different, on a recliner chair leaning back, a wire attached to me, this time.

An IV. A bag of saline connected to it.

I must’ve passed out from dehydration, from crying. 

I numbly stared at the ceiling. 

The ceiling was also blocky like tile: white and bright. 

“Killua?” emerged an unfamiliar voice, probably a nurse.

“What.” I replied emotionlessly. 

“They told me to tell you that your sister will live. She’s asleep right now and is expected to wake up in a few more hours.”

My eyes widened and my heart started to warm again, but I couldn’t bring myself to smile. “I see. Thank you.”

I waited for her footsteps to fade into the distance before sitting up and ripping the IV off of me. I flinched when blood spurted out from the vein in my hand, but I hid it by shoving my fists into my pockets. I wanted nothing to stop me from holding Alluka’s hand again like I promised. Nothing will stop me. 

I struggled to navigate through the hospital, since I was put in the adult section; after ten or so minutes, I found my way to the door of the child emergency room. I needed a keycard, so I had to wait until I got a nurse’s attention that recognized my white hair. 

I stood once again in front of Alluka’s sleeping figure upon that stuff and creaky hospital bed. 

Mother was still gone. 

I sighed and pulled up a chair next to Alluka to sit until Alluka woke. I looked at her face. 

Comfortable. 

Then, I laced our fingers together in a loose hold. 

Alluka will live. 

I rested my head against the edge of the plush bed, letting my eyes flutter close. 

Now that death was no longer a screaming fear, silence was okay while the rest of Alluka’s body recovered. It was about sixteen hours deep of staying at the hospital, and Alluka had managed to keep a few food items down. 

We watched a few movies, played some funny drawing games with scratch pieces of paper from the lady assigned to watch us— though she spent the time studying since her job was really doing nothing. Too, at this time of night, the emergency room was strangely quiet, so it felt like any other place for Alluka and I to play. We simply pretended this was a day as similar as any other. 

At least… until a member of Child Protection Services walked into the room. 

His presence shone brightly, but I felt nothing but dread over his appearance. Though, I should’ve guessed it. It’s only natural the state would get involved over a child attempting to take their own life. They need to investigate what even brought such a notion. 

I was opening my mouth to speak when I suddenly noticed: I did not know much more than him about why Alluka was here, either.

In fact, I knew nothing.

That realization silenced me completely. 

“You’re Alluka Zoldyck’s brother, right?”

I nodded. 

“Sorry, but it’s the law that I talk to Alluka here alone. It should only take an hour or so. I promise you can be with her soon.”

I glanced at Alluka to see if she was okay with that, and she gave an affirming nod. 

I reluctantly walked out of the room. Part of me wanted to hide and listen in order to satiate my curiosity, but I figured if she had told CPS nothing thus far, it’s unlikely now would be any different. 

My tummy let out a loud rumble. I stared down at it, frowning. 

A few hours, huh?

I guess now will be as good of a time as ever to eat. 

I left the emergency room and ambled down to the center of the hospital where various cafeterias and small shops took place. Though not completely desolate, the lobby was still pretty empty. 

I stopped in front of a vending machine, grimacing at its inflated price. 

Ugh . 

I fished in my pockets for some change and let the machine devour it. I pressed the appropriate buttons on the keypad for the Snickers. 

“You still like Snickers, huh?” 

Startled, I whipped around just to go dead still upon recognition. 

It can’t be.

No way. 

Gon’s cheeks stretched out in a toothy grin. “Long time no see, Killua.”

… HUH!?!

So many emotions at once crashed down on me, a smile halfway forming on the right side of my mouth, the left side staying open in disbelief. “G-Gon! Why? How-?”

Gon put his arms up to stretch. “Well, Retz is having her baby, but I wasn’t supposed to be in there, so now I’m exploring.”

“Exploring,” I wanted to tease. 

He looked back at me with big brown eyes. “Why are you here, Killua?”

“I…”

Those eyes quickly grew concerned, and that made me all the weaker. “Killua? Killua, what happened. Why are you in the hospit-“

“Alluka tried to kill herself,” I blurted out, words surprisingly clear. 

Gon went stiff. 

It’s like those words suddenly broke the laughable blockade to reality. 

Why are we pretending, anyway?

Just leaves at the most important time of each other's life and what? Everything’s cool now?

“I’m sorry,” Gon whispered. 

For some reason, that admittance pissed me the hell off. “ Tch, well that’s a start-“

“Can we talk?” he interrupted, so stern it sort of startled me. It seemed less like a question and more like a demand. 

“Uh, sure?”

We sat on the nearby bench of a hallway. Gon leaned forward in a serious manner with his elbows on his knees. I nonchalantly took a bite of my candy bar.

He took a deep breath. “You know, I never did tell you why I broke up with you.”

I scoffed. “I’m pretty sure you did. ‘I regret what we did, I no longer have those feelings for you, blah blah.’”

“I’m being serious, Killua.”

“So am I.”

…

“I lied,” he said louder. It sounded pained. 

For the first time since we sat down, I met his gaze. “Huh?” 

He almost looked like he was shaking. 

Is he that scared?

“I saw what my brother’s relationship did to Aunt Mito,” he continued, “and after that night… I knew things would just escalate between us because I don’t know how to hold back. I was weak and vulnerable.”

I bit my lip. “I was weak too, you know.” I felt an embarrassed blush rise to my cheeks. “That was my first time doing something like that. I was hesitant at first because I was worried you would regret it, but… but I trusted you to know what you want.” 

“I do know what I want,” Gon said passionately. He slapped a hand loyally to his chest. “I know I wanted you to be happy, and I knew I couldn’t make you happy, so-“

“We both know only being with you made me happy. You just didn’t know what makes me sad, though it should be obvious. When someone isn’t happy, they’re typically sad, dumbass.”

Gon flinched, then he scratched his hairline on his neck sheepishly. “Maybe I am an idiot.”

I scoffed once again, and a brief silence ensued. I crossed my arms, mumbling, “that doesn’t change the fact that, in the end, we didn’t know each other at all.”

“I guess you’re right,” he whispered in agreement. 

Another quiet intermission. 

Is our conversation over?

Is everything over?

“I want to know about you,” Gon said suddenly. “I want you to know more about me, too.”

I checked the time on my phone. 

Still another hour or so before I could see Alluka again. 

Letting out an exasperated sigh, I said, “we do know each other. We just don’t know our histories. I was fine with that.”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

“Because our past is what makes us who we are.”

I furrowed my brows. “Then an ugly past makes a person ugly.”

“No,” Gon replied firmly. “It means you’re strong.”

“There’s nothing strong about it, Gon,” I snapped back. “People say that to make others feel better. Someone who has cancer has no choice but to fight it. It doesn’t make them strong, it makes them unlucky.”

Gon wilted. “Boo. I see you're as pessimistic as ever.”

“And you’re still an idiot.”

“Killua.”

“What.”

I felt Gon’s hand nudge mine, and my breath silently hitched. 

“I don’t care how ugly your past is, just like how you listened to mine,” he murmured softly, kindly.

I leaned back against the wall, tilting my head to lean on it as well. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

“What… What were you feeling when we stopped talking.”

“Depressed,” I replied honestly. “But I’m not sure that’s so new.”

“You were suffering more than me. Why?-“

Suddenly an uncontrollable anger again rose to the surface. “Why are you here, Gon? To pity me?” I asked through grit teeth. 

“No,” Gon pleaded. “I’m not.”

“Then explain!”

“Maybe we don’t know each other! But I know I love you from the pieces of your heart that you did give to me!”

The words rang in my ears, and my face fell into slight shock before giving into warmth. Gon’s beaming presence always felt like a warm embrace amidst such a cold world. I loved him, too, for that. I looked down, my bangs shyly covering my smile. “And you’re selfish as always.” 

“Does that make you mad?”

“Ugh, I’m used to it by now.”

…

“… so, why is Alluka in the hospital? I mean… why did she-?”

“I don’t know.” I clenched my fists. “I truly don’t know. A lot has happened. I don’t think I even remember most of it. If I’m being completely honest, I prefer it that way. Everything is a bad dream, and at one point, hopefully soon, I’ll wake up.” 

“Is this a bad dream?” Gon preened. 

My eyes narrowed. “Yes. Summer Camp was the only good dream.” 

Gon laughed wholeheartedly, “yeah. It was, wasn’t it?”

“To think then, we were still sad. I’m a lot sadder now.”

“…you thought I was sad?”

“Yes.” 

Gon looked down with a small smile curling his lips. “I was sad, I think. Very sad.”

A similar smile graced my lips. “Remember when you asked if we would ever find happiness?”  

“I do.”

“Do you still believe we will?”

Gon turned to face me fully, determination wholeheartedly painting his expression. “Yes.”

“Well,” I folded my arms behind my head indifferently, “then I believe so, too.”

“Really?” He brightened like a twinkling star. 

My brows lifted wryly. “You seriously don’t know that I trust you? Even though I suppose I shouldn’t…”

“Ouch. I probably deserve that.”

I hummed. 

We fell into silence as a doctor walked by with a list in their hands. It reminded us where we were. 

“Our friendship, relationship, or whatever we were, it was toxic, wasn’t it?” Gon said with a frown. 

I stayed quiet. 

“Killua, let’s catch up. Truly, this time. Let’s start over.”

I knew I shouldn’t agree, but as I had mentioned earlier, I still trusted him. “Sure,” I grinned. “Let’s do that.”

So for the first time, we talked— not just hiding in a safe haven, and not ranting to let careless emotions out. We just talked. 

I finally mentioned my home life, my father, and I admitted to light abuse. I knew my abuse was very light, so I didn’t want to make it sound otherwise. 

I talked about how he was right about what the performing arts school did to me, that now it was too late and that I’m done with piano. Sure, it made me sad, but it also partly made me happy to move forward. 

And lastly, I talked about my loneliness.

That was something Gon talked about, too. It was eye-opening hearing him talk so plainly, maturely, like he wasn’t hiding behind some charismatic, optimistic facade any longer. He talked about his regrets, his worries, and why he felt suicidal. He couldn’t feel as satisfied in our haven because of how small and short it was, how far away and surreal it was. 

It made me think of Alluka. 

I checked the time on my phone, once again. “I should get going, Gon.”

“Wait. Can I get your phone number? I had to change it awhile back, and I couldn’t find a way to get ahold of you.”

My heart sped up. 

So that’s why. 

It wasn’t because…

“Sure. Here.” I handed him my phone so he could put in his contact information. 

He quickly typed it in and handed it back. “So… nothing has changed, right? We can go back to the way it was?”

I shook my head. “No, things have changed. But like you said, we’re starting over.” I smiled. “In a good way.” 

Gon nodded gleefully. “Yeah! Mito once said that the proper way to apologize is to say it and do better. I'm sorry, Killua. I promise to do better.” 

“Me too.” I stood there awkwardly for a hot minute. “Okay… I should probably get going to Alluka.” 

“See you later, Killua!”

“Yeah! Later, Gon!”

I hadn’t realized that conversation was just another haven, too. Even though I felt prepared to handle what was next, I wasn’t. 

Because like Gon said: it was not enough. 

When I returned to Alluka’s room, the agent was outside. Mother was, too.

I slowed my steps reluctantly, confusion rising. “What happened?”

Mother looked at me with a glare as sharp as knives. “Did you know, Killua? You were the only one with her at your father’s house.”

A scary feeling started to fester in my gut. “Huh? What do you mean?”

The CPS agent was direct when telling me, “your sister, Alluka, has faced sexual abuse under your family’s care. It is an offense that has happened multiple times.” 

What?

The sound of him talking began to sound muffled like he was speaking underwater. 

It can’t be. 

I twitched. 

I was always awake. I was always making sure-

No.

I wasn’t always awake. 

In fact, there were times my insomnia switched to hypersomnia. I just thought I was sleeping lightly when the exhaustion did take over— that I was hearing even the lightest of creeks in the floorboards. 

“I didn’t know,” I swore. “I didn’t know at all!”

Your mother mentioned that you gave her a USB. That USB had child pornography on it.”

My gut twisted, and I suddenly grew incredibly nauseous. “I never looked at it!”

“Then why did you steal it?”

“Because I-” my words started to become strained as my throat tightened itself once again, “because…”

I knew yet I subconsciously acted like I didn’t. 

Nothing has changed, this entire time I’ve been relying on those stupid havens instead of facing the truth, instead of facing my responsibility. 

The weight of a life. 

Is it really my fault?

Yes.

Do I really have to face this alone?

Yes.

Will I ever be free?

No.

I snapped into reality upon the CPS agent stating, “Alluka Zoldyck will be transferred to a residential ward to undergo intense therapy in hopes of a better life than what this family has given her. There will be multiple inspections before her return. It’s either this, or both Alluka and Killua Zoldyck will be taken from the Zoldyck family under the law and sent to an orphanage or foster care. It’s a sad thing. We can’t prevent them from being possibly separated if this were to happen.”

… huh?

Before, the thought of being taken away or escaping this family sounded like a dream, but only until it became reality did I realize how scary of a nightmare the occurrence actually was. 

The weight of a life. 

It’s all my fault. 

Nobody, including me, was allowed to visit Alluka after that. We stayed by the hospital and in a hotel for the night, regardless, until she got better and could be released. 

This time, I didn’t sleep.

I’d rock back and forth in the darkness of the night, and I’d stare at shadowy corners in the light of the day.  

A voice screamed at me in my ear, “if you weren’t asleep, Alluka would’ve been saved. If you had just ran away with her and ignored your mother, she would’ve been saved.” If you had done this. If you had done that. 

Back and forth.  

Back and forth. 

“Shut up.” I’d tell the voice, but I knew the voice was right, and that’s what made it hurt so much more. 

Back and forth.

Back and forth. 

To sleep and avoid problems or stay awake and avoid problems. 

To stay strong and suffer or crumble and suffer. 

To be comfortable…

Dying is comfortable. 

No, dying is suffering. 

Death is beautiful. 

Death is disgusting. 

Was Alluka’s face when she woke disappointed or regretful?

No. 

When she held onto me, she was terrified. That dead boy’s face was also terrified.

I’m terrified. 

Alluka was released from the hospital, and they let us be the ones to drive her to the residential ward they called: Center for Success. 

When Alluka left the hospital, she was beaming with joy. The officials told us to not tell her where she was going to avoid disaster, but not telling her felt entirely cruel. 

As she rambled on ecstatically in the car, her words seemed laced with the promise: I’m so happy to be living. 

“I can’t wait to see Mike.”

“I can’t wait to play with you, Big Brother.”

“We’ll play Phasmophobia together, right?”

Each time, I offered a weak smile and nod. 

Eventually, she started to question, “where are we going? This doesn’t seem like the way home.” 

“This city is quite big,” Mother replied. “We’re just taking a different way home.”

“Oh, okay.”

And then we pulled up to the gates. It looked like a bunch of connected narrow and colorful houses, but all of the windows were covered by iron bars. 

Mother rolled down the car window and talked into the entry speaker. “Alluka Zoldyck.” 

That’s when Alluka panicked. “Where are we? Are you guys taking me somewhere? You guys will be there, too, right? Killua?”

Mother drove in the gates, and two male staff were waiting outside. 

“We are…” I swallowed, “we are taking you somewhere safe.”

“What do you mean, Killua? What do you mean!?!”

My eyes watered as Mother opened the door. “Come along, Alluka. This won’t be long, don’t worry.” She grabbed Alluka’s arm in hopes of getting her out of the car. 

She resisted Mother’s grip. “I don’t believe you! I don’t want to go! I’ll be lonely without Mike, and Mike will be lonely without me!”

The men walked over to the car and tried to carefully carry Alluka out. She fought relentlessly as she was dragged towards the entry doors. “No no no I want to go home,” she wailed. “I didn’t mean it! I want to go home!”

She looked at me, and my body tensed up. Her watercolor eyes were pleading for help. 

I can’t help you, Alluka.

I failed you before, and I’m failing you again. 

“N-no,” she weakened a bit and got dragged closer to the doors as they opened for her. “Killua. Killua! Don’t leave me here! Killua, don’t!”

“Please calm yourself, Ms. Alluka,” a female staff member holding the door open said. 

She continued to scream, now completely holding eye contact with me. Those pleedful eyes turned to resentment, and that look startled me that much more. “It’s all your fault! Why did you run away, leaving me with him?! Why did you leave me, Killua!?!” 

I’m sorry, Alluka. 

I’m so so sorry. 

And then the doors shut, never to open for a long, long time. 

The door of my bedroom was shut. If Alluka was going to be locked, I need to be, too. 

Back and forth.

Back and forth. 

Blood like poison. 

Itch, itch, itch.

I wanted to call Gon, but he hadn't been answering the texts since I messaged him three days ago. We were starting over, weren’t we? We decided we wouldn’t hide from the truth.

The truth was I couldn’t be alone. 

For the first time in three days, I indulged in reality by looking at my phone. 

There were three missed calls from Gon, and then a message: “This is Gaito. Gon is missing. I thought he might be with you.” 

Huh?

Huh!?!

Quicker than I could completely process or comprehend what the hell was going on, I messaged Gaito back. Then, I went to Google and searched for “Gon Freecss.” 

News immediately popped up under missing persons. 

“No, no, no!”

At that moment, Mother barged through the door. “Killua, I’ve been trying to get this door open for days now! You have a lot of explaining to do!”

“Not now, Mother!” I shouted. It was the first time I spoke to my mother so heartlessly since she rescued me by filing for divorce. 

Mother angrily marched over to my bed and reached to snatch my phone. 

I dodged. “Don’t.”

Her face fell to shock, anger now radiating in waves, furious. She grabbed my shirt and dragged me to the floor in order to reach my phone. 

I continued to fight back. 

Her force intensified. “You won’t be getting this back ever again, mister! You shouldn’t have it in the first place after what happened to your sister!!!”

At those words, my body automatically gave in. Tears dripped on my shirt before I even realized I was crying. 

Mother took this opportunity to pin me down on my stomach. My face was smashed against the hardwood floor, and her arm was on my neck, holding me down firmly. 

I can’t breathe.

My body began to spasm as it slowly grew weaker and weaker. 

I can’t breathe. 

I’m going to die. 

I squinted the water from my eyes. 

She saved me, so why is hurting me? 

She snatched my phone and stood, dusting herself off. “This, Killua, is getting thrown in the trash.” 

I gasped for air, too tired to do anything but feel oxygen finally travel to my lunges. I raised my hand to feel my sore throat. 

Mother didn’t mean to, right?

She wouldn’t hurt me after she saved me?

But… she didn’t save Alluka, 

The voice spoke to me again, “she didn’t care to save you. She only cared to save herself.”

Gon… why did he run away? Weren’t we starting over? 

“He lied to you to make you feel better because he felt bad about Alluka in the hospital.”

Yes, Gon does always try to make sad people happy again. 

An icy, hateful gaze flashed in my memory. 

And why did Alluka look at me like that?

The voice stopped responding.  

I stood up and walked out of my room. 

Mother was in the hallway, her back faced towards me as she traveled to the stairs. We were on the second floor.

I followed behind her. 

Yes, this is all a nightmare. 

That’s why the world is blurry and my mind is screaming. That’s why my body feels cold and numb as though I’m dead. That’s why it won’t matter if-

I followed behind her then pushed. Hard. 

Mother flew down the wooden stairs, rolling down each step as I heard her body crack. 

I snapped into reality when she finally hit the ground of the first floor, her howling in pain. 

It wasn’t a nightmare. 

This is all real. 

Hyperventilating. I was hyperventilating. 

“Killua!?!” She wailed in shock and disbelief. Her eyes were absolutely betrayed and stuck in horror— like Alluka’s. She seemed to try and stand, but couldn’t. “Killua, help me!”

“Help me!” Alluka had screamed when being dragged behind those frightful doors. 

I raced down the steps and couched to lift Mother up. She gripped my arm tightly just as Alluka had when her heart was giving out. Mother was able to stand, but when she did, her eyes fell into that same resentment. 

I couldn’t speak. I could hardly breathe. I also couldn’t look away. 

I took a step back as she continued staring.

I took another step. 

Then, I was running out the door, and that was all that was on my mind: run, run, run— as I ran. I didn’t even know where I was running, but it must’ve been a long way because when I snapped into reality, I was at a large intersection by the freeway. 

My ears hurt as cars raced by. 

The weight of a life. 

Reluctantly, I began walking up the ramp of the freeway, hugging the narrow side. 

The wind from the cars so close felt like it could push me off. 

Will I ever be free? 

No. 

I continued walking while tears streamed down my cheeks. 

‘Maybe we don’t know each other! But I know I love you.’

Liar.

‘Big brother? I love you the most.” 

That look of resentment. 

Liar, liar. 

It was my duty to be alone in this world. 

It is my duty, it is my duty, it is my duty.

I was now on the peak of the freeway, that much closer to the cloudy sky. 

I can no longer bear it.

Cars honked as they passed by, some rolling their windows down and hollering, “what the hell are you doing, kid!?!”

My body didn’t stop. I gripped the cement railing, and lifted my foot from the ground. Being on the ground was heavy, but my body was heavier as I stepped up. 

I’m tired. 

I’m tired of being tired.

So very tired.

I didn’t even realize a car had stopped behind me until I was yanked back. 

“Kil, what are you doing!?! How could you even think this!?!”

My eyes widened from recognizing the voice. 

It was Illumi. 

I was quickly thrown in the backseat of his car, and I stayed in that thrown position— cheek once again pressing to the hard ground of the car. I could hear us zooming away from my chance at freedom, and it toned out Illumi and Kalluto’s yelling.

“Why are you taking me?” I weakly whispered. “Take me back, please. Take me back! Why would you do this to me!?!” 

Why are you trying to save me now, when it’s too late?

Saving me is letting me die. 

But my duty is to live while everyone else dies around me. My duty is for them to die peacefully while I wait in this world miserably. 

I hated this godforsaken duty.

The car stopped upon reaching Illumi’s house, and I was dragged out of the car just like Alluka was. Though, upon being dragged out, I didn’t fight. It was already too late, anyway. 

I followed behind them until we reached the front door. I followed behind them like I followed Mother. 

“Sit on the couch, Kil. You will not fight it. You will not run away.”

“I will not run away,” I repeated obediently. 

I started soulesly at the ground while chatter sounded from the other room. They spoke clearly, not bothering to lower their volume as Illumi, Grandfather Zeno, and Milluki discussed:

“What the hell will we do with dumbass Kil?” Milluki complained. 

“He cannot stay with me,” Grandfather said.

“I don’t want him, either!” Milluki loudly protested back. 

Illumi sighed. “This is bothersome and disruptive. We should just house him in a residential ward like Alluka.”

“He wasn’t abused, so he wouldn’t stay long enough, anyway. I’m an old man,” Zeno grumbled, “I cannot afford for him to return with COVID. It would only be more disruptive.” 

“That is true,” Illumi agreed. “Fine, I suppose this duty falls upon me.” 

That seemed to be the end of the conversation, and footsteps grew louder as they approached the living room. 

“Come along, Kil.”

“Okay.”

I was taken to one of Illumi’s numerous bedrooms. 

He opened the door for me. “Step inside, Kil.”

I did, but my heart stopped upon seeing the room. 

It was empty. Nothing but a floor mattress and a very thick blanket was inside. It was dark and chilly, not a single window and no bulb inside the ceiling light. 

I whipped around. “Wait-!”

And then the door slammed shut, the clicking of the lock turning. 

“Wait…” I put a hand on the door and slid down it. “Don’t leave me here!”

The voice finally had awoken from its nap, laughing in a taunting manner, “you’re alone now, aren’t you? Didn’t you want to be alone?”

I banged the door frantically. “Wait! Don’t leave me alone!” 

“It’s your duty, Killua. You said you wouldn’t run away.”

My cries for help remained unanswered just like every. Other. Time. 

I gave up. 

I’m weak, after all. 

I thought my suicide attempt was rock bottom, but for the first time, I was certain that in fact this was truly it. 

I was alone in an empty room with absolutely no way of escape. Dying by my own hands was not an option. I was denied such simple control. 

The voices grew louder, the itch remained unquenchable; my hope was no longer. 

There was no light for hope. There was no Gon.

Stage five: true loneliness.

I would not leave that room for six days, and I would emerge an entirely different person. 

Chapter Text

I took a deep breath, letting the oxygen expand my lunges and then release warm air through my mouth. Breathing is a part of living, and right now, living didn’t feel so bad. Breathing like this was releasing the burdens that weighed those lunges for so long. 

It was a breath of relief. A real one.

I looked around the room to see the members of Alateen all staring with wide eyes, and then a girl with braided red hair smiled at me. Her cheeks that were full of freckles were blushed while tears dripped down past her dimples. “It’s nice to truly meet you, Killua.”

Embarrassment made my face warm. “Y-yeah.” I scratched my neck sheepishly. “Thanks for listening, I guess.”

“I hope you will come again, Killua,” the blonde woman, the supervisor, said.

I nodded. “I will. I mean, it’s only fair I hear everyone else's' stories, too.”

The meeting wrapped up from there, and everyone rose from their seats while saying goodbye to one another. Reluctantly, I did the same.

Where will I go after this?

It was Grandfather’s idea to bring me to this meeting.

I haven't seen my mother since…

Suddenly, I noticed the girl with braided hair standing in front of me, and before I could open my mouth to question it, I was wrapped into a warm embrace. She nuzzled her nose in my chest while I awkwardly patted her head, yet it also felt sort of relieving. It reminded me of Alluka.

“Thank you, Killua,” she sobbed and then peered up at me with glossy eyes. “I’ve always been too scared to open up like that. I t-think,” she hiccuped, “I think I’m done running away. I now know I’m no longer alone.” 

Like she snapped into reality of her sudden actions, she straightened up and took a stiff step back. “Sorry. That was weird.”

I shook my head. “Don’t be. You remind me of my younger sister, Alluka.”

She laughed. “I know I look young, but I’m actually nineteen.”

“You’re older than me? What’s your name?”

“Aha, I guess I never introduced myself. I’m Noko Freecss. I’ve been going here for about three months or so, but I’ve never really talked during the meetings.”

My mouth fell agape. “Freecss!?!”

She tilted her head in confusion.

“You don’t happen to know Gon Freecss, do you?”

“Y-yeah… He’s my younger brother. Do you know him?”

Oh my god. She’s Gon’s missing older sister!

My brain still failed to wrap around this news, and I stayed there buffering while she picked up my hand and placed a slip of paper in it. “This is my number. I hope we can become good friends.” She began walking away. “See you later, Killua.”

“Wait!”

Should I tell her?

“Hm?”

I decided against it. 

It would be better to talk to Gon, first. 

“Sorry, nevermind. I’ll talk about it later.”

“Okay.”  She paused before smiling. “You know, you should write a book.”

“A book?”

She hummed. “Your story helped me quite a lot. It could help others, too.”

“Yeah… I’ll think about it.”

She nodded before turning around and waving goodbye.

A book, huh?

…

That’s not a bad idea.

And I did decide to write a book. I’m writing it currently while moonlight beams through large glass windows. Transparent curtains are gently swaying from the wind of the air conditioner, and Alluka is sleeping on my lap, snuggled in a fuzzy blanket. 

The couch is soft in my home. It’s directly in front of the piano. 

He is playing Arabesque No.1 by Debussy in front of me, the sound reminding me of the watercolor painting I’d stare at in my room while he played piano over the phone for me in our shared, cruel past. He’d always play Debussy when I had trouble falling asleep because he really was always there looking after me like that. 

Now, we were both looking out for Alluka as she dreamed away with our black cat, Nanika, curled on top of her.

She didn’t smile often anymore, but she still smiled in her dreams. 

I hope… 

My fingers thread through her silky black hair.

I hope that dream will come true just as this one did for me. 

That’s what life was: just one big dream. 

In some cases, it’s a nightmare. 

When I was locked in that room, the entire time I thought nothing but of what I’d do when it opened. At first, I thought through pure resentment. My mind shifted back and forth between: I’m going to hurt them like they did me, I’m going to kill them, stab them, shoot them, choke them… 

And my fingers would twitch at each idea. 

I'm already a bad person , I thought as the Alluka’s screams haunted me, as the crack of Mother’s back haunted me, as the silence of Gon haunted me. 

It doesn’t matter what I do if I’m a bad person.

A bad person could kill someone. 

But then the door opened to the outside world. Light shone through the darkness of the solitary room with Grandfather holding the door knob. 

I didn’t think of any of those things as I raced out. 

It was like taking a fresh breath of air, cleaner than the air of the vast field of bluebonnets that I rolled down as a child. 

Warmth made me realize that I’m alive while my skin absorbed the sunlight through the windows. Warmth felt so, so nice. 

I thought I would kill someone, but when I stepped out, the only feeling that coursed through me was relief. 

I hit rock bottom, I realized while welcoming tears slipped down my cheeks, it only gets better from here. 

I wielded no resentment towards anyone. 

I’m free, I’m free, I’m finally free.

Yet…

As happy as I was, I knew I had changed entirely. 

In the depths of my mind, I knew I would now fear loneliness more than death. I knew that voice would speak again if times get rough. 

But… I also knew I could again be happy. I accepted who I was: I’m a bad person, but I’m also a good person. I’m a selfish person, but I’m also a selfless person. 

I wielded no resentment towards anyone, but I knew the world would get better because I would never be locked in that room with only me and myself again.

I wielded no resentment towards anyone, and it won’t be resentment that goes through my mind as I watch a life leave this world and leave me behind, and it won’t be resentment that goes through my mind as I end that life if they try to lock me up again. 

I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m so happy. 

Air, sunlight, noise.

I felt nothing and everything at the same time— like I was floating throughout the heavens amidst pink and golden clouds. 

I stepped out of that cold room, and I never returned. 

It would be months before things actually get better, but I didn’t mind because I knew they wouldn’t get worse. That internal battle between the fear of the present and the fear of what’s yet to become was all but a distant memory. 

It really didn’t matter how bad the things were that did happen. I’d probably feel this way if I had a worse childhood, and I’d probably feel this way if I had a better childhood. 

We all face different things, but we all deal with sadness, fear, and loneliness. 

We all have moments of happiness and feelings of love towards someone or something whether they are of the past or current. 

I would later study these emotions in college. I would later strive to bring hope to others as some tried to bring hope for me. 

But I held on tight until things got better, and Gon’s crumpled note was taped to the back of my cell phone: it could be months, years, decades even, but it’s only time.

And only time it was. 

It was only time until I received a letter of Gon’s adventures away from home, working towards building a future together as our own family. 

It was only time until I could visit Alluka again in the residential ward as she worked her hardest to get out. 

It was only time until my final summer break rolled around the corner. 

I was seventeen, once again on a bus that was taking me to a place I once viewed as a prison but later viewed as a heaven. 

This time, Alluka was with me, too. She was bouncing all over the place excitedly while we drove further and further from the city and more towards the woods where we would be spending two whole months. 

I knew he would be there. In fact, I knew it would be just like it was before. Our same counselors, Kurapika and Leorio, were bickering the entire bus ride over just like last time. 

Gon and I would be assistant counselors now that we were almost adults. We would be saving that money to move out together and for it to be like summer camp always. 

The bus would park in the vacant dirt clearing, and the doors would open to that slimy, humid air of the forest. 

I would amble out down the steps and take a foot onto the plush mud like every other kid. Alluka would run into the clearing to meet with her girlfriend that she grew close to in the ward— now separated by distance. 

And lastly, nobody even knows. 

Nobody knew the story of me, Killua Zoldyck, and Gon Freecss while I made my way to my assigned cabin to set my luggage down. 

Now that I was a counselor, I would share a cabin with only one other person, and I immediately knew who that person was when I saw a bright green backpack with a bunch of pine needles stuck to it on the bed next to mine. 

A smile curled my lips. 

I exited the cabin and took a long stretch on the porch. 

That dumbass has to be somewhere around here. 

I shielded my eyes with the palm of my hand while I looked up and around the trees. I was looking for an oddly shaped squirrel that was taller than me with hair that looked like the ferns by the lake. 

I spotted that squirrel, and that squirrel seemed to have spotted me, too.

“KILLLLUAAAAAAAA!!!”

Gon leaped from a tree with an oof and began sprinting towards me. I prepared myself for one of his outrageous hugs, but I was still knocked over. 

We both fell onto the leafy ground, and our skin stuck together in the heat. His arms were tightly wrapped around my body— not too tightly to feel uncomfortable but not loose enough to escape. His hair tickled my face as I laughed and peeled a pinecone that was stuck in his hair. 

“I missed you so much, Killua!” He sobbed. 

“I missed you too, Gon.”

“Let’s never leave each other again!”

“Totally. It’s been way too long.”

…

“Will you sing for me?”

“Nope.”

The laugh in his chest vibrated against me. “That’s okay. It’s sort of fun to keep asking.” He lifted himself off of me and rose to a stand, wiping the dirt smudged on his knees and elbows. 

“Masochist.” I let out a breathless laugh, doing the same. 

We stared at each other for a moment while the trees swayed above us, while birds sang and children played. None of that really mattered as we stood feet apart from one another. 

A single tear slipped down Gon’s cheeks, and almost on cue, the same happened for me. 

“You see, Killua? I knew we could be together again.”

Swallowing the intense emotion stuck in my throat, I nodded, also taking the palm of my hand to quickly wipe the stupid tears off my face. 

But they kept coming. 

More and more tears watered the ground beneath me while the forest floor was tinted blue from the shadows of hundreds of bluebonnets. 

Even though I felt so different from everyone, even though my touch tainted such a beautiful flower, I knew with Gon in front of me, I knew this feeling swelling in my chest— I knew this was love. And not just one-sided love. Love with comfort and promise of being loved just as much in return. 

I’m loved in this world. 

I realized for the first time. 

I’m worth being loved. 

Gon let me cry, probably because he was crying, too. He wrapped me into a calm, gentle embrace while I melted into him. 

“Thank you,” I murmured over and over again against his chest. 

Thank you, Gon, for changing my life. 

☆♫¸¸ 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓷𝓭¸¸♫☆