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Chapter Text

Gon desperately wishes he had something better to wear.

The dark, straight-legged pants and high collared white shirt are the absolute nicest clothes he owns, but while they may have passed for formal attire on Whale Island, here in the heart of the kingdom, he’s painfully aware of their simplicity.  Gon had never before seen clothes like he has on his journey to the palace, and he couldn’t help but stare at the rich, vibrant colors and ornate embroidery and sumptuous fabrics.  He knew it before travelling through the kingdom, but now the truth is inescapable--he comes from humble means in a remote fishing village, and among the cosmopolitan residents of the capital city, he is enormously, incomprehensibly out of his depth.

His horse tosses her head with a sharp huff, and Gon reaches down to stroke her neck reassuringly.  Over the course of the journey, she’s proven herself a particularly astute animal, and no doubt she senses his nerves.  They’re nearly at the palace gates now--Gon can just catch a glimpse of the high stone wall at the top of the hill--and he’s only gotten more uneasy with every mile they travelled.  What business does someone like him have working in the royal palace, and for the crown prince of Padokea, no less?

Gon urges his horse forward a bit faster--it’s like removing a bandage; better to get it over with quickly than sit and wallow in the discomfort. As they crest the hill, the palace at last comes into full view, and Gon gasps in spite of himself.  He’s never seen a building like this before--with such breathtaking, complicated architecture and so completely and utterly enormous.  It’s equal parts beautiful and terrifying, like a tiger in the wild, and no doubt he’s going to get lost in the halls sooner rather than later.  Would asking for a map be an odd request?

“Gon!” 

It’s a blessedly familiar voice that calls out as Gon nears the gate.

“Kurapika!” Gon returns, raising his hand to wave high above his head.  “Hi!”

At least Gon has one friend here, and that’s something.  And a powerful one, at that.  Although he doesn’t look it, what with his slight frame and delicate features, Kurapika is the captain of the royal guard.  He’s the one who scouted Gon for this position, and from the moment they met, they’ve gotten on like a house on fire.  Gon clings to that--at least there’s someone in the palace, someone with status and power, who he can trust to be on his side.

Once he’s reached the gate, Gon dismounts his horse smoothly and extends his hand towards Kurapika, the other still holding the reins.  For a moment, he considers an embrace, but he isn’t sure of the customs here and thinks it better to err on the side of formality.

“You’re looking well,” Gon says as Kurapika clasps his hand.  It’s true--the deep burgundy uniform of the royal guard suits him, and the gold accents match his light hair.  He looks so elegant and sophisticated, and it only makes Gon’s simple clothes feel all the more inadequate.

“It’s good to see you,” Kurapika says.  “The journey wasn’t too demanding?”

Gon nods.

“Smooth sailing from the moment I left home.  My horse is probably far more exhausted than I am right now, to be honest.  Can I take her somewhere with some food and water?  She deserves a rest after all that hard work.”

Kurapika smiles.  It’s slight--he isn’t one for wide, exuberant grins--but it’s warm nonetheless.

“I’ll see to it the moment I’ve delivered you to the prince.  She can stay here for now.”

Kurapika walks her to a nearby post and clips a rope to her bridle to keep her tethered, Gon following close behind.  Just the words “the prince” are enough to make that sick knot of dread clench in his stomach again.  Everyone in the kingdom has heard the stories of the Zoldyck family--stories of brutal, bloody torture and swift, untraceable assassinations.  Gon has no doubt he’s up to the physical task of serving as the prince’s personal guard, but what if he uses the wrong fork at dinner and they decide to behead him for it?

“Follow me inside,” Kurapika says, striding down the stone path through the immaculately manicured gardens.  Gon follows immediately, not wanting to end up separated from Kurapika.  He feels like a shy child in the schoolyard, clinging desperately to the only friend he has.

The doors to the palace are enormous, and manned by a woman in the same uniform Kurapika’s wearing, who nods to them politely as she allows them inside.  The door swings wide, opening into a massive foyer.  This is it, then, Gon thinks, stepping across the threshold.  No going back now.

Gon can see that the palace is, objectively, beautiful, what with the high, vaulted ceilings, and the massive chandelier above their heads, and the gleaming marble floors, but it only serves to make him feel impossibly small.  The foyer alone could easily fit his entire house back on Whale Island with room to spare, and he would guess a single painting on the wall costs more than his Aunt Mito makes in a year.  With every step into the palace, he feels himself shrinking lower and lower, until he stands hardly a foot tall.  

“The throne room isn’t far,” Kurapika says, as he strides down the hall, his boots clicking sharply against the floor.  “If I may give you a word of advice before I show you in.”

“Please,” Gon says, sounding far more desperate than he intended.  “Anything at all would be helpful.”

“The prince isn’t what he first seems.  He can appear cold and rude when you meet him, but beneath that facade, his heart is impossibly pure.  I could be executed for saying it, but much of the staff considers our true loyalties to lie far more with him than with the king and queen.  What I’m meaning to say is that you shouldn’t judge him too quickly, okay?”

Gon’s steps falter for a moment, scuffling audibly against the floor.

“Kurapika,” he says slowly. “I wouldn’t dare pass any judgment on the prince at all.  I am well aware of my standing and know that holding such an opinion wouldn’t be my place.”

Inexplicably, Kurapika smiles and raises his eyebrows in an expression that could only be described as amusement.

“Well, this will certainly be very interesting.”

Gon’s just about to ask what exactly he means by that when they come to a sudden stop.  The door in front of them is nearly as large and ornate as the one to the palace itself, so this has to be the throne room.  Something cold and heavy plunges deep into Gon’s stomach.

“Alright, I’ll announce you and then you’ll walk in.  When you’re about three-quarters of the way into the room, stop and fall to one knee and then wait for someone to address you.”

Gon nods, clenching his hands tight to try to conceal the shaking.

“It’ll be fine,” Kurapika says gently, reaching his hand out and giving Gon’s shoulder a squeeze.  “You’re the best fighter I found in the whole kingdom.  You’re going to do great.”

Gon lets out a slow, shuddery breath.  The encouragement doesn’t fully allay his fears, but it does help.  He’s qualified to serve as a guard, at the very least, even if he’s a total stranger to the world of royalty.

Kurapika gives Gon a final squeeze before grasping the large silver door knocker and opening the door wide.  Gon fights the urge to be sick with nerves.

“Presenting to His Majesty, Silva, King of Padokea, Her Majesty, Kikyo, Queen of Padokea, and His Highness, Killua, Crown Prince of Padokea, Gon Freecss of Whale Island.”

The enormous palace has somehow begun to press tighter and tighter on Gon, leaving him crushed and struggling to breathe, but he manages to summon all of his strength and take a slow, deliberate step forward.  And then another, into the throne room.  And then another.

Gon doesn’t dare look directly at the royalty--it could too easily be seen as a sign of disrespect--so he keeps his gaze trained on the ground only a few feet in front of him.  In truth, he probably couldn’t get a good look at them even if he tried, given how his vision has gone tight and dark around the edges.  The small patch of floor slightly ahead of him is largely the limit of what he can see at the moment.  But despite it all, despite the blood rushing ever-louder in his ears and the way his vision is tunneling, he manages to keep walking, a step at a time, his footsteps echoing impossibly loud against the floor, until at last he’s three-quarters of the way into the room.

Immediately, Gon drops to one knee, placing his hands on his thigh and bowing his head.  He desperately hopes they can’t see how badly he’s trembling from their thrones.

Gon isn’t sure how long it is before someone speaks; it feels like entire minutes pass by, listening to nothing but the pounding of his heart and his own ragged breaths, but he can’t trust that estimate.  His sense of time, just like his senses of sight and hearing and equilibrium, has no doubt been wildly distorted.

“You may raise your gaze, Gon Freecss,” a low, sonorous voice says at last.

Gon digs his hands hard into his thigh.  Squeezes his eyes shut tight for a brief moment. Clenches his jaw almost painfully.  Takes a deep, steadying breath.  And then finally, finally lifts his head.

The mere sight of them is overwhelming, three figures seated on enormous, silver thrones atop a small series of steps, gazing down at Gon, bent on one knee on the cold marble floor.  The king is the most intimidating at first glance.  He’s the largest man Gon has ever seen and absolutely all muscle, with long, flowing silver hair and oddly cat-like eyes.  Even if Gon spotted him plainly dressed in a marketplace, the king’s presence is so powerful that Gon would know in an instant he was highborn.  The queen is more inscrutable--her face is covered by a veil, so Gon can’t get a good look at her--but she’s tall and has impeccable posture, radiating the same commanding power as the king, only more elegant and refined.  Seeing them, it’s all Gon can do not to bow his head again, but he digs his fingers tighter into his thigh (he’ll unquestionably have bruises later) and manages to resist.  And at last, he turns his attention to the prince.

The first thing Gon can register about the prince is that he’s beautiful.  Not pretty, not pleasant to look at, but beautiful.  So beautiful it hurts.  The sort of beautiful that punches the breath clean from his lungs so that he can’t help but gasp.  Gon knows he shouldn’t be able to tell the color of the prince’s eyes from this distance, but they’re so large and so vividly, impossibly blue that it’s unmistakable.  His hair is so light, silver bordering on white, and his skin is so fair that he seems almost luminescent, like the glow of a full moon.  It’s a silly comparison, the stuff of an amateur love poem, but there’s just no other way to describe it.  The prince is something undeniably celestial.

The second thing Gon notices about the prince, besides his excruciating beauty, is that he seems unmistakably sad.  He’s resting his head on his hand, propped up against the arm of the throne, and gazing at Gon with a soft, melancholy look in those wide eyes.  Perhaps to some it would appear like nothing more than boredom, but Gon can’t shake the feeling that it goes deeper than that, nestled somewhere far beneath the prince’s ribcage.  He looks oddly small on the throne, and so unbearably lonely.  Perhaps he’s in need of--

No.

The realization is sudden and jarring, jerking Gon back firmly inside his body and holding him there tight.  No.  He isn’t permitted that sort of thing.  He doesn’t get to speculate about the prince’s emotions, he doesn’t get to craft some elaborate narrative of sorrow and loneliness.  Who exactly does he think he is, to dare make such bold and unfounded assumptions?  What right does he have to hold such an opinion of royalty?  He needs to remember his place here, remember exactly where he stands.  And he needs to stop gazing at the prince.  And then he needs to turn back to the king.  There, that’s better.  It was only a split second that he stepped so wildly and recklessly out of line.

“Gon Freecss,” the king says, in that same low, commanding voice.  “As I am sure you are aware, there was a recent attempt made on Prince Killua’s life by a foreign assassin.  While he emerged from this encounter completely unharmed, it has become clear that to ensure his protection, he requires a personal guard.  Starting today, we are entrusting the safety of Killua, the crown prince, to you.  Do you accept this responsibility?”

Gon swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.  He hadn’t anticipated having to speak during the introduction, but it’s likely best to be honest.

“Your Majesty, I will protect him with my life.”

Mercifully, his voice doesn’t shake too badly when he speaks, and the king offers him a small nod of approval.  Gon doesn’t steal a glance at Killua, despite the urge; he can’t trust himself not to make any further inappropriate assumptions based on his reaction.

“You are now a member of the palace, in service to the prince.  Both you and Killua are dismissed.  I expect you to serve him well.”

Gon notices Killua standing from his throne out of the corner of his eye--he still won’t permit himself to look directly at him--before he begins to descend the steps, headed for the door.  Immediately, Gon bows his head again, staring intently down at the floor.  Although he isn’t sure why, it doesn’t seem right to hold his gaze as Killua walks towards him.  His knee is beginning to ache from being pressed against the cold marble, and those bruises on his thigh are undoubtedly going to be a deep purple, but he doesn’t permit himself to stand until Killua has passed him by.  Only then does he get to his feet, bow deeply to the king and queen, and follow Killua, several paces behind, out of the throne room.

They don’t speak as they head down the hall.  Not that Gon expected it, of course; Killua would have no reason to try to start idle conversation with someone like him.  He merely makes sure to follow Killua at a respectful distance, but remains close enough not to lose him in the anfractuous halls of the palace.  He eventually follows Killua up a staircase, and then down a long, wide hallway, before Killua abruptly stops.  Instantly, Gon stills as well.

“You know,” Killua begins, “if I get attacked from the front, you aren’t any use to me following so far behind like that.  Come walk beside me.”

For a moment, Gon doesn’t move, worried he’s somehow misunderstanding Killua’s request.  Surely he couldn’t really be asking Gon to come walk next to him, as if they were two men of equal standing.  But when Killua doesn’t move, when he simply waits, perfectly still, there’s just no other way for Gon to interpret it.  So he quickly comes to stand beside Killua, despite how deeply strange it feels, and the two of them continue down the hall, side-by-side.

“So,” Killua says, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, “you were hired by my parents, then?”

Gon senses something in his tone--some sort of resentment or frustration or disdain--but he doesn’t permit himself to dwell on it.  No doubt his imagination will run away with him like it had in the throne room and he’ll make another assumption that’s above his place.

“I beg your pardon for contradicting you, Your Highness, but it was Kurapika, the captain of the guard, who scouted me.”

“Oh,” Killua says softly. “I guess that’s a different story, then.”

Despite his curiosity, Gon doesn’t ask for any clarification as to what Killua means; he wouldn’t dare question royalty like that.  Instead, he continues down the hall beside Killua in silence.  It still feels unshakably foriegn to be walking next to him like this.

“I’ll be honest with you, Gon,” Killua says suddenly.  “Because I think it’s fair to you.  Your position is nothing more than a formality.  I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of the royal family.  Of the sorts of things we’re capable of.  And I mean that in both the physical sense and the moral one.”

Killua pauses, clearly waiting for Gon to respond.  He considers his words carefully before he does.

“There are rumors in every kingdom, Your Highness, but anyone with an ounce of sense knows better than to believe mere gossip.”

Killua sighs.

“You don’t need to try to be diplomatic about it.  Everything you’ve heard is most likely true.  Honestly, it probably doesn’t even cover the half of it.  The point is that no one actually thinks that I need a guard in order to protect myself.  I mean, how do you think I came out of that assassination attempt unscathed?  But my parents are getting increasingly concerned about the family’s public image, and a crown prince who goes around killing people isn’t exactly the message they want to send.  You’re here so that if I have to handle a situation like that again, we’ve got someone to pin the blame on.  I’m pretty certain I’m a more capable fighter than you, no offense or anything.  So your job is less actually being a guard and more just being nearby enough that we always have a good scapegoat.”

As Killua speaks, Gon’s body goes increasingly heavy with disappointment, until all his limbs are twice their normal weight and something dense and cold sits low in his stomach.  So that’s it, then, he thinks bitterly.  All the trouble that Kurapika went to in order to find the best fighter in the kingdom, all the tests Gon had to pass and times he had to prove himself, was for nothing.  He may as well be an especially realistic training dummy for all the good he’s actually doing.  All this effort, and he’s merely a prop for the royal family, simply a strategy to save face.  He isn’t truly protecting anybody.

But of course he wouldn’t dare even think to say such a thing.

“It’s an honor to serve the royal family in whatever capacity they require,” Gon says instead, doing his utmost to will away the disappointment.  What he said is how he should actually feel, he tells himself sternly, commanding the weights to lift from his stomach and limbs.  It is an honor to serve the royal family, to live in the palace and be of use to the prince, and he’d do well to remember that instead of sulking about how the job didn’t meet his expectations.  It isn’t his place to criticize anything about his position here.  He can’t let himself forget that.

They’ve reached the end of the hall, a small alcove with two doors opposite each other, and Killua comes to a stop.

“I’ll be in here,” he says, gesturing to the right door. “And you’ll be staying in there.” He gestures to the left.  “I’ll need you to meet me here at seven to go to dinner, but until then, you’re welcome to spend your time however you choose.  Make sure you stop by the armory, though, so they can give you a sword.  And there are clothes in your room that you can change into if you want.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Gon bows low as Killua steps inside his room, and then heads into his own.

Gon shouldn’t be disappointed.  His bedroom in the palace is three times the size of his room on Whale Island, with an enormous four-poster bed piled high with pillows and a large window overlooking the gardens.  The clothes he finds in the wardrobe are the nicest he’s ever owned, likely the nicest he’s ever seen up-close.  The salary Kurapika said he’ll receive for the position is enough to keep his family back home well-fed and comfortable.  There isn’t any reason for him to feel let down.

So what if he’s nothing more than a prop?  So what if Killua seems cold and uninterested in him?  Did he really expect the crown prince would give someone like him so much as a second thought?  Did he think that he, without even a drop of noble blood, would become fast friends with a person of Killua’s station?  If he built up those impossible hopes in his head, then it’s his fault if he’s disappointed when they aren’t met.  He knows better than to believe in those sorts of childish fairytales.

It’s an honor to serve the royal family.  It’s an honor to live in the palace.  It is.  And he’ll remind himself of those facts sternly until they finally begin to sink in.

Gon’s never been particularly strict about punctuality, but he ensures he’s waiting in the alcove at ten minutes to seven.  He isn’t going to be late to escort the prince on his first day.

The sword now mounted at his hip reassures him, even if it’s only for show.  It’s the finest weapon he’s ever wielded, impeccably balanced and sharp enough to cut paper, and it’s his for as long as he works in the palace.  He ran through a few basic drills in an empty spot on the palace grounds, and for the first time since he arrived, he began to feel like himself again.

The clothes Gon’s wearing, however, are another matter entirely.  They’re beautiful--a green jacket with elaborate gold trim and a pair of perfectly pressed black pants--and that’s precisely the problem.  Gon’s never worn anything nearly this nice before, and he can’t shake the worry that he’s going to spill a drink down the front of his jacket or trip and tear a hole in the knee of his pants.  Occasionally getting dressed up for a festival or holiday back home was one thing--he’d do his utmost to maintain his clothes for as long as he had to wear them, and then change out of them the moment he had the chance--but here in the palace, he’s going to wear this sort of thing every day.  He’ll constantly have to worry about whether his shirt is getting wrinkled from how he’s sitting or if he’s getting mud on the hems of his pants walking across the grounds.  It seems utterly exhausting.

At exactly seven o’clock, the door to Killua’s room opens and he joins Gon in the hallway.  Just looking at him, he’d guess that Killua has never had to worry about accidentally dragging his sleeve through his soup or mismatching the buttons on his shirt.  No, Killua’s clothes sit on his body with a certain obedience, as if they, too, knew better than to misbehave for royalty.  The rich blue of his shirt seems to be making a conscious effort to bring out his eyes, and his dark pants appear to swish with entirely deliberate grace.  That’s what it means to be highborn, Gon supposes.  Even your clothes have to respect you.

“Ready for dinner?” Killua asks.  “I’ll show you the dining room where I usually eat.  The palace seems a little overwhelming at first, but in a week or two, you’ll know your way around perfectly.”

The way Killua is speaking to him is so odd; there’s no superiority, no direct, commanding tone.  He seems, for lack of a better word, friendly, although Gon doesn’t have the first idea why.

“I am ready whenever you are, Your Highness,” Gon says, bowing his head slightly.  Maybe Killua can get away with being companionable--he’s royalty, after all--but Gon knows better than to try it himself.

The walk to the dining room leaves Gon seriously doubting Killua’s claims that he’ll know his way around in no time.  There are so many hallways, so many turns, so many staircases.  Gon never struggled with finding his way in the wilderness, but a natural landscape makes a sort of intuitive sense.  This man-made palace follows no such logic.

By the time they reach the dining room, Gon doesn’t even know where in the palace they are.  The north side?  The south?  The second floor?  Maybe the third?  Without Killua as a guide, he’d be hopelessly lost.  That map is becoming an increasingly appealing idea.

This dining room is more modest than Gon had been expecting--it likely isn’t somewhere the Zoldycks entertain guests--but the table is still made of a rich, gleaming wood and the dishes are finer than any china Gon’s ever seen.  Killua sits at one of the chairs, opening the lid of two of the large serving dishes and scooping rice and curry onto his plate, and Gon stations himself at the door, hand resting on his sword.  Maybe Killua doesn’t truly need him standing guard, but he wants at least to pretend to do his job.

Strangely, Killua doesn’t begin eating once he’s sitting down.  He doesn’t even lift his spoon.  Gon stares straight ahead, standing at attention like he’s supposed to, but he catches a glimpse of Killua looking at him out of the corner of his eyes.

“Gon,” he says slowly, “what exactly are you doing?”

Gon blinks.  It isn’t obvious?

“Standing guard, Your Highness.”

“Can’t you see that there are two places set?” Killua asks.  “Come sit down and eat.”

For the second time today, Gon is certain he’s misunderstanding something.  Walking beside Killua was one thing--strange, certainly, but not completely unheard of--but sharing a meal with him is another matter entirely.  That’s the sort of thing royalty would only do with someone deserving; if not a true equal, then at least with some sort of nobility.  Gon is as lowborn as they come; eating dinner in the prince’s company is completely and utterly out of the question.

“Now, Your Highness?” Gon asks, hoping Killua will at least begin to clarify something.

“Yes, now,” Killua says, like Gon had just said something impossibly stupid.

For just a moment, Gon hesitates.  He can’t refuse a direct order from the prince, but he also can’t actually sit down and eat with him.  Regardless of the choice he makes, he’ll be stepping far, far out of line.

“Gon, you’re making me wait and I’m hungry and the food’s going to get cold.”

Gon feels the inexplicable urge to laugh.  Not only has Killua invited Gon to have dinner with him, but he’s actually waiting to start eating until Gon sits down?  The notion is so absurd that it’s actually funny.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Gon says finally.

Despite the fact that the whole situation feels like a surreal practical joke, he does as Killua asks and joins him at the table, resting his sword on the floor beside his chair.  He hesitates for a moment, and then, when Killua still doesn’t begin eating, tentatively scoops some of the rice and curry onto his plate, half-expecting to be scolded for doing so.  He’s still certain that there must be some sort of catch to this arrangement.

But Killua doesn’t scold him.  He merely nods approvingly, and finally takes a bite of curry.  He truly was waiting for Gon to come sit down, as strange as it may be.

But the moment after Killua takes his first bite, his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush.  He swallows quickly and then begins to cough, frantically reaching for the pitcher of water on the table and pouring himself a glass, downing half of it in one go before putting it back on the table with more force than strictly necessary.

“I told the cooks to ease up on the spice,” he mutters bitterly, scooping another bite, this one consisting overwhelmingly of rice with only the smallest amount of curry.

And all at once, something just comes over Gon.  It’s that stupid, competitive mood he gets into sometimes, the one that makes him want to poke and prod and tease simply for the fun of it.  The cuisine of Whale Island has always been liberal with spices and seasonings, and Gon can’t help but imagine that Killua is probably being a bit of a baby about the curry.  It couldn’t possibly be as hot as Killua is acting like it is, and something about watching him cough and splutter strikes Gon as hilarious.

So, without even stopping to think about what he’s doing, acting solely on that competitive, playful instinct, Gon makes deliberate eye contact with Killua, scoops up a large spoonful of curry, and takes a bite.  Gon was right; it isn’t nearly as hot as Killua’s reaction would suggest.  There’s hardly a kick to it at all, and that just makes the entire situation all the funnier, so Gon holds Killua’s gaze as he chews and swallows, and then places his spoon back down on his plate, cocking his head with an enormously self-satisfied smirk.

Instantly, Gon is drenched in ice cold water.  That’s how it feels, at least, the way his whole body goes frigid and tense, stomach clenching so hard he wants to be sick.  What came over him just now?  What could he possibly have been thinking, to engage in such a blatant show of disrespect?  He’d been so careful since he arrived at the palace, but the moment he lets his guard down, the second he forgets his place, he actually tries to poke fun at the crown prince.  He’ll be lucky to keep his job after this, lucky if he manages to emerge without suffering the appropriate consequences.

Gon immediately bows his head, not that it’ll do him any good now, and places his hands on his lap, clenching them tight into fists, and waits.  Waits for Killua to scold him or shout at him or fire him on the spot.

But Killua doesn’t scold.  He doesn’t shout.  He doesn’t raise his voice at all.

No, instead, he laughs.

Bewildered, Gon lifts his head, hoping something about Killua’s expression will help him to understand what’s going on here.  Killua’s has his head propped up on one hand, looking at Gon with a smile and something bright and interested in his eyes.

“Well then,” he says, his tone warm and amused.  “Perhaps you’re more interesting than I first thought.”

Gon bows his head again, face still burning in shame.

“I’m honored you’d bestow such a compliment on me, Your Highness,” he says softly.

See? Gon tells himself fiercely, clenching his fists again.  This is how you’re supposed to act.  This is how you’re supposed to talk to him.  It doesn’t matter if the crown prince is pretty or if he lets you eat at the table with him; he’s still royalty.  And you are the lowest of the lowborn.   You need to remember that fact and not get ahead of yourself.  You need to remember your place.

Gon does lift his head eventually, but he keeps his gaze lowered, not allowing himself to look directly at Killua for the remainder of the meal.  Remember your place , he tells himself sternly, over and over again.  Remember who he is and who you are and don’t make such an idiotic mistake again.  There’s no guarantee you’ll get off so easily twice.  Not with royalty.  Not with someone like him.

Chapter Text

“I just don’t know how he can actually expect me to believe that cutting the funds we’re putting towards education in half could possibly be ‘for the good of the kingdom,’” Killua grumbles, scuffing his boot against the floor as he and Gon leave yet another meeting.  “What’s the point of having royal advisers if they only ever have bad ideas?”

“I don’t know, Your Highness,” Gon replies, doing his best to repress a smile.  He’s gotten a chance to watch Killua perform his duties as the crown prince up close over the past few days, and if Gon’s learned anything, it’s that the quickest way to make him angry is to suggest any law or policy that might adversely affect the subjects of Padokea.  It’s a bit baffling to Gon, actually, how single-minded Killua has proven himself to be when it comes to ruling the kingdom.  He cares about one thing, and one thing alone--how his decisions will affect the common person.  Anything else--the feasibility of a certain initiative, the cost to the crown--is only ever a secondary consideration at best.  Although Gon may be out of line to admit it, it’s undeniably charming to see how fiercely he advocates on behalf of his subjects.

“Having an educated population isn’t an act of charity,” Killua continues.  “I don’t know why it’s so hard to understand that.  It benefits all of us if the people of the kingdom--”

But Killua’s explanation is abruptly cut short by a high-pitched shriek from the other end of the hall.  A small, dark-haired figure is suddenly careening towards the two of them at a full-out sprint, appearing to be aiming directly at Killua.  Gon’s heart leaps into his throat.  He hasn’t forgotten what Killua said about his position merely being formality, but the sight of someone charging headfirst at the crown prince he’s sworn to protect is enough to overwhelm all logic and rationality, leaving him to act on nothing but instinct.  And so in an instant, Gon’s drawn his sword and put himself in front of Killua, blocking the assailant’s path.  He meant what he said in the throne room--he’ll protect Killua no matter what, even if it costs him his life.

The figure skids to a halt in front of Gon, blinking up at him with eyes nearly as wide and deeply blue as Killua’s.  She’s just a young girl, Gon realizes suddenly.  A teenager, most likely.  And while Gon knows better than to put all of his trust in first impressions, the open, gentle curiosity in her expression makes him seriously doubt his initial assumption that she meant to do Killua harm.  He swallows, his throat suddenly tight with panic.  It’s looking very possible that he overreacted and drew his sword on an innocent girl.

“Gon,” Killua sighs, clearly exasperated.  “That’s my baby sister, not a foreign assassin.”

Sister?  Gon’s stomach plunges so fast and hard it makes him feel sick.  He didn’t just draw his sword on an innocent person, then; he drew his sword on an innocent princess .

Immediately, Gon sheaths his sword, falls to one knee, and bows his head, hardly daring to breathe.  There will undoubtedly be consequences for this; drawing his sword on royalty could be viewed as treason, and that’s punishable by death.  If they don’t kill him, he’ll certainly have to endure some sort of punishment for his mistake, and knowing the Zoldyck family, it’ll be bloody and prolonged and agonizing.  Gon squeezes his eyes shut tight.  He’s always so reckless like this, ready to jump into action without a second thought.  And now it’s finally catching up with him.  Gods, how could he be such an idiot?  Just the smallest chance that harm might come to Killua was enough to overwhelm his reason entirely.

“Your Highness, forgive me,” Gon says softly.  He isn’t sure if speaking before he’s spoken to will make things worse, but he can’t stop himself from apologizing.  “My actions towards you were completely inexcusable.  In a hundred lifetimes, I couldn’t be sorry enough.”

Gon keeps his eyes shut and digs his fingers hard into his thigh.  Those bruises from the other day were just beginning to fade, but no doubt they’ll return darker and larger than before.

“Oh, none of that,” the princess says, her tone strangely warm.  “Come on and stand up.”

Slowly and extremely hesitantly, Gon opens his eyes and gets to his feet, trembling so hard that it takes him two tries before he manages it.  Even standing, he keeps his head bowed, looking hard at the floor and clenching his fists at his sides.

“No, it’s alright,” the princess says gently.  “You can lift your head.”

Gon does as he’s told, slowly raising his gaze to look the princess in the eye.  He should’ve realized she was Killua’s sister immediately; the resemblance is striking now that he knows to look for it.  Her hair is dark where Killua’s is light, but she has the same wide, blue eyes as Killua, the same long eyelashes, the same delicate nose.  And, if her smile and the warmth in her eyes are anything to go by, the same unexplainable kindness.

“I’m Alluka,” she says, extending her hand.  “Thank you for looking after my brother so well.  I’m glad to know he’s got someone like you to protect him.”

For a moment Gon merely looks at Alluka’s outstretched hand.  It’s held out straight, as if she means for him to shake it, like the two of them were equals.  That couldn’t possibly be right, could it?  A princess wouldn’t shake hands with someone like him.  But Alluka simply stands there, hand extended towards Gon, looking up at him expectantly.  She must mean it, then, however odd a gesture for someone of her station.  So slowly, giving her every chance to refuse, Gon reaches out and takes her hand.

“Your Highness, I’m Gon Freecss.  It’s an honor to meet you.”

Alluka shakes her head.

“No, no, none of that ‘Your Highness’ business.  I told you--it’s Alluka.”

“Permit me to say Princess Alluka, at least,” Gon says.  “I couldn’t bear to address you only by your given name.”

Alluka smiles.

“If you insist, I suppose that’s fine.”

From behind them, Killua sighs dramatically.

“Okay, Gon, enough with the charm.  Get out of the way so I can hug my sister.”

Gon swiftly steps to the side, bowing his head slightly as he does, and Killua doesn’t hesitate for a moment before scooping Alluka up into his arms, one hand braced beneath her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, and pressing a kiss to her cheek.  All at once, Killua looks lighter, as if an enormous weight has been lifted from his shoulders.  His eyes sparkle as he sets her back down again, keeping an arm wrapped around her shoulders even as she’s standing.  Gon can’t help but smile--he’s never seen Killua happier than he is right now.

“You’re right, Big Brother,” Alluka says with a smirk.  “Gon is certainly very charming.”

Abruptly and inexplicably, Killua goes red.

“Alluka,” he mutters, the tips of his ears beginning to flush as well.  “Cut that out.”

Alluka merely laughs.

“Would His Highness grace me with his presence for dinner tonight?” she asks.  “I missed you a lot for the week I was gone.  And Gon, you’re invited too, of course.”

“We’ll be there,” Killua replies.  “I’m training with Bisky at eight, so six-thirty should be perfect.”

Alluka nods.

“And now, unfortunately, Gon and I have to go endure another hour of the royal advisers competing to see who can come up with the worst proposal for how to allocate the kingdom’s budget.  If we somehow manage to survive all these meetings, we’ll see you at six-thirty.”

He gives Alluka a squeeze and presses a kiss to her hair before finally releasing her.

“See you then!” Alluka calls as the two of them head down the hall.  “It was great to meet you, Gon!”

Gon turns back towards her and bows his head.

“It was an honor, Princess.”

Alluka grins and waves her hand high above her head at the two of them.

“She’s the best, isn’t she?” Killua says as he and Gon round the corner.  There’s something strange in his tone, something tense and downcast that’s at odds with his words and the obvious warmth of their relationship, but Gon knows better than to question Killua unprompted.

“She’s wonderful, Your Highness.”

Killua smiles, but it’s strained around the edges and doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  Gon firmly swallows down his questions; if there’s something amiss with Alluka, Killua will tell Gon when he sees fit.  It isn’t Gon’s place to pry into the personal affairs of royalty.  He knows that--he does--but he can’t stop himself from worrying.

Dinner with Killua and Alluka ends up entirely unlike Gon had imagined it would be.  He’d pictured the three of them sitting with perfect posture, scrupulously minding their table manners as they made quiet, polite conversation.  He hadn’t predicted that Killua and Alluka would make him laugh until his sides ached.  Or that Alluka would do her utmost to share embarrassing stories about Killua and that Killua would nearly start shouting in an attempt to drown her out.  Or that Alluka would ask for details about life on Whale Island, and listen with genuine interest when Gon answered.  In short, he hadn’t expected the dinner to be so fun .  It’s not that Gon forgets himself entirely, not that he ignores the fact that he’s dining with royalty and had to observe certain customs, but he can’t help but genuinely enjoy their meal.

And Gon also can’t help but enjoy watching Killua interact with Alluka.  She brings out a part of him Gon’s only caught glimpses of before--a warm, affectionate, joyful side that’s downright infectious, leaving Gon unable to resist smiling and laughing along as well.  He knows it isn’t his place to think it, but he’s glad Killua has someone in the palace who makes that palpable ache of loneliness ease a little.

“And then,” Alluka says, regaling Gon with yet another story of Killua’s youth, “he bumped into one of the guards, and the steamed buns he’d stolen all came tumbling out from his pockets.  And he just stood there for a second, looking up at her with a blank expression, and you’ll never guess what he said next.”

“Oh, would you look at the time?” Killua interrupts loudly.  “I’ve got to go meet Bisky.  Looks like we all have to leave right now.”

Alluka pouts.

“But Big Brother, I was just getting to the best part of the story.”

But Killua is already out of his chair and pulling Alluka’s back from the table, nodding towards Gon to stand as well.

“I guess we’ll just never know the conclusion,” Killua says, ushering Alluka out of the dining room with Gon following close behind.  “A terrible tragedy.”

“I’ll tell you another time, Gon,” Alluka stage-whispers, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye.

Killua pulls Alluka close and ruffles her hair.

“You are such a pain, you know that?” he says, but he’s grinning broadly and his tone is undeniably fond. “Gon, you’ve got the evening to yourself until ten.  Do your best not to draw your sword on the nobility or anything.”

For a moment, Gon thinks he’s being scolded, but Killua’s got the same grin as when he was talking to Alluka, as if he were teasing him too.  Something funny and warm flips around his stomach at the thought, at Killua treating him with such familiarity, but Gon knows better than to try to tease back.  Instead, he merely bows his head in acknowledgement.

“I’ll walk you back to your room, okay?” Killua says to Alluka.  “See you later, Gon!”

“See you tonight, Your Highness.”

And with that, Killua and Alluka head down the hall together, Killua’s arm still slung around her shoulders.

With the night to himself, Gon supposes he’ll go visit the gardens.  He’s heard that they’re beautiful, and even in the dark, he’d like to walk along the path, breathe in the scent of the flowers and catch their petals gleaming in the moonlight.  Finding his way around the palace is still an ongoing struggle, but he’s fairly certain he can make it to the door from the dining room.

He knows he first has to head to the left, and then turn right, and then right again, and then down the staircase.  He hesitates at the base of the stairs--this is where his memory gets a bit fuzzy.  He’s either supposed to go straight or turn left, but the hallways both look almost identical, so it’s difficult to find any familiar landmarks.  Perhaps he should just take a guess and see what--

“Gon Freecss?”

It’s a low voice that interrupts his musings, and a tall man wearing small, round glasses and a deep navy jacket steps out of the shadows from beneath the stairs.  There’s something undeniably menacing in his gaze as he looks down at Gon, and given that his clothes appear far nicer than Gon’s, he’s clearly someone important in the palace.  Gon needs to tread carefully.

“Sir?” Gon replies.

“I’d like to discuss something with you, if you don’t mind.  Could you step over here?”

Despite the way it’s phrased, something in the man’s tone makes it clear that he isn’t making a request.  Gon pulls his shoulders back to draw himself up to his full height and joins him beneath the stairs.  The man wastes no time in deftly backing Gon against the wall, blocking his exit.  The hairs raise along Gon’s arms with an odd prickling sensation--whatever this man wants to discuss, it certainly won’t be good.

“So,” the man says, taking a half step too close to Gon, forcing him to crane his neck at an odd angle to look him in the eye.  “You’re the prince’s new guard.”

“I am,” Gon replies.  He keeps his tone perfectly neutral; he refuses to let this man see him sweat.

“I could use your help with something, Gon.  The king and queen have been worried about the prince--he really hasn’t been seeming like himself lately and they’re beginning to suspect he’s struggling with something, although he won’t admit to it.  It would be a tremendous relief to them if they could have someone keeping an eye on him and informing them of anything that might be cause for concern.  You’re the obvious choice, given how much time you two spend together.  And all you’d have to do is report in once or twice a week on anything that might seem unusual to you.”

Gon sets his jaw.  Despite the obvious circumlocution, it’s clear what this man is asking him to do--spy on Killua.  And that is simply out of the question.

“Sorry,” Gon says evenly.  “I don’t think I’m the right person to help you with this.”

Something sharp and bright flashes in the man’s eyes.

“The king and queen would see to it that you’d be compensated for your help.  Quite generously.”

“Sorry,” Gon says again.  “Not interested.”

The man takes another half step towards Gon.  He’s now uncomfortably close, leaning down to deliberately draw even further into Gon’s space.  Gon looks him straight in the eye and stands firm.

“Perhaps you’re misunderstanding me.  This is a direct command from the king and queen.  Refusing it isn’t an option.”

No, Gon understands perfectly.  He understands exactly how much he’s risking by defying the king and queen.  He understands that the Zoldyck family has tortured and killed over far less.  But he simply won’t betray Killua.  He isn’t sure why--they’ve only known each other a matter of days--but for some reason, the mere thought of disloyalty to him ignites in Gon something visceral and furious.  It doesn’t come from his head, or even from his heart; it comes straight from his guts.  No matter the risk, no matter what he has to lose, something deep within him refuses to betray Killua.

“Again, I’m sorry,” Gon says, “but that’s what I’m doing.  I’m refusing.”

“We have ways of convincing you to cooperate,” the man says, his voice low and dangerous.

Gon lifts his chin and clenches his fists.

“I’d like to see you try.”

The man holds Gon’s gaze for several long moments, eyes boring deep into Gon’s as if he could see right down to his core, to his very essence.  Gon refuses to look away.  He stands resolute, feet planted wide and chin raised, something fierce and hot bubbling up in his insides.  He knows it in his bones, in each individual vertebra of his spine--no matter what threats they make, no matter how brutal their torture, he’ll die sooner than betray Killua.  This man will likely waste no time in dragging Gon off somewhere, to a room deep enough in the palace that no one will hear his screams, and subject him to all manner of agony in an effort to change his mind.  But it won’t matter.  None of it will.  He refuses to betray Killua, and there’s no amount of cruelty that could convince him otherwise.

But the man doesn’t make any move to restrain Gon, doesn’t toss a sack over his head or strike him hard on the temple to knock him unconscious.  No, he merely holds Gon’s gaze for several long moments before he breaks into a wide smile.

“Congratulations!” he says, his tone suddenly friendly and companionable.  “You pass!”

For a long moment, Gon stands still in bewildered silence.

“Wait... what? ” he says at last.

The man claps Gon on the shoulder.

“Sorry to put you through that, kid.  I hope I didn’t scare you too badly.  But you didn’t waver for even a moment, huh? ‘I’d like to see you try.’” The man laughs.  “You’re made of some pretty strong stuff, aren’t you?”

Gon blinks once.  Then twice.

“What are you talking about?  What’s going on?”

The man steps back from where he’d been crowding Gon, allowing him to move away from the wall.  His whole demeanor has changed--he’s smiling broadly, something fond and bright in his eyes, and his posture is loose and relaxed.  He hardly seems like the same person who’d been threatening Gon only a moment before.

“Sorry, allow me to explain,” the man says.  “I’m Leorio, the palace doctor.  The prince asked me to give you a small test, just to be sure you wouldn’t end up betraying him to the king and queen.  It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, but a lesser person would’ve crumbled under that sort of pressure.  But you held firm, so that means you pass.  He expected you to, of course, but we had to be sure.”

Gon furrows his brow.

“So that was just a test?  To make sure I wouldn’t conspire with the king and queen against the prince?”

The man--Leorio--nods.

“Would they really do something like that?  Try to get someone to spy on their son?”

Leorio sighs.

“Gon, there’s hardly anything they wouldn’t do.  Believe me--I’m the one who has to patch up the prince after they’ve had a go at him.”

“Wait, they’d hurt him?  Seriously?  But he’s a prince!”

Leorio smiles, but his eyes are soft and sad.

“Yeah, and they’re the king and queen.  They can do whatever they want.  I mean, the Zoldycks are known for their brutality--did you really think their children would be spared from that?”

Suddenly, it all makes sense.  The sadness and loneliness Gon had sensed in Killua when they’d first met.  That ribbon of gentleness that runs through his core.  Of course Killua would be gentle.  To have suffered like that, he would have either had to become unfathomably cruel or unfathomably kind, and Gon knows Killua well enough by now to be certain that cruelty was never a possibility.

“But let’s not dwell on all that right now, huh?  You passed the test, so I think a celebration is in order.  Join me for a drink, alright?”

Before Gon can protest, Leorio has looped an arm around his shoulders and is leading him down the hall, chattering away and gesticulating wildly with his free hand.  Gon does his best to take Leorio’s advice and not allow himself to ruminate.  It’s too easy to picture Killua, bruised and bloodied and trembling and utterly alone, subjected to the very stomach-turning torture that has made the Zoldyck’s name.  

No, instead, Gon clings to the soothing cadence of Leorio’s voice and the rich timbre of his laughter as he strolls them both down the hall.  And he clings to the simple fact that if the king and queen try to hurt Killua again, Gon will be there to intervene.  The simple fact that Killua has Gon as a guard now, and that he will do anything, anything at all, to uphold his sworn duty to protect him.

Chapter Text

Over the past several weeks, Gon’s gotten to know Killua little by little.  He’s noticed Killua’s love of sweets, and seen firsthand how good he is at sneaking down to the kitchens and convincing the cooks to let him smuggle away a few extra pastries.  He’s learned that Killua’s favorite indulgence is finding a couch stationed near a window and taking a quick nap in an afternoon sunbeam.  He’s seen Killua’s quick, incisive wit, and how deftly and mercilessly he wields it when necessary.  In short, Gon’s somehow managed to learn Killua’s small habits and quirks without really trying, learned to read his moods and guess what’s on his mind.  And he’s learned well enough to recognize a certain gleam in Killua’s eye when they head to breakfast that morning, a gleam that invariably means that something has him excited.

“Gon,” Killua says as they enter the dining room, his tone sounding deliberately casual, “make sure you just eat a light breakfast today, okay?”

Gon unsheathes his sword, places it on the floor, and sits down.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Killua pauses for a moment with his hands on the back of his chair, standing across the table from Gon.  He has another look in his eye that Gon recognizes, the one that usually means something isn’t going exactly how he’d like it to.

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me why?” he says at last.

“I wouldn’t presume to question you, Your Highness.”

Killua sighs--a bit dramatically, in Gon’s opinion--and sits down opposite him, leaning his chin on his hand with a frown.

“You can ask me questions, Gon.  I’m not going to get angry over something like that.  I’ll be more annoyed if you insist on being absolutely no fun like this.”

Gon nods in acknowledgement.

“I understand, Your Highness,” he says, and begins to pour himself a cup of coffee.  Killua doesn’t move from where he’s leaning on his hand and stares at Gon expectantly.  Gon bites back a smile; Killua clearly wants him to play along with this conversation, and it’s strangely charming.

“Alright,” Gon says at last, “why should I only eat a light breakfast?”

Killua breaks into a wide, satisfied grin.

“Well, you’re supposed to be my personal guard, aren’t you?  I think it’s about time I put you through your paces to see if you’re up to the task.”

Gon sets down his coffee mug so forcefully that a bit of it spills over the rim.

“We’re going to spar, Your Highness?”

Killua leans back in his chair, still grinning broadly.

“We most certainly are.  You’re supposed to be the best fighter Kurapika found in the whole kingdom.  Why don’t we see just how good you really are in combat?”

A strange feeling begins to churn around in Gon’s insides--something thick and bubbling that’s halfway between excitement and apprehension.  He hasn’t had a chance to spar since he arrived at the palace.  He’s run through drills, of course, and gotten exercise whenever he’s had a free moment, but he hasn’t actually been able to cross swords with anyone for weeks now.  His whole body is practically vibrating with the urge for a proper fight.

But at the same time, it won’t just be a regular sparring match.  He’ll be fighting the crown prince of Padokea.  Surely he can’t just treat this like regular practice--even with a wooden training sword, he couldn’t actually strike Killua.  For as much as Killua is relaxed and permissive about most things, he’s still a prince.  Gon can’t allow himself to forget that, and he’s come dangerously close to slipping up recently, to teasing Killua or goading him into a pointless competition or joking with him as if the two of them were friends.  And they aren’t, he reminds himself sternly.  They aren’t friends.  They’re a prince and a guard, nothing more.  So Gon won’t get ahead of himself in their practice matches--he’ll defend, but he won’t attack.  He so often loses himself in the rhythm of combat, his mind going quiet and his body moving on nothing but keen instinct, and he can’t afford to do that with Killua.  He’ll be careful not to go on the offensive.  He’ll restrain himself.  He must.

As it turns out, Killua’s suggestion to have a light breakfast is unnecessary.  That half-excitement, half-apprehension feeling churning in Gon’s stomach is too thick and overwhelming for him to manage to eat much of anything.  He has some fruit, and some coffee, and a bite or two of oatmeal, but that’s all he’s able to get down.  He quivers with a near electric energy as he and Killua head out of the castle, stop at a small shed for some training swords, and find an empty patch on the grounds to spar.  On one hand, Gon’s whole body thrums with excitement at the thought of getting to cross swords again, and especially with someone as skilled as Killua is said to be.  But on the other, one wrong move could cost him his job, or, depending on who witnesses it, his life.  He can’t get carried away, he tells himself sternly.  He can’t forget his place here.

Killua shrugs out of his jacket, leaving him in just his shirtsleeves, so Gon does the same.  Once he’s tossed his jacket aside, Killua rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and grips the training sword, the muscles of his forearm flexing in an inexplicably mesmerizing manner, before he tosses the other sword to Gon, who catches it deftly.  Killua twirls his sword with practiced ease, his grip loose and confident.  He clearly knows what he’s doing.  Well, Gon knows what he’s doing too, as it so happens, and maybe he’ll just have to show Killua exactly how--

No.

No , Gon tells himself again, emphatically, shaking his head to banish the thought.  Has he already forgotten what he swore to himself in the dining room?  Has the mere feeling of the sword gripped in his hand led him to forget who he’s fighting so quickly?  This isn’t the time for showing off.  Defend.  That’s all he’s allowed to do.

“Shall we?” Killua asks, something bright and eager shining in his eyes.

Gon bows his head.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

The gleam in Killua’s eyes dims slightly and his brow furrows, but Gon doesn’t have any time to dwell on why that might be, because Killua suddenly advances on Gon, sword arcing in a perfect curve towards Gon’s ribs.  Killua clearly doesn’t waste any time holding back and sizing up his opponent.  No, he charges directly at Gon with hardly a moment’s hesitation.  Gon can help but smile.  Good--he much prefers a fast paced fight to one where they waste their time circling each other like a pair of peacocks.

Gon quickly parries Killua’s strike, and Killua doesn’t waste a moment before attacking again, from above this time.  Gon blocks it as well, but with little time to spare.  Gon’s grin grows broader.  Killua is good.  The best he’s fought in a while.  Even with his resolution not to attack, just defending against Killua’s strikes is enough to keep Gon on his toes.

Killua is relentless--he simply attacks and attacks with hardly a second between strikes.  He’s not only physically strong--he’s an excellent strategist, always managing to aim for the places Gon’s defense is weakest in any given moment.  Gon really wishes he could fight back properly; he’d very much like to give it as good as he’s getting it.

There’s nothing but the sound of their labored breathing, the scuffle of their shoes on the ground, and the clacking of their swords against each other.  The world has narrowed down to only this--only Killua’s deft strikes and Gon’s quick footwork and the pleasant ache in Gon’s muscles from the exertion.  They’ve found a rhythm close to dancing, with Killua’s attacks and Gon’s defenses and the precise responses of their bodies to each other.

But all at once, Killua pulls back and lowers his sword, frowning.  Gon, too, lowers his sword, the spell suddenly lifting.  Why did Killua stop?  They were just starting to get warmed up, weren’t they?

For a second, Killua merely looks at Gon, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re not fighting back,” he says, twirling his sword with obvious irritation.  “It’s not a matter of being outmatched--I can tell you could go on the offensive if you wanted to.  But you’re not.  Why?”

Gon hesitates for a moment.

“It doesn’t seem right to attack you, Your Highness.  You’re royalty, after all, so I couldn’t just--”

Gon’s cut off with an abrupt smack to the shoulder with the flat of Killua’s sword.

“No, none of that ‘you’re royalty’ nonsense as an excuse to pull your punches.  Don’t go easy on me,” Killua says, now with an accusatory jab of his sword into Gon’s chest.  “That’s an order.  If you don’t prove yourself to me here and now, I’ll have no choice but to dismiss you.”

Gon bows his head.

“Yes, Your Highness.  I understand.”

Killua grins, lifting his sword again.

“Alright, Gon, let’s see you put your back into it.”

For the first few strikes, Gon still hesitates.  He knows he could let his body take over if he wanted, could quiet his mind and lose himself in nothing but the exchange of their blows, but he holds back for a few more moments.  Yes, Killua ordered him to fight back, but will his mind change when Gon lands his first strike?  Will he suddenly grow angry and indignant that Gon had the audacity to attack royalty?

But there’s something about the gleam in Killua’s eye as he fights that makes Gon decide that he must really mean it, something about the warm, expectant light shining in them makes Gon certain that Killua truly wants him to go on the offensive, however unusual that may be.  Well, Killua’s always been odd about these sorts of things, Gon supposes.  He’s permitted Gon to do things above his station before, so this time appears truly to be no different.  So Gon finally tightens his grip on his sword and fights like he means it.

His first offensive strike clearly takes Killua off guard--he stumbles backward a few steps, blinking rapidly, but then he breaks into a wide, satisfied grin.

“I knew you had it in you,” he says, blocking another blow.

“As always, you display unparalleled insight, Your Highness.”

Under normal circumstances, Gon wouldn’t allow himself to talk like this--it’s too close to teasing, too close to crossing a boundary--but with a sword in his hand and the sun hot overhead, the last of his restraint evaporates along with the sweat on his skin.  Killua isn’t a prince right now.  He’s merely a skilled opponent, one who Gon will do his utmost to defeat.  Their status, their backgrounds, the differences between them--all of it crumbles more and more with every blow, until there isn’t a barrier between them any longer.  Gon doesn’t look at Killua and see royalty--he sees nothing but weak points and gaps in his defenses and the particular angle of each strike.  They aren’t a prince and his guard.  They’re merely Gon and Killua, crossing swords like any opponents would.

If Killua truly wants Gon to put his back into it, he can deliver.  Even going on the offensive, he’s been holding back slightly, refusing to fight with everything he has.  But as Killua nearly lands a strike to Gon’s abdomen, the last of his restraint disappears.  He’s going to win, and it’s going to be an uncontested victory.  He’s going to defeat Killua completely and totally.  So Gon speeds up his attacks, until the training sword starts to blur before their eyes.  Killua stumbles backwards, caught off guard by Gon’s sudden onslaught, and Gon sees his opening.  He pushes Killua just a bit farther backwards with the tip of his sword until he loses his balance completely and collapses in the dirt.

But Killua refuses to go down easily.  In an instant, he’s grabbed his sword and has pushed himself to his knees to stand again.  But Gon’s still a step ahead of him.  The moment Killua’s gotten up on his knees, Gon catches him underneath his chin with the tip of his sword, pushing his head up slightly as he presses against the vulnerable flesh of his throat.  Killua’s eyes suddenly go wide and dark with an emotion Gon can’t quite name, and that just encourages him more.  He pushes Killua’s head up just a bit higher, and takes a step closer, until the shadow cast by his body totally covers Killua kneeling in front of him.  

Something about having Killua completely at his mercy like this, having him stare up at Gon with those wide, ever-darkening eyes, makes something hot and eager flicker to life low and deep in his stomach.  His own breathing is impossibly loud, drowning out any ambient noise, and his pulse pounds in his ears.  He has total control over Killua now, and the thought makes a sharp, electric thrill zip down his spine, raising goosebumps along every inch of his skin.  Killua looks so pretty like this, his cheeks flushed and his mouth parted slightly as he looks up at Gon through those long, impossibly dark eyelashes, and Gon suddenly needs to have a better look at him, needs it deep in the marrow of his bones, so he turns Killua’s head slowly to the right with the tip of his sword, reveling in the way Killua complies with the unspoken command, and then slowly to the left, and then--

Oh Gods, what has he just done?

Immediately, Gon drops his sword, letting it land on the ground beside him with a thump that seems to echo across the entirety of the grounds, and then takes a step back and falls to one knee, his whole body going horribly tense and cold.  Fighting with the prince was one thing, actually beating him was another, but whatever the hell he’d done just now?  That was completely and totally out of the question.  It doesn’t matter that the sword was wooden and Killua wasn’t truly at his mercy.  He’d acted like he was.  He’d relished in his victory, gloated and toyed with Killua, and that was far, far over the line.  This is why he hadn’t wanted to fight against Killua at full strength--he always loses himself in the give and take of combat and forgets everything else.  His body takes over, his mind quiets, and he acts on nothing but instinct.  And, just like he’d thought it would, it led him to do something indescribably inappropriate.

Gon stares hard at the dirt with his head bowed.  The warmth and energy of the exertion has disappeared, leaving him weak and shaky.  He takes a deep, hitching breath, trying to find his voice.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he says at last.  “I don’t know what just got into me, but there’s no excuse for acting like I did.  I merely beg your pardon, if you deem me worthy to grant it.  I won’t do such a thing again.  I swear it.”

With his head bowed, Gon still catches a glimpse of Killua getting to his feet and dusting the dirt off of his knees.  Once he’s standing, he sighs deeply, clearly annoyed.  Gon tenses.  It’s coming now, however Killua is going to reprimand him for this mistake.

“You’ve really gotta stop falling to your knees over every stupid thing, Gon.”

What?

Gon blinks and slowly raises his head to try to read Killua’s expression.  He doesn’t look angry.  A bit annoyed, certainly, but it’s far from the fury Gon was expecting.

“I mean, when are you going to realize that I won’t mind if you actually have a personality?  Every time we start to have fun, you suddenly chicken out and it’s getting old.”

Gon kneels in stunned silence for a few long moments.  Killua isn’t annoyed that Gon was gloating and toying with him--he’s annoyed that he stopped.

“I.. um.. I.. Yes, Your Highness,” he manages at last.  “I understand.”

Killua smiles and reaches down his hand to pull Gon to his feet.

“From now on, no more bowing unless you actually have a good reason.  And having fun is not a good reason.”

In spite of himself, Gon smiles.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Killua grabs Gon’s sword from where he dropped it and tosses it back to him.

“Alright, you managed to catch me off guard just now, but I’m not going to make it so easy on you twice.  Let’s get back to it.”

Gon tightens his grip on his sword and grins.

“I can’t believe you beat me,” Killua grumbles, hands shoved deep in his pockets as they head back inside.  “I just can’t believe it.”

Gon bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“You won quite a few of the rounds yourself, Your Highness.  It wasn’t a total defeat.”

“No!” Killua says, jabbing Gon in the chest with his finger as he opens one of the side doors and heads into the blissful shade of the palace.  “Don’t try to make me feel better!  Then it’s like you’re taking pity on me, and that only makes it worse.”

“So you’d prefer I gloat, Your Highness?  Simply give me a command and I’ll do whatever you ask.”

Killua groans.

“Ugh, you act like the picture of politeness and deference, but you’re actually a colossal pain in the ass, you know that?”

Gon laughs.

“Your Highness, I truly can’t apologize enough for causing you such frustration.”

Killua shoots Gon a dirty look and stalks down the hallway, sulking like a child.  Gon can’t keep the smile off his face--he knows he’s playing with fire by teasing Killua like this, but it’s simply too much fun to resist.  Watching Killua, head ducked and hands shoved in his pockets, petulantly drag his feet down the hall makes it much harder to see him as royalty.  Gon knows it’s wrong, but in this moment, Killua looks like nothing more than a sullen kid pouting over his loss.

Killua comes to an abrupt stop in front of a door halfway down the hall.  Gon expects he’s about to offer up some other complaint or gripe about their sparring session, but when he turns back to Gon, he isn’t frowning.  Instead, his eyes are wide and eager and bright.

“Have you ever been in here?” he asks, gesturing towards the door.

“No, Your Highness.”

Killua breaks into a wide grin.

“Come on inside.  I want to show you something.”

Gon complies and follows Killua through the door, entering into one of the smaller rooms he’s seen in the palace.  Although it isn’t very large, it’s still sumptuously decorated, with thick red curtains at the window and ornately embroidered couches around the walls, and a large, gleaming grand piano right at the center of the room.  Gon can’t help but draw in a sharp breath.  In the weeks he’s been here, he still hasn’t grown used to the beauty and opulence that’s so emblematic of the palace.

“Do you play?” Killua asks, gesturing towards the piano.

Gon shakes his head.

“I don’t, Your Highness.”

“I had to learn as part of my schooling.  I’ll never know what playing the piano has to do with ruling a kingdom, but I always did enjoy it.” Killua smiles.  “Have a seat and I’ll play you something.”

Gon bows his head in acknowledgement, unsheathes his sword, and sits on one of the couches tucked along the wall.  Killua sits at the piano and places his hands on the keys.  His posture is so straight and confident that Gon can tell he knows what he’s doing before he’s even started to play.

But then, after a deep breath, Killua does begin to play, and Gon realizes that assuming Killua knows what he’s doing was a rather spectacular understatement.  Killua isn’t just good--he’s magnificent.  The music immediately swells so large and beautiful that it seems to fill every inch of the room, until Gon can practically feel the pressure of it against his skin.  The melody is so full of tenderness and quiet desperation that it sends a sharp pain through Gon’s heart and makes his throat tighten abruptly.  Instantly, Gon closes his eyes; he doesn’t want anything to distract him from the music.

Of course Gon has heard music before.  His teacher would play simple melodies on their upright piano in the back of the classroom when he was in school, and Whale Island has musicians who perform for festivals and holidays, but none of it has ever sounded like this.  This is so much richer, note upon note layered with such care and precision.  Gon almost struggles to breathe as he listens--the music has wrapped its tendrils around his ribcage, making it hard to draw in a full breath, but he finds he doesn’t mind at all.  Things like breathing are far less important than reveling in the beauty of the music filling the room.  Gon wishes it would never end.  He could sit here, eyes closed, doing nothing but listening to Killua play for eternity, and surely he wouldn’t want for anything.

But of course, the song does end eventually, with a slow, sweet decrescendo until the last notes softly fade away.  It takes Gon several long moments before he returns to his body enough to open his eyes.  When at last he manages it, he sees Killua leaning over the piano and smiling at him.

“What did that sound like to you?”

“Beautiful,” Gon says immediately, sounding far more reverent and awestruck than he intended.

Still smiling, Killua shakes his head.

“No, I want you to describe it to me.”

Gon’s brow furrows.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but I don’t know very much about music.  I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to know anything about music,” Killua says gently. “Just tell me what it felt like to you.”

Gon pauses for a moment.  He thinks on the ache in his chest during the song, on the softness and the desperation of the music, on the slow, gentle way it had ended, almost like a surrender, but a willing one.

“It felt like longing for something,” Gon says at last.  “Like wanting something so badly it hurts.  But it’s a good hurt, somehow.”

Killua nods.

“You have a good ear,” he says warmly.  “Now I want you to play it.”

Gon merely stares for a moment.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he says at last, “but I don't play the piano.  And I certainly could never play it like that.”

Killua’s smile grows broader and warmer.

“Don’t worry--I’m going to help you.  Come sit beside me on the bench.”

Gon really isn’t sure how much help Killua can give him, seeing as he can’t so much as play a scale, but he knows better to argue against a direct order.  So he wordlessly stands from the couch, leaving his sword on the floor, and joins Killua on the piano bench.  The mere sight of the keys is overwhelming--Gon doesn’t have the first idea how to turn something like this into the exquisite music he’d just heard.

“Good,” Killua says.  “Now scoot a bit closer and place your hands on top of mine.”

For a moment, Gon hesitates.  Killua has proven himself time and again to be unconcerned with the difference in their status, but Gon can’t help but feel that this would be truly crossing the line.  To touch royalty so casually, and for the entire length of the song, makes a strange shame twist at Gon’s insides.  Someone like him simply shouldn’t be doing something like this, not with a prince.

But Killua’s hands look so soft and so elegant, and Gon admits that he would enjoy the feeling of playing that beautiful song himself, so eventually, trembling only slightly, he slowly brings his hands to rest on top of Killua’s.

Gon was right--Killua’s hands are impossibly soft, and pleasantly cool to the touch.  Gon suddenly flushes hot as he imagines how his own hands must feel against Killua’s--hard and rough and calloused from years of hard labor and combat training.  Killua must be doing his utmost not to flinch--has he ever had to touch hands as crude and weathered as Gon’s?

“I’m sorry,” Gon says, before he can stop himself.

Killua cocks his head.

“What for?”

“My hands, Your Highness.  They’re… they’re not like yours.  They’re rough.”

Killua sighs, fond and gentle.

“I like your hands, Gon.  They’re strong and very capable.  Now hush so we can hear the music, okay?”

Gon nods and falls silent, and Killua begins to play, Gon resting his hands atop Killua’s.  The music is every bit as beautiful as the first time, or perhaps more, now that Gon can watch and feel it being made.  Killua’s hands are quick and nimble over the keys, moving with confidence and ease.  But despite his reassurances, the worry persists--Killua’s hands are elegant and precise, and still so soft against Gon’s.  Gon’s hands could never play this sweet, aching music--they can grip a sword, and dig a shovel into hard packed earth, and haul in fishing nets, but they could never once be graceful.  Not like Killua’s.  And something about that simple difference, combined with the yearning Gon hears in the music, makes his chest ache terribly.  The song is still mesmerizing, and he likes watching Killua’s hands dance across the keys, but it takes every ounce of willpower not to pull back.  His hands are so hardened and calloused against Killua’s impossibly soft skin that he almost worries he’ll hurt him, somehow.

Gon may have felt close to Killua’s equal when they were sparring out on the grounds or joking around in the hallway, but the feeling of Killua’s hands against his own is a sharp, brutal reminder of the reality.  They’re not equals.  They never could be.  Their upbringings, their educations, the lives they’ve led--all of it adds up to an insurmountable difference.  It’s clear on their very bodies--Killua’s elegant, soft hands contrasted with Gon’s rough, weathered ones just proves what Gon’s always known; Killua is far, far above him.  And he always will be.

Eventually, the song reaches its same soft, melancholy decrescendo and Killua lifts his hands from the keys.  Gon wastes no time in pulling his away, too; he doesn’t want to force Killua to endure the contact any longer than he must.

“I’d say you did great, for your first time playing the piano,” Killua says, smiling.

Gon bows his head slightly.

“Thank you, Your Highness, for allowing me to experience that.”

Killua stands from the piano bench, stretching his hands high over his head.

“I think we could both use a bath, after sparring outside for so long.  Let’s head back now, okay?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Killua reaches out to bring the cover down over the piano keys, and Gon can’t help but stare at his fair, elegant hands as he does it.  Gon knows he won’t be able to look at them the same way again--not now that he’s touched them, not now that he knows how soft and smooth and delicate they feel against his own.

Chapter Text

Gon’s days at the palace fall into a routine.  He joins Killua for meetings, stands guard when he listens to the appeals and entreaties of his subjects, spars with him occasionally on the palace grounds, listens to him play the piano, and has his meals with him and, occasionally, Alluka.  It becomes comfortable, or as comfortable as Gon can be surrounded by royalty constantly.  Even the labyrinthine halls of the palace become familiar to him eventually.  It begins to feel like home to Gon, in its own way, so much like home that he all but forgets about the stories he’s heard of the brutality and mercilessness of the Zoldyck family.  Which is why the letter comes as such a surprise.

It arrives as Killua and Gon are leaving the dining room from lunch, hand delivered by a young woman in a uniform Gon’s seen a few times around the palace but can’t easily identify.  Killua takes one look at the seal, sighs deeply, and opens it.  His brow furrows deeper and deeper and his mouth gets tighter and tighter around the corners as he reads, until he reaches the end, sighs again, folds the letter, and places it into his pocket.  It seems as if Killua has shrunk in just the minute it took him to read the letter, shoulders hunching forward and spine compressing until he stands several inches shorter than he had been when he opened it.

“Your Highness,” Gon asks tentatively, “is everything alright?”

Killua turns to Gon and smiles, but his eyes stay soft with worry.

“Yeah, it’s fine.  I’ve just been called to dinner with my parents tonight.”

Killua starts to head down the hall and Gon quickly joins him.  Now that he thinks about it, Gon hasn’t seen Killua in the same room as his parents since the day he first arrived at the palace.  It does strike him as a little odd, for parents and a child to go well over three months without seeing each other, but it never occurred to him to question it.  It’s simply how the Zoldycks chose to do things, and that isn’t any of Gon’s concern.  But despite that, Gon couldn’t help but sense some tension in their relationship during his time at the palace.  Killua always gets a dark, tempestuous look in his eyes when the subject of his parents comes up, a storm clearly brewing just beneath the surface.  He avoids talking about them whenever possible, and when the subject does come up, he’s terse and derisive and quickly changes the subject.  It’s clear, even to an outsider like Gon--there’s something complicated and painful between the king and queen and their son.

“Is being called to dinner a bad thing, Your Highness?”

Killua shrugs.

“It just is what it is, I suppose,” he says, which really isn’t much of an answer. “We won’t get to eat together tonight, though.  My parents aren’t okay with that sort of thing.  So I’m sorry about that.”

“Oh, no, Your Highness, I understand completely.  I wouldn’t expect to dine with the king and queen.”

Killua shoves his hands in his pockets and gnaws on his lip the way he always does when he has something to say, but is debating whether or not he should.  For several long moments, he’s quiet, the two of them walking down the hall side by side.  Gon doesn’t press him to speak before he’s ready, just waits quietly until Killua’s made up his mind.

“Could I ask you a favor?” he says finally.

“Of course, Your Highness.  My duty is to serve you in whatever capacity you require.”

Killua scuffs his boot against the floor slightly, staring determinedly at the tile.

“Would you come with me?” he asks, his voice soft.  “I feel sort of bad asking, because you’ll have to wait outside the whole time.  But Kurapika will be there.  And… it would make me feel better.  To know you’re nearby.”

Gon can’t help it--a bright, shimmering warmth expands in his chest at Killua’s request.  He’s reading too much into it--of course Killua would feel better with Gon nearby; he’s sworn to protect him, after all, and there isn’t anything more to it than that.  But Gon still can’t stop himself from feeling like it’s not just the protection, but also the companionship, that would be a comfort.

“Of course, Your Highness.  You don’t have to phrase it like a question.  I’ll always be wherever you need me, no matter what.”

Killua raises his gaze from the floor and looks towards Gon, his eyes wide and soft with an emotion Gon can’t quite place.

“Thank you, Gon.  Really.”

Gon smiles.

“It’s my pleasure, Your Highness.”

For the rest of the day, Killua isn’t quite himself.  It probably wouldn’t be noticeable to an outsider, but after all the time they’ve spent together, Gon picks up on the small signs.  The way Killua absently chews on his fingernail for a moment before he realizes what he’s doing and stops himself.  The just slightly too long pause before he responds to a question.  The times Gon catches him staring off into space with a slight frown.  Gon doesn’t know the exact content of the letter Killua received earlier this afternoon, but whatever it is, it can’t be good.  Not if it’s making him this distracted.

And when Killua dresses for dinner that evening, Gon’s suspicions are confirmed even further.  He emerges from his room at precisely six-twenty looking nothing like himself.  He’s wearing a very stiff, very ornate high-collared jacket in black and gold rather than his favored blue.  His pants, too, have a gold trim going down the outseam, and the fabric looks far less comfortable than what he usually wears.  And, for the first time since Gon saw him in the throne room, Killua’s wearing a crown.  The metal looks equal parts sturdy and delicate and is inlaid with large, shimmering jewels.  It perches on Killua’s head just so, and he holds his neck perfectly straight to make it stand even taller.  He doesn’t look like Killua at all.  No, between the clothes and his posture, he looks more like a soldier headed into battle than a prince going to dinner with his parents.

“Shall we?” he asks Gon, with a grim, determined resignation.

Gon nods.

They don’t speak as they head down the hallway,  Killua’s hands are clenched tight at his sides and his lips are pressed into a thin, pale line.  Gon’s never seen Killua look like this before.  He’s usually so confident and relaxed, sure of himself and his abilities no matter the challenge.  But now, for the first time, he isn’t walking into a situation with the certainty that he can win.

Were Killua anyone else, Gon would reach down and take his hand as they walked, if only to give him a brief, reassuring squeeze.  Gon’s first instinct is always to comfort and soothe, and he’s never been shy about offering an embrace or a pat on the back.  But, of course, it’s not that simple with Killua.  He can’t just take his hand unprompted, however much he looks like he could use the kind, gentle touch of a friend, so Gon determinedly keeps his hands at his sides.

Like Killua had promised, Kurapika is waiting outside the dining room when they arrive.  He and Killua share a significant look, communicating something through their eyes alone, before Killua nods in acknowledgement.  Whatever the message was, it was received.  Kurapika smiles in greeting to Gon, who bows his head, smiling in return.  With all the tension hovering in the air, he’s happy to see a familiar face.

Killua faces the door and takes a deep, steadying breath, and then turns to Gon, something gentle and melancholy in his gaze.

“Thank you again, for agreeing to come with me.  I’m hoping this will be quick and painless, but I’m guessing it won’t.  I’ll be back out as soon as I can.”

Gon smiles.

“If you need me somewhere, I’ll be there, Your Highness.  Always.  Good luck with the conversation.”

Although it’s a slight, strained thing, Killua smiles, and then clenches his hands hard at his side and slowly enters the dining room.  It’s not the same room where Gon and Killua usually eat--just based on the door, this one looks far larger and nicer.  But despite its size, Gon finds, much to his satisfaction, that he can still hear snatches of conversation from the other side.  It’s not that he means to eavesdrop on the private affairs of royalty--he’ll just feel better if he can monitor the general state of the conversation, just in case Killua ends up needing something.

Kurapika seems to share Gon’s idea, because he doesn’t try to make conversation as they wait in the hall.  Instead, he merely stands perfectly straight, a furrow between his brow, clearly listening for anything he can hear from the dining room.

The meal starts calmly enough--the conversation is quiet, and while Killua sounds more subdued than Gon is used to, he supposes it’s better than having him raise his voice.  Gon can’t hear any actual words, but the general tone of the voices doesn’t sound outwardly hostile, and he supposes that’s all he can ask for.

But the calm doesn’t last long.  After only a few moments, Gon hears a high, female voice, no doubt the queen, say something, and Killua’s voice grows so loud that Gon can make out the words “absolutely not” even through the door.  He looks over at Kurapika, who meets his gaze and grimaces in a resigned sort of way, as if he’s not surprised at how quickly things took a turn for the worse.

The voices quiet for a moment, and Gon, although he knows it’s foolish, hopes that perhaps the worst of the conflict has passed.  But Kurapika stays tense and frowning, so Gon knows better than to assume it will be that easy.  Gon wishes he could be inside the dining room with Killua.  He wouldn’t even have to sit at the table; he’d be happy to stand guard at the door just so Killua could have an ally within his sight.

And then, before very long, the voices raise again, louder and angrier this time.  Gon only catches a word or two--”Alluka” seems to come up quite frequently, as does “dangerous,” and the volume and speed of the conversation only grows, until they’re nearly shouting.

Gon clenches his jaw.  He knows Killua had been preparing for the worst, but he hadn’t expected the situation to deteriorate quite so quickly.  And unlike last time, the voices don’t quiet again--they only grow louder, and the queen’s voice grows higher and shriller, until there’s the sound of a chair scraping against the tile, as if someone had quickly pushed it back to stand, and then a loud, ringing slap, and then quiet.

Instantly, Gon’s stomach clenches, sick and sudden, and he doesn’t stop to think for even a moment.  Someone hit Killua, hit him so hard Gon could hear it from outside the door.  And that he simply cannot abide.  So he swiftly turns and reaches for the door handle.  He doesn’t have a plan or strategy, he doesn’t even know what he’ll do when he gets into the dining room, but he knows he can’t stand by while Killua is being hurt, so it doesn’t matter what--

Abruptly, Gon is yanked backwards by his upper arm.

He turns around and Kurapika is shaking his head and looking at him with a sad, defeated expression.

“You can’t,” he says softly.  “If you defied the king and queen like that, you’d be executed.”

“But they hit him,” Gon hisses.  “I can’t just sit by and let that happen.”

Kurapika releases his hold on Gon’s arm and places a hand, heavy and comforting, on his shoulder.

“Gon, believe me, I feel the exact same way you do.  The way they treat him makes me sick.  But I mean it when I say that they wouldn’t hesitate to have you executed if you interfered.  And you won’t be able to protect Killua if you’re dead.”

Gon clenches his jaw.  Kurapika looks serious, and he’s heard enough stories of the Zoldyck family to know that he likely isn’t exaggerating.  But the thought of Killua being mistreated has filled Gon with such a profound rage that his whole body has gone hot and his thoughts have gone distant and hazy.  He can’t weigh his options rationally right now--all he can think is that Killua is on the other side of that door, and someone raised a hand to him, and that Gon can’t allow that to happen, not even if it costs him his life.

But Gon is spared the decision, because moments later, the door to the dining room swings wide, and Killua comes storming out, striding past Gon and Kurapika until he’s halfway down the hall, when he abruptly stops, breathing so hard Gon can see his shoulders rise and fall despite the distance.  And Gon doesn’t hesitate for a second--he races to Killua’s side.  The need to touch him, to place a comforting hand on his shoulder or his back, is even stronger this time, but Gon manages to restrain himself.

“Your Highness, are you alright?” he asks gently.

Killua turns to face him.  His cheek is bright red and he looks wide-eyed and furious, but his expression softens the moment he lays eyes on Gon.

“If I’d known it was going to go like that, I wouldn’t have invited you,” he says, impossibly gentle despite how hard he’s breathing. “I’m sorry you had to overhear it.”

Gon shakes his head.

“You don’t need to apologize to me.”

“But it upset you, didn’t it?”

Gon pauses for a moment.  Why would it matter to Killua if he were upset?  Not only because Killua’s royalty and Gon’s merely a guard, but because Killua is the one who truly had to suffer through that conversation, not Gon.

“I was only upset on your behalf, Your Highness,” he says.  “It isn’t right for them to treat you like that.”

Killua furrows his brow.

“Because I’m royalty?”

“Because parents should never raise a hand to their children, royalty or not.”

At that, Killua’s brow furrows more, and he tilts his head slightly, and looks deep into Gon’s eyes, as if he were searching for something.  The intensity of his gaze is enough that Gon shivers slightly.

But at last, Killua merely sighs.

“I didn’t even get to eat with all the arguing.  I’m going to head down to the kitchens and get us some dinner.  You wait for me at the top of the staircase, and then I’ll take you to my secret hiding place.”

Gon is about to protest that he should be the one fetching things for Killua, not the other way around, but Killua is already rounding the corner at the end of the hall and disappearing out of sight.

Killua’s secret hiding place, as it turns out, is high in one of the turrets on the far corner of the palace.  The windows built into the stone don’t have any glass, so evening air flows cool and fragrant into the small, empty room.  It’s a good choice, as hiding places go--it would be hard for anyone to find them here if they didn’t know where to look, and the fresh air and the view of the setting sun soothe Gon instantly.

Killua brought them some sweet red bean buns from the kitchen, but only bothered to bring one plate.  It strikes Gon as too intimate, sitting together on the floor and sharing food from the same dish, like the sort of thing friends would do, but he’s hungry enough that he’s willing to overlook it.

Killua sighs, removing his crown and taking off his stiff jacket, leaving him in just a loose, flowing white shirt, before leaning back against the wall of the turret and taking a bite of one of the buns.  As he chews, he’s quiet, looking at the sunset contemplatively.  But then he swallows and turns back to Gon.

“I need you to answer me with absolute honesty, okay?” he says, gaze suddenly intense.

Gon nods.

“Absolute honesty, Your Highness.  You have my word.”

“Can I trust you?”

The urgency in Killua’s voice and the way he stares right at Gon when he asks it, the setting sun warming his eyes, makes a strange, fluttering sensation start up in Gon’s insides, but he doesn’t have to think for a second before answering.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Killua takes another bite of the bun, staring out at the sunset, and then turns back to Gon.

“Okay, why?  Why can I trust you?”

Gon pauses for a moment, thinking over his response.  He knows the safe answer and he knows the true answer, and in the end, he decides on them both.

“Because I swore an oath of loyalty to you, Your Highness,” Gon says, and then hesitates for a moment, taking a deep breath.  “And because I could never betray someone with a heart as good as yours.”

That must be the right answer, because Killua smiles.

“Have a bun,” he says, gesturing to the plate.  “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone before, and it’s a bit of a long explanation, so you might as well eat while you listen.”

Gon bows his head in acknowledgement, and takes a bun from the plate.  The dough is soft and fluffy and the red bean paste is sweet and rich.  It’s probably too close to dessert to constitute a dinner, but Killua never passes up an opportunity to have sweets.

Killua looks out at the sunset for a long moment.  The light comes in the window just right, making his silver hair glow gold and gilding his skin into something otherworldly.  Gon can’t help but stare at him, utterly luminescent in the sunlight, until he at last sighs and turns back to Gon.

“I guess it would be easiest to start by telling you about Alluka,” he begins.  “There are only a handful of people who know what I’m about to tell you, so I’m asking you to guard this secret with your life.”

Gon nods.

“I swear I will, Your Highness.”

Killua sighs.

“Alluka is possessed by a powerful spirit.  My family doesn’t really refer to her by a name, but I call her Nanika.  She isn’t harmful or evil; she doesn’t hurt Alluka in any way.  She’s actually incredibly kind.  But she is extremely powerful.  And my family wants control of that power.  They want to keep Alluka confined and perform magic that will bend Nanika, and, by extension, Alluka, to their will.  I’ve been resisting it as much as I can, but they’re closing in more and more.  I don’t have a lot of time left.”

Killua pauses for a moment, scrutinizing Gon carefully.

“Are you with me so far?” he asks. “You’re looking surprisingly calm for having just heard the princess of Padokea is possessed by a spirit.”

Gon smiles.

“I’m with you, Your Highness.  And nothing you said is particularly alarming to me.  To be honest, I just think it’s nice that you have two sisters instead of one.  I’d like to meet Nanika someday, if it were ever possible.”

Killua stares at Gon for a few long moments, something strangely disarmed in his gaze.

“You really are something else, aren’t you?” he says, shaking his head.  “Okay, so you understand Nanika, and you understand that I’m losing ground in terms of protecting her and Alluka.  That’s what the whole argument was about tonight; my parents trying to confine her and use her power.  I’ve never seen them more serious about it than I did just now.  So I’m running out of time.”

Gon nods.

“But I’m assuming you have a plan, Your Highness.”

Killua grins.

“Of course I do.  I’m going to try to take the throne.  If my parents aren’t in power anymore, they won’t have the authority to control Alluka.”

Gon blinks.

“But… how, Your Highness?  You’re not going to have them killed, are you?”

Gon knows Killua is desperate to protect Alluka, but that seems like a rather extreme course of action, even for him.  But Killua merely sighs and rolls his eyes.

“You really didn’t pay much attention in school, did you?  That’s now how succession works in Padokea.  The crown prince takes the throne when he can beat the sitting king in a duel.  And it’s not a duel to the death or anything; there are rules.  But provided I can beat my dad, I become king.”

That seems relatively straightforward, Gon supposes, and far quicker than waiting for the current monarchs to die.  Of course, all the Zoldycks are known for their remarkable prowess in combat, so defeating the king is likely easier said than done.

“I’ve been training,” Killua continues.  “With a powerful sorcerer named Bisky.  That’s where I keep running off to in the evenings.  She’s teaching me a certain lightning magic.  I think it’s the key to winning--my dad won’t know it’s coming, and it’s an incredibly strong offensive attack.  But I’m running out of time.  So I’ve gotta train harder and faster so I can master the magic and win.

“Once I take the throne, I can protect Alluka.  But not just that--I’ve been reading a lot of political theory, and I think we could establish a democracy in Padokea.  And as soon as I’ve ensured the democracy is stable, I’d leave all of this behind.  I never asked to be a prince, and all the wealth and status afforded to royalty based on nothing more than the circumstances of their birth just makes me queasy.  I don’t want any part of it.  So I’ll help set up the new government, and then just go live a quiet life somewhere.  That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Killua looks down at the ground and tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear.  The gesture makes him seem so young and vulnerable for a moment that something warm and fond surges in Gon’s chest before he can stop it.

“So that’s it,” he concludes.  “That’s the whole plan.  I’m close to mastering the magic, so I don’t think it’ll be longer than a year before I can challenge my father to the duel.  And not just for me and Alluka, but for everyone.  I know how many people are suffering under my parents’ rule.  I know how nauseatingly unequal the whole kingdom is.  So I’ll set things on the right path and wash my hands of it.  I… I haven’t ever laid it all out start to finish like that to anyone before.  You’re the first person I’ve trusted with it.”

Trusted.  Killua trusts him.  Killua likely didn’t think through the full implications of the word, but Gon can’t help examine it from every angle.  It feels like Killua’s given him something unbearably precious and unbearably fragile, like he’s cradling it in trembling, cupped hands.  He’ll protect it; the feeling suddenly wells up hot and thick in his chest.  This gift Killua’s given him--he’ll do anything to protect it.

“It is an honor to be trusted with this, Your Highness,” Gon says, when he’s at last found his voice.  “Please know I want to support you however I can.”

Killua shakes his head.  The sun has nearly set by now, leaving the sky that deep, inky blue of dusk.  In the dim light, Killua glows like the moon.

“I don’t want you getting mixed up in any of this.  I’m worried it might get dangerous.  Just having you near me is enough.  I’m stronger now that you’re here.  I can feel it.”

Gon ducks his head.  Even in the dim light, he worries Killua might see the flush in his cheeks.

“Your Highness, such praise is too great an honor for me.”

Suddenly, Killua leans forward and places his hand over Gon’s.  His hand is just as soft and cool as it had been when they’d played the piano, and Gon sucks in a sharp, abrupt breath, raising his gaze to meet Killua’s eyes.  They’re shining with something urgent and hopeful in the moonlight.

“Gon, I…” Killua begins.  His eyes search Gon’s face, and even in the darkness, Gon can’t help but feel that Killua can see everything about him with perfect clarity.  But then all at once, he pulls back, taking his hand off of Gon’s and leaning back against the wall.

“I want you to have the last bun,” he says, gesturing towards the plate.  “As thanks for listening to me.”

Gon blinks once.  Then twice.

“I… um… yes, Your Highness.  Thank you.”

Perhaps he’s reading too much into things, but he can’t shake the feeling that Killua was going to say something else.  He knows better than to let his imagination run away with him like that, but as he reaches for the bun, he finds he can’t keep his hand from trembling.

Chapter Text

Gon wakes to the strange but pleasant sensation of buoyancy.

When he rises from his bed, he seems to float up from his pillow.  As he washes his face and brushes his teeth, he seems to hover ever so slightly above the floor.  As he dresses, his limbs are almost too weightless to wrestle into his clothing.

Perhaps it’s an overreaction, but Gon’s powerless against it.  That conversation with Killua last night has done something to him, has warmed him so profoundly that he can feel himself rising like the heat would in a room.  Killua trusted him.  With something he’d told no one else before.  They aren’t friends--they couldn’t be, their backgrounds being what they are--but after last night, Gon’s certain that they’re something like it.  The closest thing to friends two people like them could be.

Gon bounces on his toes as he waits in the alcove for Killua to join him for breakfast.  He finds himself oddly excited for the day ahead; it’ll be the same as it always is, of course, filled with meetings and duties and bureaucracy, but it’ll be better, somehow.  Better now that he’s all but glowing with the warmth of Killua’s trust.

Gon checks his pocket watch--it’s a quarter past seven.  Fifteen minutes later than they usually leave for breakfast.  Maybe Killua’s overslept.  Gon smiles in spite of himself.  On the few occasions Gon has seen Killua just after waking, he’s always so delightfully groggy and ill-tempered.  His hair sticks up in every direction and he squints into the light, only able to speak in monosyllables.  It’s so unlike the Killua Gon usually sees that he can’t help but treasure those small glimpses of that side of him, the one that’s younger and smaller and more vulnerable.

Gon raps on the door.  Although Killua is groggy in the morning, he tends to be a light sleeper.  Gon should be able to wake him from outside.

“Your Highness?” Gon calls.

Gon waits for several long moments for Killua to respond, but he doesn’t.  He knocks again.

“Your Highness?  Are you alright in there?”

Still nothing.

All at once, the buoyancy drains from Gon’s body, leaving him heavy and cold.  It isn’t like Killua to be late to breakfast.  And it isn’t like him not to wake when Gon knocks on the door.  In an instant, Gon’s certain of it; there’s something wrong.

Gon tries the doorknob.  Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t barge into Killua’s private bedchambers uninvited, but these aren’t the normal circumstances, and he’s willing to try anything if it could prove Killua’s safety.  The door swings open, unlocked.  A sick weight of dread plunges into Gon’s stomach.  That isn’t a good sign.

The bedroom is empty, the bed is made, and there aren’t any clear signs of a struggle.  But if anything, that only worries Gon more.  If someone abducted Killua, they were so skilled as not to leave behind a trace.  Gon clenches his fists tight at his sides.  This is supposed to be his job; he’s supposed to be the one protecting Killua from any threats.  How could he have failed so spectacularly?

Gon doesn’t hesitate for a moment--he takes off down the hall at a full out sprint.  He’s going to search every inch of the castle for any signs of Killua.  Whatever’s happened, wherever he’s gone, Gon will find him and he’ll protect him.  He swears it on his life.

Gon heads to the kitchens first; Killua so often stops down here for a snack that it’s possible someone saw him recently.  But when he skids to a halt inside the door, panting hard and asking after Killua between heaving breaths, he’s told that no one has seen him since he came for the buns last night.  Gon at least remembers to bow in thanks for their help, and then takes off running again.

Gon’s always been a good runner, blessed with a natural inclination for endurance, so he careens through the castle at top speed.  He’s breathing hard, yes, but that’s more likely from the fear than the exhaustion.  The adrenaline coursing through his body dulls the fatigue in his muscles and the burning in his lungs; they’re far-off, hazy sensations, and easily ignored.  He’ll run all day, all night if he has to, if it means he’ll find Killua.

Gon asks everyone he encounters as he races through the palace--guards, waitstaff, custodians.  Has anyone seen the prince?  The more people he asks, panting hard and desperate, the clearer it becomes--whatever happened to Killua, it was done expertly, so as not to leave a single trace.  Whoever took him knew exactly what they were doing.  But regardless of the ever-mounting evidence, regardless of the dread weighing heavier and heavier in his stomach, Gon does his utmost to cling to what little hope he has.  It’s foolish, but he tries to convince himself that there’s still a chance Killua is safe.  Perhaps… perhaps he couldn’t sleep last night.  Yes, he couldn’t sleep and went for a long walk around the grounds.  That’s possible, isn’t it?  It’s probably worth checking the gardens, then; Gon knows Killua often goes there when he wants some space to think.

Gon tears down the stone paths of the gardens, ducking under tree branches and skidding around bushes.  The gardens are beautiful at this time of the morning--the sun having just risen, the dew still clinging to the soft, velvety flower petals--but Gon’s in no mind to enjoy it.  All he can think of is Killua.  Regardless of his attempts to reassure himself, a thousand ever-more-horrible images flash relentlessly in Gon’s mind.  Killua in a crumpled, bloody heap on the floor, struggling even to lift his head.  Killua thrashing against restraints binding his hands, a sack thrown over his head.  Killua calling out for help, calling out for Gon, and hearing no answer.  Killua’s eyes wide with--

“Gon?”

Gon can’t help it--he jumps, even though he recognizes the voice.  He hadn’t noticed her, too focused on finding Killua, but Alluka is sitting on one of the stone benches in the garden, an embroidery hoop and needle in her hands.  It’s a relief to see her, albeit not a total one.  If anyone knows where Killua went, Alluka will.

“Princess, please,” Gon says, his voice shaky and desperate. “Have you seen the prince?  Do you know if something’s happened to him?  I’ve been looking for him all morning, but I haven’t found him anywhere.  Please, I’m really beginning to worry.”

Alluka looks down at the ground, the corners of her mouth tightening into a frown.  Slowly, she sets the embroidery down on the bench beside her.

“Yes, I know where he is,” she says softly. “He’s enduring the consequences for yesterday’s outburst.”

“Consequences?” Gon demands.

“They’re hurting him, Gon.  Badly.”

An uncomfortable heat expands from the center of Gon’s chest out across every inch of his skin until he begins to sweat, his whole body going tense and trembling like it does when he’s been cornered in a fight.  So his predictions hadn’t been wrong at all; Killua really is being hurt right now.  Not by foreign assassins, no, by monarchs known far and wide for their brutality.  Gon wants to be sick.  He can’t imagine what they must be doing to him, but no doubt it’s agonizing and bloody and unfathomably cruel.  He clenches his fists so hard his fingernails begin to bite into his palms.  If only he’d been there when they came for Killua--Gon never would have let them have him.

“Where have they taken him?” Gon demands.  “I’ll go get him myself.  Right now.”

“You can’t,” Alluka says softly.  “To defy the king and queen like that, they’d have you executed on the spot.”

“I don’t care!  Okay?  I don’t care what they want to do to me.  My duty is to protect him.  And that’s what I’m going to do.”

Why can’t Alluka understand?  Gon would gladly give anything, even his life, if it meant Killua could be safe.  Some of it is the sense of duty, yes, but he’ll at last admit that there’s more to it than that.  He’ll admit that the mere thought of Killua being hurt, of Killua enduring pain and cruelty, ignites in Gon an irrepressible, overwhelming rage, a single-minded need to find him, wherever he is and whatever he’s suffering, and protect him.  Whether he dies in the process isn’t important.  All that matters is that Killua’s safe.

Slowly, Alluka rises from the bench and take’s Gon’s hands in her own, cradling them gently.  Only then does he realize how badly his hands are shaking.

“Gon,” Alluka says softly, looking at Gon with those wide, kind eyes.  “This happens all the time.  It’s just a fact of life around here.  And I guarantee you that Big Brother will survive it.  But I’m not sure he’d survive it if he lost you.”

Gon blinks, silent for just a moment.

“Princess,” he says at last, “forgive me, but I don’t understand.  I’m just his guard.  Why would something like that matter to him?”

Alluka shakes her head, her eyes somehow going impossibly softer.

“No, you’re so much more than that.  I know you don’t see it, but everyone else does.  He was so, so lonely before he met you, Gon.  And while you haven’t been here very long, he’s happier now than I’ve ever seen him.”

“Princess, please, I could never accept such an honor.  I--”

“No,” Alluka interrupts, gentle but firm.  “Enough of that.  We’re past that now.  You’re his friend.  Maybe the only friend he’s ever had, and certainly the best.”

Gon clenches his hands, still cradled in Alluka’s, into fists.  She doesn’t release her hold.

“Princess, please forgive me for arguing, but I couldn’t possibly consider myself his friend.  I… I grew up in a small fishing village.  I have no education, no land or wealth, no social standing to speak of.  I couldn’t ever consider myself his equal.”

“Gon, listen to me.  Just listen, okay?  Big Brother has never cared about any of that.  So forget about his lineage, forget about your upbringings, forget about wealth or power.  And then just look at the two of you together.  What could you be if not friends?”

And with that, the last of Gon’s resolve crumbles.  Gon knows he’s speaking the truth, he knows the reality of the situation between Killua and himself, but having Alluka so gently and insistently say that he could be Killua’s friend makes that same buoyant warmth from this morning return, but stronger this time.  He’ll finally admit it to himself--he wants that.  He wants, so desperately, to be Killua’s friend.  And for Killua to be his.  And when Alluka swears it to be true, that Killua cares for him, that Gon’s death would actually be a loss, he isn’t strong enough to stop himself from believing it.

Still holding Gon’s hands, Alluka sits back down on the bench, taking Gon with her to sit down as well.  The shaking in Gon’s hands has subsided slightly, and once they’re both sitting, she finally releases her hold.

“So you’ll wait?  You won’t get yourself killed trying to find him?”

Gon bows his head.

“I would never knowingly cause the prince any pain.  If endangering myself would truly hurt him, I’ll refrain.  For his sake.”

Alluka smiles, and in that moment, with her large blue eyes and delicate features, it’s as if Killua himself were smiling at Gon.

Killua and Gon lean on the balcony outside the ballroom.  The air is cooler out here and the noise is dulled through the doors, so it’s a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the ball.  Killua’s dressed in white and gold, clothes Gon’s never seen him wear before.  Perhaps, if it were someone else, it could be overkill--his fair hair, fair skin, light clothing--but somehow when it’s Killua, it’s only ethereally beautiful.  Out on the balcony, Killua glows brighter than the moon.

Killua is staring out at the grounds over the railing, a flute of golden champagne grasped with effortless elegance in his hand.  Gon is staring at Killua.

“I don’t know why we have to be here,” Killua grumbles.

Gon smiles; it’s always charming when Killua pouts like a child.

“The purpose of this ball is to find you a spouse, Your Highness, so you have to attend.  And wherever you go, I follow.”

Killua shakes his head.

“But that’s just the thing--they don’t need to find me a spouse.  I’ve already decided who I’m marrying, so this is all just a big waste of time.”

Well, that’s certainly news to Gon.

“Who have you chosen, Your Highness?”

Killua is quiet, still staring out over the grounds, his grip on the flute of champagne tightening.

“I can think of three arrangements that would be most advantageous to the kingdom,” Gon continues, “but I’m sure there are components I’m overlooking.  You’re far better at those sorts of decisions than I am.”

Killua smiles, just slightly rueful.

“I’m not choosing based on the good of the kingdom, Gon,” he says softly. “I’m marrying for love.  And I’ve already decided.”

Gon’s heart begins to pound in his chest, so hard he can hear the frantic beat in his ears.  Killua, in love?  This is the first Gon’s heard of such a thing, and he’s desperate to know more.  Who could it be, this person extraordinary enough to capture Killua’s attention?  Gon can’t think of anyone capable of such a feat.

Killua places the flute of champagne down on top of the railing and turns to Gon with a certain expression.  It’s one Gon’s seen before--not on Killua, but on others in the past.  Wide pupils, slightly parted lips, eyes shining with urgency and desperation and hunger.  It’s the look just before a first kiss.

Killua gently brings up a hand and tangles it into the hair behind Gon’s ear, his thumb slowly caressing Gon’s skin.  Gon gasps.  The noise of the ball has suddenly faded away, so the sound is impossibly loud in the silence.  Not even the crickets are chirping.  It’s completely quiet, save for Gon and Killua’s ragged breaths.  And then Killua leans in, slowly and hesitantly, as if there were actually a chance Gon would turn him away.  What an absurd notion.  There’s not a situation Gon can imagine when he would ever refuse Killua kissing him, not now or ever.

Killua closes his eyes, leaving Gon to marvel at his long, dark eyelashes, and leans forward more, just slightly, and at last Gon leans forward too, reaching up a hand to cradle Killua’s cheek, his skin so soft beneath Gon’s hand, and then--

Gon wakes in bed with a gasp, sitting bolt upright and breathing hard.  

Immediately, he clenches his hands, suddenly trembling, into tight fists.  He looks frantically around the room, although he isn’t sure for what, chest heaving up and down with rapid breaths.  Once he’s certain the room is empty of whatever spectres he’d feared, Gon lowers his head into his hands, threading his fingers tight in his hair.  What had he just done?  How could he have permitted himself those thoughts?

Being friends with Killua is one thing.  It’s a violation of the boundary between the two of them, yes, but a forgivable one.  With enough time and effort, Gon could eventually atone for it.  But wanting him?  Longing for him?  Imagining what it would be like to kiss him?  There is no forgiveness for something like that.

But Gon will admit it to himself at last.  When he thinks back on his months at the palace--on Killua’s beauty the moment they met, on his visceral refusal to betray him no matter the threats, on toying with him, sword beneath his chin, when they sparred, on the softness of Killua’s hands against his own when they played the piano, on how it felt for Killua to trust him, sharing secrets over a plate of steamed buns, on his willingness to die provided Killua would be spared--it becomes undeniable.  However much Gon tried to ignore it, however much he tried to pretend it was nothing more than the ferverence of his duty, the truth of the matter is that his feelings for Killua extend beyond the limits of his position as his guard.  And beyond the limits of friendship.  The truth of the matter is that he wishes he hadn’t awoken from that dream when he did, because he’s desperate to know the feeling of Killua’s mouth against his own, even if it were only imagined.

Gon has no chance of immediately falling back asleep, heart still pounding the way it is, so he gets out of bed and heads to the small bathroom attached to his bedchambers.  He turns on the faucet over the bath, the water hotter than he usually enjoys, as if that would be enough to purify things, and lowers the stopper over the drain.  Once the bath is filled, he undresses and carefully steps in.  The water really is uncomfortably hot, but Gon is desperate to feel clean again.  He grabs the roughest sponge from the shelf, and the crudest, harshest bar of soap, and starts to scrub.

All isn’t lost.  There’s still a chance to come back from this.  If Gon has anything, he has force of will, and surely he can will himself out of feeling like this.  He’ll have to pay careful attention to his thoughts, will have to monitor himself for the instant he begins to stray into territory beyond the limits of friendship, and stop himself immediately.  There will be no admiring the way Killua seems to glow when the afternoon light comes in the window just right.  No being mesmerized the movement of the muscles in his forearm when he grips the training sword to spar.  No noticing the way the blue of his jacket brings out the depth of color in his eyes.  Gon can control himself.  He has to.  Someone like him desiring the crown prince of Padokea isn’t the sort of thing that can happen.  Not in this world.  Not in this lifetime.

Gon scrubs and scrubs until his skin is red and stinging, but at least when he emerges from the bath, he feels a little cleaner.  Like just a little of whatever has tainted him has washed away down the drain.  Like there’s a chance, however small, of redemption.

Chapter Text

The following days pass in a blur.  Gon starts biting at his lips again, a nervous habit he thought he’d abandoned in his teenage years.  He doesn’t like leaving his skin ragged and chapped and torn, but the tension is so overwhelming that he needs whatever outlets he can find.  He’s worried about Killua, of course, about whatever horrific violence he’s enduring at the hands of his family.  He’s worried about Killua being alone and afraid and in pain, without anyone to console him.  And, if Gon’s perfectly honest, he’s worried about himself.  About his ability to maintain his control for the remainder of his time at the palace.  He can’t overstep the clear boundaries that exist between Killua and himself.  He just can’t.

Gon resolves to himself that if it ever gets to be too much, if there’s ever a moment he’s certain he’s going to do something unforgivable, like confess his feelings to Killua, he’ll resign.  If he ever truly loses control, he’ll simply leave.  Of course it will be agonizing, to walk away with the knowledge that he’ll never hear Killua laugh again, or listen to him play the piano, or whisper jokes to him in an especially tedious meeting.  Of course it’ll be like reaching deep into his chest and pulling one of his lungs clean out from his ribcage.  But it’s all he’s got.  It’s his failsafe.  His disaster plan.  And it is a comfort, albeit a small one.

With Killua away, Gon’s days at the palace are suddenly empty and structureless.  He hadn’t realized how much his schedule was dictated by Killua--they ate their meals together, and performed Killua’s duties together, and spent the overwhelming majority of their free time in each other’s company.  And now that Killua is gone, Gon’s routine collapses.  There isn’t anywhere he really needs to be, or anything he really needs to do, and it’s awful.  Perhaps to some, the free time would be welcome, but it only gives Gon more opportunities to drive himself mad with worry.  More opportunities to imagine Killua, bruised and bloodied and trembling in a heap on the floor, or crying out, high and agonized, in pain, or flinching in terror at the slightest movement.

Gon does his best to stay busy in an effort to keep his mind occupied.  He trains relentlessly, taking long, grueling runs around the palace grounds and performing all the drills and practice exercises he remembers until he hardly has the strength to lift his sword.  He pushes himself far beyond his body’s limits, and while it often leaves him doubled over and gasping desperately for breath, he only manages to quiet his thoughts when he’s reached that state of complete exhaustion.  It’s welcome, really, to be able to think of nothing but the searing pain in his lungs and the unbearable ache in his muscles.  It’s welcome, to collapse onto his back on the ground, arms outstretched and chest heaving, and have his mind consumed by nothing but the agonizing need for more air.

When Gon isn’t training, he’s reading.  The palace library is enormous, housing more books than Gon thought existed in the entire world, and he uses his now abundant free time to read as many as he can.  He tries a political theory book to start, because Killua had mentioned reading some that night in the turret, but he can’t manage to get through more than a few pages.  He much prefers novels; it’s so easy to lose himself in the struggles of the characters on the page, so much that his own troubles fade away, if only for a moment.  Sleeping has become a challenge--Gon tosses and turns and frets well into the night--so he now has a large stack of books on his nightstand.  He reads until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore, then puts out the lamp and falls asleep almost immediately.  Training and reading.  It isn’t a sophisticated solution, but in the face of the gnawing, sick worry tangling Gon insides into knots, it’s the best he’s got.  And as he heads into the blissful shade of the palace from the blistering sun out on the grounds, the thought of returning to the story he’d been reading last night almost brings him a smile.  He doesn’t quite manage it, not fully, but he at least comes close.

The halls of the palace really have become familiar by now, just like Killua had assured Gon they would, and he knows every twist and turn and staircase to get from the side door facing the training grounds to the alcove with their bedchambers.  He’ll sit by the window and read for the remainder of the evening, he decides.  The sunshine streaming in through the glass and the worn book in his hands likely won’t be truly enjoyable, not with the ever-present worry buzzing relentlessly inside his skull, but they’ll hopefully manage to distract him from a while.

As Gon heads down the hall towards his room, he realizes, to his confusion, that there appears to be a pile of laundry tossed on the ground in the alcove.  It’s hard to tell from this distance, but the clothes appear to have been dumped in a heap and left there, without anyone even bothering to fold them.  It’s strange--the palace servants are usually meticulous about their chores, and it really isn’t like them to leave a pile of clothes lying on the ground in the hallway.  Gon isn’t sure what to make of it.  The clothes look like undergarments, a plain white shirt and shorts, Gon discerns, as he draws closer, and they’re dirty, wrinkled and stained with grime and blood.

Wait, blood?

And then Gon realizes it.  He’s close enough now to see that some of what he thought was laundry at a distance is really silvery-white hair and fair skin.  And some of the bloodstains aren’t on the clothes, but are lacerations marring bare arms and legs.  It isn’t dirty laundry that’s been dumped in a heap outside Killua’s bedchambers, Gon realizes, insides going horribly tense and cold in an instant.  It’s--

“Killua!” Gon shouts, and takes off down the hall at a sprint.

Gon’s aware, in a distant, far-off sort of way, that he just addressed Killua by his given name, that he just shouted it at the top of his lungs for anyone to hear, and that under normal circumstances, he’d be falling to one knee and begging for forgiveness.  That under normal circumstances, Gon would be consumed by guilt and shame and horror for daring to speak to Killua with such familiarity.  But these aren’t the normal circumstances.  No, because what he’d thought was a pile of stained clothes is actually a bruised and battered Killua, just like Gon had been imagining him, collapsed in a bloodied heap on the floor.

In an instant, Gon is crouched down at Killua’s side on the floor, pulling him into his arms  to help him sit upright.  He flinches when Gon first touches him, doing his best to pull away with what little strength he has, but then he slowly opens his eyes, blinking up at Gon, and his pained expression softens.

Gon had expected the worst, but he’s still somehow unprepared for seeing Killua like this.  He’s wearing nothing but an undershirt and shorts, so there’s little to conceal his injuries.  It seems every inch of his visible skin is covered in bruises and lacerations, a sickening kaleidoscope of purples and reds and maroons.  Some of them are more healed than others, so the torture must’ve lasted the entire week Killua had been away.  From the moment they took him, they’d been hurting him, and if his injuries are anything to go by, they hardly stopped for a second.

But in that moment, cradled in Gon’s arms, his eyes struggling to focus, Killua doesn’t look to be frightened or in pain.  No, he’s gazing up at Gon with the strangest expression, something far too gentle and fond for someone injured as badly as he is.  And before Gon can stop himself, he reaches out and carefully brushes Killua’s hair out of his face, caressing his forehead and face as he does.  Killua’s eyes flutter closed again, and, although it may just be a trick of the light, Gon swears he sees him smile for just a moment.

“I’ll get Leorio,” Gon says, his voice shaking.  “I’ll go find him and he can come treat your injuries.  It’ll be fine, Your Highness.  I promise.  It’s going to be okay.”

Killua reaches up a trembling, unsteady hand and grabs the front of Gon’s shirt tight.

“No,” he manages, his voice soft and strained.  “He already knows.  He’s coming.  Please, just… just stay with me, okay?”

Gon can’t help himself--he reaches out and caresses Killua’s face again, pausing to cradle his jaw for just a moment.

“Of course, Your Highness,” he says, hardly above a whisper.  “If you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”  

At that, Killua relaxes again, his grip on Gon’s shirt softening, and he rests heavier against Gon’s chest.

“Can I at least get you into bed so you can rest properly?” Gon asks.

Killua nods, so Gon, as carefully and gently as he can manage, reaches down and braces an arm beneath Killua’s knees and the other beneath his shoulders, and lifts him off the ground.  Killua flinches slightly when Gon touches him, but given how badly he’s injured, there probably isn’t a way Gon could carry him without putting pressure on his wounds.  Gon knows this, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to reach out a hand and gently smooth the pained furrow from Killua’s brow.

Gon opens the door to Killua’s bedchambers as carefully as he can with Killua cradled in his arms, and slowly crosses the room, doing his best not to jostle Killua any more than he has to, before gently laying him down against the pillows.  As soon as Killua’s settled, Gon grabs the nearest chair and pulls it to his bedside.  If Killua asked him to stay, Gon won’t leave his side until he’s told to.

Without really meaning to, acting on nothing but the ache in his ribcage from seeing Killua in such pain, Gon reaches out a careful hand and strokes Killua’s hair.  Like last time, Killua’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs softly, relaxing slightly against the pillows.  But something about Killua’s reaction makes Gon suddenly come to his senses, and he pulls his hand back as if he were burned.  What has he been thinking, to touch Killua so intimately without invitation?  Even injured, Killua’s still royalty, and Gon can’t treat him otherwise.

But then Killua slowly opens his eyes and frowns.

“You didn’t need to stop,” he murmurs, not quite meeting Gon’s eyes.  “It was helping.”

And then it’s simply too easy to justify.  Then Gon can tell himself that he isn’t stroking Killua’s hair because he wants to.  That he isn’t doing it because the whole of his body prickles with the sharp, insistent need to touch Killua, because the sight of him bruised and bloodied compels Gon, against his better judgment, to soothe and comfort him.  No, Gon can tell himself that he’s only stroking Killua’s hair because he asked, and that it’s solely for Killua’s benefit, and that his own feelings have nothing to do with it.

So Gon reaches out a slow, trembling hand and gently runs it through Killua’s hair.  Killua’s eyes close again and he sighs, soft and contented, as he relaxes against the pillows.  Emboldened, Gon strokes his hair again, allowing his hand to come down and caress Killua’s face as well, and Killua, just barely perceptibly, presses into the touch.  Killua’s hair is so soft, even dirty and tangled as it is now, and his skin is, too.  Gon can’t help but relish the feeling of his hand in Killua’s hair, against his skin, as he strokes him tenderly and attentively.  Gon does his utmost to memorize the feeling, the softness of Killua’s skin and hair against his hand, to lock it away somewhere deep and quiet to call upon whenever he needs.

Gon doesn’t know how long they sit there, his hand stroking Killua’s hair, Killua’s breathing growing slower and more even with each passing moment.  Things like time fade away in moments like these and the world narrows down to nothing but sensation.  The feeling of Killua’s hair against Gon’s hand, the warmth radiating from his skin, the gentle cadence of his breathing, the bright, ever-expanding feeling swelling up to fill Gon’s chest.  In this moment, that’s all he knows.

But eventually, after some undetermined amount of time, the door to Killua’s bedchambers opens and Leorio enters, a large bag in hand.  Gon had almost forgotten he was coming, too caught up in the feeling of stroking Killua’s hair, but he’s a welcome sight.  Killua desperately needs someone to tend to his injuries.

Leorio pauses for a moment in the doorway and takes one look at Killua and his expression  immediately goes grim and resigned.  He doesn’t look horrified or shocked, like Gon had been, and perhaps that’s worse, because it’s clear that Leorio has seen Killua like this too many times to be surprised.

“How do you feel, Your Highness?” Leorio asks, coming to Killua’s bedside.

Killua grimaces.

“Never better,” he says, but the strain in his voice weakens his attempt at humor.

But even so, Leorio lets out a small laugh and rolls his eyes, and then reaches into the bag and pulls out a small glass bottle with a number of white tablets inside.

“For the pain,” he says, setting the bottle down on Killua’s bedside table.  “You can take one every four to six hours.”

Killua nods, and pushes himself to sit up against the pillows before opening the bottle and shaking one of the tablets out into his hand.  Gon is about to fetch a glass of water from the bathroom, but Killua pops it into his mouth and swallows it dry, his nose wrinkling slightly.  At the taste, Gon would guess.

“Now let me have a look at you,” Leorio says, something equal parts sad and gentle in his tone.  “We’ll bandage the worst of it and stitch you up if we need to and then I’ll leave you be.”

Killua nods again, and then pulls the thin white shirt over his head, wincing slightly as he does, and it’s suddenly all Gon can do not to gasp.  Killua’s arms and legs are a mess, but they’re nothing compared to the damage on his torso.  There’s hardly an inch of skin that isn’t bruised or broken, and they criss-cross in such a pattern that it’s clear he had been whipped with something.  The urge to touch Killua overtakes Gon, but stronger this time, a desperate need to gather Killua in his arms and stroke through his hair and along the contours of his face, as if with just enough gentleness, Gon could somehow undo the brutality he had suffered.

But Gon manages to restrain himself.  Instead, he merely pulls his chair back a bit from the bed to allow Leorio easier access to Killua and waits silently.

Leorio doesn’t speak much as he works either.  He tells Killua when the antiseptic might sting, or warns him that he has to stitch a wound closed, or asks him to move slightly so he can better reach a certain part of his skin, but otherwise, he’s quiet, lips pressed together and a furrow in his brow.  Perhaps he wasn’t surprised at finding Killua injured, but it’s clear he can’t stand to see him like this.  

Still, watching Leorio tend to Killua eases the urgency of Gon’s need to touch him, at least.  Leorio is so gentle and careful as he treats Killua’s wounds, doing his utmost to avoid causing him any more pain than he has to, and it allows Gon to relax, albeit only slightly.  At least there’s someone in the palace who’s certain to touch Killua kindly.

Eventually, Leorio finishes dressing Killua’s wounds, and although Killua isn’t healed--not by a long shot--the worst of the injuries have been treated, and that’s something.  Leorio surveys him a final time, looking over the wounds carefully, and then packs his supplies back into his bag and stands.  He hesitates for a moment at Killua’s bedside, and then reaches down and places a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“If you need anything, send someone for me,” he says softly.  “Doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night.  If the pain gets to be too much, I’ll be here in an instant.  Alright, Your Highness?”

Killua nods, looking down at his quilt intently.

“Yeah, got it.  Thank you, Leorio.  Like always.”

Leorio smiles slightly, although it doesn’t fully reach his eyes, and gives Killua’s shoulder a squeeze before leaving the bedchamber, shutting the door softly behind himself.  

Immediately, Gon pulls his chair back up to Killua’s bedside.  Even though it’s only a difference of a few feet, something deep in his chest seems to tug him towards Killua, and he needs to be as close as he can.

“I was thinking, Your Highness,” Gon says once he’s beside Killua again.  “I have a number of novels in my room.  I could read one to you, if you’d like.  Whenever I’ve been in a great deal of pain, it’s always helped if I had something to take my mind off of it.”

Killua smiles slightly, and there’s such warmth in his eyes when he looks towards Gon that Gon’s breath catches in his throat for a moment.

“That would be great, actually.  I’d welcome a distraction right now.”

Gon bows his head in acknowledgement, and then stands from his chair, heading towards the door.

“Wait,” Killua says suddenly, after Gon’s only taken a step or two away from his bed, something strange in his voice.  Immediately, Gon turns back towards him.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

Killua suddenly averts his gaze, beginning to worry the fabric of his quilt between his fingers intently.

“In the hallway,” he begins slowly.  “When you found me.  You… you called me by my given name.”

Gon clenches his fists hard and tight until his nails bite into his palms.  He’d thought Killua hadn’t been conscious enough to have heard him in the hallway, but clearly he’d been mistaken.  The shame twists suddenly and painfully at his insides.  It doesn’t matter that it had been in a moment of panic, or that Gon hadn’t been thinking clearly, or that he’d only said it once.  To have called Killua by his given name was more inappropriate than Gon can describe.

“There is no excuse for my mistake, Your Highness,” Gon says, bowing low enough that his torso is fully parallel to the floor.  “I merely beg your forgiveness for--”

“No,” Killua interrupts, something oddly tense in his tone.  “No, Gon.  That’s not what I meant.  I… I liked it.  A lot.  I want you to call me that from now on.  And I don’t want you to speak so formally to me.  I don’t want those barriers between us anymore.  I’ve never wanted them, actually.”

Gon straightens up from his bow, his heart suddenly hammering his chest.

“Your Highness, forgive me, but I couldn’t possibly address you in such a manner.  For someone of my station to speak to you like that… I couldn’t even dream of such a thing.”

“Well, you’ve done it once already, haven’t you?  So clearly you could dream of it, right?”

Gon bows again, swiftly and just as low as before.

“Your Highness, allow me to apologize again.  I never should have spoken to you like that, and I can’t--”

“No, Gon, I’m sorry.  That must have come out wrong.  I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty.” Killua sighs.  “Gods, I don’t know why this is so hard.”

Something in Killua’s tone makes Gon stand up from his bow again, just to try to read his expression.  His shoulders are rolled forward and his head is slumped slightly and there’s the strangest vulnerability in his eyes.

“Look, I’m not going to order you to call me by my name.  That would entirely miss the point.  So I’m just going to ask you.  As a friend.  Please.  It would mean a great deal to me.”

And then Gon simply isn’t strong enough to resist any longer.  Because in truth, he wants to call Killua by his name.  In truth, he wants to make believe that they live in a world beyond royalty and class and boundaries, a world where they’re simply Killua and Gon.  A world where they’re simply two friends, unrestrained by the bindings of etiquette and formality.  Gon and Killua.  Killua and Gon.  And nothing more.  And at last, without the will to fight against it any longer, Gon gives in.

“Yes, Your--I mean, alright, Killua.  If that’s what you want.”

Gon can’t help how good Killua’s name feels in his mouth.

Chapter Text

Gon makes good on his promise to Killua.  As Killua recovers from his injuries, the color returning to his face and the lacerations healing a bit at a time, Gon reads to him.  Gon gets through four and a half books in the two weeks Killua spends mostly bedridden.  He reads to Killua for hours at a time, until his voice finally gives out, going hoarse and breathy from overuse.  And even then, he drinks some water, takes a short break, and returns only an hour or two later to resume the story.

It’s not enough.  Gon knows this.  After Killua had been beaten and tortured by his family for a week, Gon’s dedication to keeping him company as he recovers doesn’t change what he suffered.  Even if the distraction might ease the pain, it’s the deeper parts--the terror and betrayal and rage and desperation--that Gon knows he has no chance of touching.  But it’s the best he can do, and so, insufficient though it may be, he reads to Killua with a near fanatical devotion.  As soon as he wakes in the morning, he’s at Killua’s bedside with a book, and he doesn’t leave until Killua’s fallen asleep to the sound of his voice.  It may not be enough, but it’s something, at least.  And Gon is desperate to do whatever he can.  However small, however inconsequential, he’ll do what he can.

Leorio, too, looks after Killua with something close to fury.  Not fury at Killua, of course.  No, he’s only ever gentle and patient and encouraging when treating him.  But Gon catches glimpses of it sometimes.  The way Leorio’s hand will clench into a white-knuckled fist as he tends to a particularly deep wound on Killua’s back.  Or how a muscle will jump in his jaw as he carefully tests Killua’s range of motion in his arms.  He’s clearly furious, and clearly powerless to act upon it, so he seems to focus the rage towards ensuring Killua is as comfortable as he can be.  It’s the sort of kindness that tries to take all the injustice and cruelty a person has suffered and throw it back into the world’s teeth.  The sort of kindness that’s built on the furious refusal to accept brutality without putting up a fight.

And Killua heals, little by little.  At first, he only manages to sit upright for a few minutes.  But a few minutes becomes an hour.  And then two.  And then Killua is able to walk to the bathroom without leaning heavily on Gon for support.  And then, eventually, he’s moving with his usual ease and confidence.  There are still some injuries that are scabbed over, and still some bruises stubbornly refusing to fade, but he’s able to resume his duties at the palace with only the occasional wince when he moves wrong.

But even once he’s healed, he requests, eyes trained on the ground, that Gon continues reading to him.

“I just want to know where the story goes next,” he says, sounding deliberately casual.  “We stopped halfway through one of the books.  And… and the story’s different, hearing it through your voice.”

And when he asks like that, a flush to his cheeks and his hands clenched tight at his sides, who is Gon to refuse?

They take their reading from Killua’s bedroom out to the gardens.  Summer is slowly turning to fall, and the heat is no longer unbearable, so they pass long hours enjoying the golden sunlight and slowly changing leaves.  The reading fits into place alongside the sparring and piano playing and meals they share, and while Gon enjoys the novels, in truth, he’d enjoy any excuse to spend time in Killua’s company.

They find themselves on a familiar stone bench in the gardens reading on a Saturday.  The autumn flowers are beginning to bloom—pansies and black-eyed Susans and marigolds, a swath of reds and oranges and purples lining the paths.  As Gon reads, Killua picks a variety of them and weaves them into a garland with deft, nimble movements.  When the garland has reached a decent size, Killua reaches over to place it on Gon’s head, positioning it to rest on top of his hair just so.  The brush of Killua’s hands against Gon’s hair sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.

“There,” Killua says, when Gon stops reading to take a breath.  “You have a crown, so you’re a prince now.”

Gon smiles.

“Is that so?”

“It is.  Today’s your coronation, in fact.  So what will be your first royal decree?”

Gon pauses for a moment to contemplate his answer.

“I decree that Killua has to read to me now, because my voice is getting tired.”

Killua bows his head.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

Gon’s about to hand the book to Killua for him to hold, but before he gets a chance, Killua wraps his arms around Gon from behind, his hands resting atop of Gon’s on the pages and his chin coming to sit on Gon’s shoulder so that he can see.

Immediately, Gon’s whole body goes tense and rigid.  Putting his hands on top of Killua’s to play the piano was one thing, but with how they’re sitting now, it’s like Killua is holding him, his chest pressed to Gon’s back and his arms wrapped around him.  It’s the way lovers might sit, although Killua likely doesn’t realize it.

Gon wants to pull away.  He wants to have the strength to force a laugh, to say something like “What are you doing, Killua?” with deliberate levity, and to move himself out of Killua’s arms so that they can sit properly.  But Gon finds that he can’t.  For all the time he’s spent training his body and mind, all the hours he’s spent cultivating discipline and endurance, his strength fails him now, completely and totally.  Killua’s arms are so solid around him, and Gon can feel the heat from his skin where his chest rests against his back, and his hair tickles Gon’s face slightly from where his head perches on his shoulder.  It’s simply too good to be held like this, too warm and gentle and reassuring.  For as much as Gon knows he should pull away, for as much as he worries about what someone might think, happening upon the two of them sitting like this, he can’t find within himself the strength to refuse Killua’s embrace.

And so, against his better judgment, Gon finds himself relaxing, bit by bit.  His posture softens and he allows himself to lean heavier against Killua’s chest and tilt his head to the side slightly, resting against Killua’s.  Eventually, he even finds himself closing his eyes.  Gon can feel the rumble of Killua’s voice against his skin as he reads and it’s like the steady purr of a cat, lulling him into a state of comfort and relaxation so overpowering that he abandons his better judgement entirely.  Why should he care if one of the palace staff catches them sitting like this?  Or if rumors begin to spread about the nature of their relationship?  Would that truly matter?  Of course not.  The only thing that matters is the warmth of Killua’s body, the softness of his hair, the rumble of his voice against Gon’s back.  The gardens could crumble into rubble around them and Gon wouldn’t be able to worry about it even if he tried.  The contentment and bliss are too overwhelming.  There isn’t a world that exists beyond Killua’s embrace.  Not a world that matters, anyway.

And lulled into this state of sleepy contentment, Gon allows his mind to wander.  He allows himself to imagine a life in which he and Killua can sit in each other’s arms whenever they choose.  He imagines the feeling of Killua’s lithe, elegant body cradled in his arms, the weight of Killua’s head resting on his chest, rising and falling with his every breath.  Or the feeling of Killua’s cool, soft hand grasped in his own, their fingers fitting together with a perfection that feels predestined, as if they were meant to hold onto each other.  He imagines pressing a kiss to Killua’s fair, downy hair, breathing in the floral scent of Killua’s shampoo and reveling in the impossible softness, and how Killua might gasp slightly in pleased surprise.

By the time Killua closes the book, Gon’s nearly dozing.  He hasn’t been paying attention to the story--instead, he’s focused on nothing but the cadence and sensation of Killua’s voice.  The words fade away and all that exists is the sound and vibration of Killua speaking.  Gon imagines Killua could say anything--a foreign language Gon doesn’t understand, or nonsensical syllables--and he’d be captivated by nothing but his voice.

“Hey,” Killua says softly, nudging Gon.  “It’s getting dark.  We should head back inside.”

Gon groans in protest and simply snuggles closer to Killua’s chest.

“Comfy,” he murmurs, sounding far more petulant than he intended.

Killua sighs.

“It’ll start getting cold soon, and then you won’t be comfy anymore.”

“But you’re warm,” Gon counters.

Gon feels it rather than hears it--the sharp, sudden breath Killua sucks in.

“Fine,” Killua sighs, and then in one swift motion, scoops Gon up into his arms and stands.  “If you’re going to act like a child, I’m going to carry you like a child.”

He says it like it’s a punishment, which doesn’t make any sense.  Gon can’t imagine ever refusing Killua holding him.

Killua pauses for a moment, as if he expects Gon to wriggle out of his grasp in indignation, but Gon merely loops his arms around Killua’s neck and presses his head closer to his chest.  Killua makes a sound that’s half-laughter, half-groan, and begins to walk, Gon held in his arms as if he didn’t weigh a thing.

Gon knows Killua is strong.  He’s sparred with him enough to understand that Killua has trained his body for feats of power and endurance, honing it until it’s nearly a weapon.  But it’s different to have that strength turned on Gon, for Killua to carry him like he’s something small and fragile.  Gon’s never liked the feeling of smallness before, but he finds now that it sends a thrill shivering down his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, and igniting a warmth deep in his stomach.

“What would people say, huh?” Killua says, soft and fond. “If they saw you forcing the crown prince to carry you just because you’re being stubborn and clingy?”

Gon presses closer to Killua’s chest.  He smells so nice, like lavender soap.

“I thought I was a prince too, right?  Wasn’t today my coronation?”

Gon feels Killua’s laugh vibrate through the whole of his body.

“Yeah,” he says softly.  “I guess it was.”

Gon’s come to expect to spend his free time reading in the gardens with Killua.  If there are no duties left to perform and they’ve both tired of sparring or playing the piano, Gon doesn’t even think to ask if Killua wants to join him.  He simply collects the novel from his room and heads towards the gardens, Killua always close behind.  So it’s a surprise when today, Killua refuses Gon’s offer to read.

“We’ve got something else planned for this afternoon,” Killua says, with that gleam in his eye Gon had noticed before, the one that means he’s excited about something.  “Come with me down to the stables.”

And so Gon follows him, an eager, anticipatory warmth beginning to spread down his limbs.  Killua’s planned a surprise for him.  That thought alone is enough to send Gon’s head spinning.

They tack up two horses in the barn, placing saddles on their gleaming backs and coaxing their elegant heads into bridles.  Killua pointedly refuses to answer Gon’s questions about where they’re headed or what they’re going to do.  He merely smirks, a crooked, self-satisfied smile, and tells Gon that he’ll see in time.  So Gon, after enough fruitless attempts, stops asking, and merely follows Killua out of the stables on horseback and down a winding dirt path headed into the woods.

Especially lately, it’s been so easy for Gon to forget that Killua’s a prince, but seeing him atop his horse, there’s no mistaking it.  His form and posture are impeccable, and he guides his horse with such certainty and confidence.  It’s clear he grew up learning how to ride like royalty.  Gon, in contrast, rarely bothered to go to the trouble of putting on a saddle when he rode, choosing instead to vault onto his mount and take off at a gallop bareback.  He knows he doesn’t ride like someone with proper training, not with the elegance that Killua displays.

But Gon doesn’t feel jealous of Killua’s grace.  No, he’s merely mesmerized.  The perfect straight column of Killua’s spine, the strong grip of his thighs against the saddle, those elegant, delicate hands grasping the reins--all of it enraptures him.  Gon keeps stealing glances at Killua whenever he thinks he won’t be noticed.  He wants to memorize every detail of Killua’s form atop his horse so that he can conjure it in his mind whenever he chooses.

Gon’s aware, distantly, that he’s breaking his vow to himself about refusing to indulge in these sorts of thoughts about Killua.  His imagination is running away with him, picturing himself seated behind Killua on horseback, his arms wrapped around his waist for stability, his chest pressed to Killua’s back.  He knows these are the exact sort of fantasies he swore to himself he’d avoid.  But the pull of them is simply too strong, the warmth and bliss he feels too powerful.  They’re a siren song, drawing him farther and farther into treacherous waters, and although Gon knows he’s steering himself straight into a shipwreck, he can’t bring himself to care.

Eventually, after riding for an hour or so, the trees finally part and they find themselves in a vast field of wildflowers.  Gon can’t help but gasp.  It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen, an endless sea of color undulating gracefully in the wind.  A landscape like this seems too beautiful for real life.  It’s the sort of thing that belongs in a painting, or perhaps a storybook.  Something this impossibly picturesque can’t truly be sitting in front of him, the scent of flowers wafting towards him slightly on the breeze.

“Do you like it?” Killua asks, undeniable pride and satisfaction in his voice.

It takes Gon several long moments before he can respond.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says softly.

Killua grins and then dismounts his horse, reaching into his saddlebag and pulling out some square objects wrapped in dish cloths.  They look like lunchboxes, if Gon had to guess.  He’s impressed that Killua managed to sneak them into the bags without Gon noticing.

“I thought we might have a picnic,” Killua says.  “What do you say?”

Gon smiles.

“I can’t think of a better way to spend the afternoon.”

They sit at the edge of the field, careful not to trample any more of the wildflowers than they have to, and Killua begins opening the small containers of food.  There are probably too many sweet dishes, pastries and buns and baked goods, but Gon is only charmed by it.  Killua and his sweet tooth.  It’s so wonderfully endearing.

Gon remembers all those weeks ago, when he’d felt the sting of impropriety at eating from the same plate as Killua that night in the turret.  It’s funny, how much things have changed.  How little Gon thinks of selecting a tangerine from one of the lunch boxes, peeling it, and giving Killua half.  Or smacking Killua’s hand away when he reaches for the pastry Gon had been eyeing.  Or eating the pickle Killua removed, distastefully, from his sandwich.  It seems so silly to have ever felt shy about this sort of thing.  Who better to share a meal with than Killua?

But then Killua selects a red, ripe strawberry from one of the lunchboxes, appraising it as he holds it by the stem, and then raises it to his mouth to take a bite, and all at once, Gon can’t breathe.  It’s too much.  The whiteness of Killua’s teeth sinking into the flesh of the strawberry.  The redness of his lips complemented by the rich color of the fruit.  The deft way his tongue darts out from his mouth to chase a stray bit of juice.  Gon’s vision tunnels, going dark and hazy around the edges, and bringing Killua--Killua’s teeth, Killua’s lips, Killua’s tongue--into exquisite, excruciating focus.  It’s all Gon can do not to gasp.

Killua turns back to Gon and Gon quickly tears his gaze away, determined not to be caught staring.

“Gon,” Killua says, something strange and unreadable in his tone. “Tell me.  If you could travel anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?”

Gon doesn’t have to think on his answer for even a moment.

“I wouldn’t go anywhere.  I’d be right here, Killua.  With you.”

Killua grins, his eyes warm and delighted.

“Funny, but my answer is just the same.”

And suddenly, compelled by an instinct he can’t fully explain, Gon picks a pink flower from beside them and leans forward to tuck it behind Killua’s ear.  That’s all he meant to do. Really.  Just tuck the flower behind Killua’s ear, the pink contrasting with the deep blue of his eyes.  But Gon finds he can’t draw back once he’s placed it.  No, like the pull of two magnets, his hand is drawn to Killua’s face, is compelled to trail behind Killua’s ear to cup his skull, stroking gently at his soft, downy hair.  Killua’s pupils go wide, his eyes suddenly dark and desperate, and he parts his lips to take in a sharp breath.

Gon drags his hand lower, coming to cradle Killua’s jaw.  His thumb sits hardly an inch from Killua’s mouth, and he suddenly has to know if it’ll feel as soft and warm as it looks, needs it down to his bones, so he shifts his hand slightly to drag his thumb across Killua’s bottom lip.  Killua gasps slightly and his eyes flutter closed, dark eyelashes fanning elegantly against the pale skin of his cheek.  Gon was right--Killua’s mouth is soft.  And warm.  And full and supple against his skin.  So Gon doesn’t pull his hand back.  Instead, he drags it over Killua’s mouth again, tracing the outline of his top lip--the peaks and dip of his cupid’s bow--and then against the mesmerizing swell of his bottom lip.

Killua’s breath is coming in harsh, desperate pants now, and Gon can feel them, sharp and rapid, against his hand.  There’s a flush to Killua’s cheeks, a deep, vibrant pink, and he swallows, his throat bobbing with a strained, choked motion.  Gon drinks in every bit of it--the softness of Killua’s mouth against his thumb, the warmth of his fair skin where his hand cradles Killua’s jaw, the impossible length and curve of his eyelashes, the sound of his ever-quickening breaths.  He’s so beautiful like this, and it’s suddenly not enough to observe him from afar.  The few inches separating his mouth from Killua’s stretch for miles--he’s so far away, so distant--and it’s unbearable.  Gon has to get closer.  He has to bridge the gap.  The sheer need of it squeezes hard on his ribcage, until there’s hardly room for air.  So he leans forward, slowly and carefully, and closes his eyes, and--

All at once, Gon pulls back, horror flooding into his gut so quickly and powerfully that he feels sick.

No.  What was he thinking?   What was he thinking?  In his time at the palace, Gon’s crossed boundaries with Killua countless times.  Toying with him, sword beneath his chin, when they sparred.  Resting his hands atop of Killua’s as he played the piano.  Shouting his name in the hallway.  But those were different.  They were violations, yes, but violations that could happen between friends.  But this time… This time he’d almost kissed Killua.  He’d been a moment away from it.  Maybe less.  And that would be the final nail in the coffin.  There aren’t any laws forbidding royalty from befriending commoners.  But there are strict mandates governing who can be married to royalty.  And Gon could never.  Not in this lifetime, anyway.

Killua’s eyes open, slowly, and his gaze is hazy and unfocused for a long moment, before it finally clears and the color drains from his face.

“I… um, I heard thunder,” Gon says, voice coming out stiff and unsteady.  “I think we should go.  To try to avoid the rain.”

Killua’s quiet for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he says at last, his tone soft but otherwise unreadable.  “Let’s try to get home before it starts.”

As they pack the food back into their lunchboxes and mount their horses again, there isn’t a single cloud in the sky.

Chapter Text

Gon has to leave.

The knowledge sits like lead in his stomach for the rest of the day.  It was his promise to himself.  He swore that as soon as he knew he could no longer maintain his restraint with Killua, he’d go.  And there’s no denying it any longer--he’s finally crossed that boundary for good, finally reached that point of no return people always talk about.  Gon simply has no other options, the doors closing on him with every step, until at last only one way out remains.  He has to leave.  There isn’t any more to it than that.

They hardly speak on the ride back to the palace, and Gon does his utmost to avoid looking at Killua as they take the saddles and bridles off of their horses and return them to the pasture.  It’s funny, thinking back on how Gon had lowered his gaze all those months ago in the throne room as a sign of deference and respect.  Now, it’s simply because if he looks at Killua for longer than a moment or two, he starts to feel like he might cry.

Gon wishes he could enjoy his last evening in the palace more.  Alluka joins the two of them for dinner, and normally he’d be laughing and joking along, but tonight he can’t manage more than an occasional polite smile or nod in acknowledgement.  He supposes it’s at least a small mercy that he isn’t forced to dine with Killua alone; Alluka can carry the conversation now that Gon’s throat has gone too tight to speak.

Killua must sense something in Gon, because he gives him the evening to himself, claiming he’s been called to training with Bisky on short notice.  Gon can clearly see through the lie, but he can’t muster up the energy to question it.  And in truth, he simply couldn’t bear to spend this final night with Killua.  If he did, he might never find the strength to leave.

Instead, Gon disappears to the gardens for the night, and only then, surrounded by the fragrance of the flowers and the scent of rich earth, does he allow himself to cry.

Gon is no stranger to loss.  He’s lost friends and loves and hopes and opportunities--all together, it’s too many things to name.  But this feels different, somehow.  Losing Killua aches more deeply and acutely than anything he’s ever experienced.  The other wounds were superficial, in comparison.  This one goes straight down to the bone.

And perhaps the worst of it is that he doesn’t have anyone else to blame.  It’s his fault for falling in love with Killua.  It’s his fault for allowing his desire to grow and grow unfettered.  It’s his fault for agreeing to call Killua by his given name, for making that one fatal misstep that finally transgressed the boundary between them for good.  There were a thousand chances to have salvaged this, a thousand chances to have restrained himself, and he refused to take a single one of them.  It was too inviting, too gratifying to allow himself to grow closer and closer to Killua, enough that he abandoned his better judgement and slowly stopped fighting it altogether.  Gon recalls reading a story like this somewhere, of someone drawn to fly so close the warmth and light of the sun he’d melted his wings and come plummeting back to earth.  Gon understands it now, far better than he ever did before.  He understands loving something enough to throw all reason, all sense, all self-preservation, no matter how great the fall.

Unsure what else to do with himself, Gon spends the night wandering the gardens, picking a bouquet of flowers to give to Killua as a sort of parting gift.  They won’t be much consolation, he knows that, but that isn’t the point.  Killua simply ought to have flowers.  And Gon wants, selfishly, to see to that, just once.

Gon takes the occasional nap on some of the benches throughout the gardens as he wanders, but he doesn’t get more than an hour or two of sleep in total.  His whole body is too tense and sick to allow him to relax for more than a few minutes at a time.  And it feels fair, in its own way.  The exhaustion is the least of what he deserves right now.

The sun rises, eventually, and Gon realizes he can’t wait any longer.  There’s no delaying it anymore.  He has to go to Killua, he has to resign, and he has to leave.  The point of no return, he reminds himself.  The one remaining door.

Gon feels the strangest sensation of otherness as he walks through the palace to Killua’s room.  It’s as if he were outside his own body, watching someone else take each step, watching someone else’s hand gripping the bouquet of flowers.  But for as odd as he finds it, it’s welcome.  He has a bit of space from himself right now, and it dulls the pain into something close to bearable.  If he can make it through the conversation with this sense of distance, he might just survive it.

But Gon’s wish isn’t fulfilled.  No, the moment he opens the door to Killua’s bedchambers and sees him brushing his hair in the mirror, the distance suddenly evaporates, and Gon finds himself firmly back inside his body again, fully alert and aware.  It’s as if Killua’s mere presence were enough to make him real again.  His throat tightens painfully at the thought.

“Morning!” Killua says brightly, doing his best to flatten a cowlick on the top of his head.

“Good morning.”

Gon knows his voice comes out soft and strained, but right now, it’s the best he can do.

Wordlessly, he takes a pitcher from Killua’s bedside table and fills it with water from the sink for the flowers.  Gon’s aware, vaguely, that Killua’s talking to him, but he can’t manage to pay attention to what he says.  Instead, he directs all of his attention towards arranging the flowers, ensuring that they sit just so.  It’s suddenly all-consuming, the need for the flowers to rest perfectly in the pitcher.  Everything else--all sound and sensation and thought--fades away, and Gon’s only focus is moving a stem here or arranging a leaf there.  It’s peaceful, he supposes, in its own way.

“--you listening?  Gon?  Hey, Gon!”

Gon blinks, at last breaking from his reverie and turning back to Killua.  The shift was inevitable, however unwelcome; he knows he couldn’t truly arrange the flowers forever.

“Sorry,” he says, voice stilted.  “I didn’t sleep very well last night.  I might be a little out of it.”

Immediately, something startled and vulnerable flashes on Killua’s face, but he quickly schools his expression back into something cheerful.

“C’mon, what’s the matter with you?” Killua says, with clearly forced levity.  “You’re acting like someone died.”

Gon takes a deep, steadying breath, clenching his fists tight at his sides.  He stares at the ground for a long moment, gathering his strength, before lifting his gaze to meet Killua’s.  He at least wants to look him in the eyes when he says it.

“I’d like to resign,” he says softly.

All at once, Killua’s face goes so white the color even drains from his lips, giving him a sickly, grey pallor.

“Resign?” he asks, his voice unsteady.

“Yes.  And return to Whale Island.”

Killua swallows, his throat bobbing in a strained, choked sort of way.

“Seriously, Gon, has someone died?  Is your aunt sick?  Is that what those flowers are about?”

Gon wills himself not to cry.  His throat is tightening and his eyes are beginning to prickle, but he doesn’t want Killua’s last memory of him to be one of Gon in tears.

“No, no one’s sick.  I just need to resign.”

“Did I do something?” Killua asks, high and desperate.  “Have I wronged you in some way?”

“No, Killua, you could never.”

Gon can see how hard Killua’s breathing even from a distance, and it makes an awful, sick guilt flood his stomach.  The last thing he wants to do is hurt Killua.  He’d sooner cut off his own right arm.  If only he’d managed to control himself properly, he wouldn’t be causing Killua so much pain now.  It’s Gon’s fault, like everything has been in this whole mess.

“Then why do you want to resign?”

“Killua, please,” Gon says softly.  “Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

“No.” Killua’s voice trembles, his chest still heaving up and down with desperate breaths.  “Give me a reason.  I won’t let you leave without telling me why.”

Gon bows his head.

“I’m no longer fit to be in your service, Your Highness.”

“No, Gon!” Killua all but shouts.  “Don’t go back to that bullshit again!  Don’t go back to acting like you’re beneath me!”

Killua’s eyes are wide and swimming with tears, and that finally pushes Gon over the edge, too, tears spilling down his face as his breath starts to hitch.

“But Killua, I am!” he says, voice breaking.  “I always have been and always will be beneath you!  I wish the circumstances of our births were different.  I can’t tell you how deeply I wish that.  That you grew up on Whale Island with me, or that I had been born royalty.  Then we could truly be equals.  But we aren’t.  And if I stay here any longer, I’m going to go too far with you.  I know I will.  And I can’t allow myself to do that.”

Killua’s eyes go wide.

“Too far? What does that mean?”

Gon wipes at his eyes roughly, unable to stem the flow of tears.

“I… I don’t know if you believe people can be born into another life,” he says, voice soft.  “But if it’s true, I’ll find you in the next one.  I swear it, Killua.  If you’ll have me, I’ll find you, and we won’t have this barrier between us anymore.  Waiting a lifetime isn’t too long.  Not to me, Killua.  Not if I’m waiting for you.”

Gon waits, hardly daring to breathe.  It’s as close to a confession as he could manage, and he braces himself for Killua’s response.  Pity, perhaps, at Gon’s quixotic hopes of Killua loving him in return.  Or shock, maybe, that Gon had dared to harbor these feelings all this time, despite the impropriety.  Or maybe, a very quiet, very desperate part of Gon suggests, maybe joy, and a promise to find each other again, in a different time and different circumstances.

But all at once, Killua just laughs.  It borders on hysterical, but it’s bright and relieved all the same.

“Gods, Gon, do you even listen to a single word I say?”

Killua’s smiling now.  His eyes are still glassy and over-bright, but it’s unmistakable.

“I.. I beg your pardon?”

Killua all but runs across the room to Gon, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste, and grabs him by the shoulders.  Gon can feel how badly Killua’s hands are shaking where they’re holding him and his grip is just a little too tight, but Killua’s still smiling, and for the first time since the picnic, the lead weight lifts slightly from Gon’s gut.

“I’ve already told you all of this--I’m going to abdicate.  I mean, once I’ve established a democracy, there won’t even be a throne to abdicate.  I won’t be royalty anymore, and I won’t be bound by any of those laws.  I’ll just be Killua.  And you’ll just be Gon.  And we’ll be able to do whatever we please.  Maybe you’re willing to wait a whole lifetime, but I’m not.  I want you in this one, as well as all the rest.”

Killua leans forward, pressing his forehead to Gon’s, and closes his eyes.  Gon closes his too, focusing on nothing but the warmth and pressure of Killua’s head against his and the grip of his hands on his shoulders.  Gon wants to allow the buoyant, exhilarated feeling bubbling up in his insides to expand unfettered, filling every inch of his body with something lighter than air.  But he can’t.  Not yet, not completely.  It’s just too much to be believed, the idea that he could have Killua.  Gon had resigned himself fully to the truth that they could never be, so fully that he can’t abandon it so easily.

“But, Killua, I have nothing to offer you,” Gon says, hardly above a whisper.  “No land or fortune to my name.”

Eyes still closed, Killua reaches up a trembling hand and cradles Gon’s cheek with impossible gentleness.

“You don’t understand,” he breathes.  “You have everything to offer me.”

And then Killua pulls back for a moment, opening his eyes and surveying Gon’s face intently, before his gaze eventually comes to rest on Gon’s mouth.  Immediately, his eyes go wide and impossibly dark, pupils so large Gon wants to drown himself in them.  From that look, Gon knows exactly what comes next, and the thought sends such a sudden and powerful rush through his body that his knees threaten to buckle.

And then Killua leans forward, his eyes fluttering closed and those long, dark eyelashes grazing his cheek.  And finally Gon simply can’t hold back any longer.  He can stand here disbelieving all of this, swearing to himself it couldn’t be true, not now, not in this lifetime.  Or he could bring a hand to cradle Killua’s face and lean forward towards him, wanting and waiting, and kiss him.  Between the two, it’s not even a choice.

Killua’s mouth is so full and so soft and so warm and he kisses Gon so tentatively, just barely brushing his lips against Gon’s.  Still, it’s enough.  More than enough.  Gon swears he could catalogue each nerve in his lips, number and name them if he chose, for how all-consuming the sensation is.  He recalls reading somewhere that there are over a million nerves in a person’s lips alone.  Gon feels Killua kissing him with every last one of them.

After hardly a moment, hardly a heartbeat, Killua pulls back.  His cheeks are flushed crimson and he’s nearly panting, but he blinks up at Gon with the strangest vulnerability in his eyes.

“I.. Was that--”

Gon cuts him off, answering his question by threading his hand into Killua’s hair and kissing him again.  It’s still gentle, a question more than a declaration, but Gon deepens it a little, kissing Killua with just slightly more fever than before.  In response, Killua gasps, and his hand tightens where it’s cradling Gon’s face.   Not painfully, but firm and a little helpless.

They pull back eventually, breathing hard and still clinging to each other.  Killua’s mouth is red and swollen now and the knowledge that Gon was responsible for that nearly knocks the wind out of him.

“I… I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Killua says softly.  “A really, really long time.”

Gon grins.

“Really?” he teases. “How long, then?”

He expects Killua to tease back, but when he speaks, it’s with something close to reverence.

“Practically from the moment I met you.  Gon, you… you have no idea.  You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and that was before I even got to know you, and then it only kept getting worse.  It just grew, day after day.  I wanted you so badly I thought it was going to drive me crazy.”

For a moment, Gon’s quiet, mesmerized by the awestruck gleam in Killua’s eyes.

“I, um, I might know a little of what that’s like,” he manages, his voice coming out hoarser and lower than he intended.

Killua smirks.

“Really?  I guess you’ll just have to tell me all about it, huh?”

And in an overwhelming surge of relief and joy and adoration and desire, Gon leans forward and kisses the smirk clean from Killua’s mouth.

Chapter Text

Gon’s amazed by how natural it all is.

From that very first kiss in Killua’s bedchambers, all trembling hands and tear-damp cheeks, the pieces just fell perfectly into place.  Surreptitiously holding hands beneath the table during meetings, letting Killua rest his head in Gon’s lap as they read in the gardens, falling asleep wrapped tight in each other’s arms--for as utterly magnificent as all of it is, nothing about it feels particularly surprising.  It just seems like the sort of thing they should’ve been doing all along.  Or maybe, more precisely, something they’d already been doing for years.  Gon recalls his words to Killua that day, the ones about waiting for him in the next life.  Maybe it’s true--maybe they’ve known each other for lifetimes.  Maybe they managed to find each other in each one.

And as they sit side-by-side on the grounds, training swords discarded beside them and sweat drying in the cool October air, Gon makes a single, impossible wish.  Let them stay like this forever.  Let the leaf stop falling halfway to the ground and hang suspended in the air as the whole world goes perfectly still.  Let the sun halt its course through the sky and remain high overhead.  Gon could live out this one moment for eternity--just the two of them together, quiet and content in each other’s company--and want for nothing.

“Gon,” Killua says, turning towards him.  The spell is broken, the perfect moment passed, but Gon doesn’t mind.  Not if it was broken by Killua saying his name.

“I was thinking,” Killua continues.  “There’s only one thing that really disappoints me about stepping down from the throne.”

“The fact that you’ll finally have to learn to cook and clean for yourself?”

Killua shoves Gon in the shoulder.

“Very funny.  No, I was just thinking that I’ll never get to have another ball.”

“A ball?  Like a big formal party?”

Killua nods.

“Are they really that fun?” Gon asks, nose scrunching in spite of himself.  “They sound kind of stuffy to me.”

“I mean, I guess they are sometimes,” Killua concedes. “But it’s just that I’d like to dance with you at one.  And I suppose we can dance anywhere, but there’s something special about being able to do it in an enormous ballroom, both of us dressed to the nines.  I want to do that with you, just once.”

Gon takes a moment to imagine it.  The ballroom would be warm--Gon’s certain of it.  The light magic illuminating the room would invariably produce heat, but it wouldn’t be uncomfortable.  It would be more like a pleasant, comfortable glow.  Killua’s hair would shine gold underneath the chandelier and the buttons on his coat would gleam, too, bright and inviting.  He would place a hand on Gon’s shoulder--Gon’s taller than him by a few inches--and Gon would rest his hand on Killua’s waist, amazed by how solid and warm Killua’s body feels even through his jacket.  And when the music slowed just right, Killua might lean forward and rest his head on Gon’s shoulder, and Gon might lean down and--

“Well, who’s to say we couldn’t have a ball?” Gon says, with surprising urgency.  “I mean, I know we couldn’t have a proper one.  We can’t be seen dancing together in front of a whole crowd of nobility.  But I’m sure there’s an empty ballroom somewhere in the palace.  Why couldn’t we have one just for ourselves?”

For a moment Killua’s still, clearly thinking it over.  But then he breaks into a wide smile, shining brighter than the sun overhead.

“That’s a terrific idea.  C’mon, let’s go get changed.  We’ll use the ballroom on the east wing of the second floor.  Last one to get there loses.”

And with that, Killua leaps to his feet and takes off running across the grounds before Gon even has a chance to shout at him for cheating.

Gon fusses with his lapels, trying to get the jacket to rest on his shoulders just so.  Of course it’s silly--Killua has seen him in all manner of disheveled states.  Having just awoken, blinking groggily in the light with his hair standing up in every direction.  Or sweaty and flushed from sparring, his shirt so damp it’s sticking to his back.  Or laughing so hard he chokes on his drink, coughing and spluttering.  But Gon can’t help it--he wants to look his absolute best.  Perhaps there’s no one else joining them, but it’ll be his first and only ball with Killua as a prince.  Just this once, Gon wants to look worthy of him.

When he’s at last satisfied with the way his jacket is sitting, or as satisfied as he’s going to be, Gon takes a final appraising look at himself in the mirror.  He’ll admit that the black jacket suits him--it makes him look broad and solid through the shoulders, which he likes.  The waistcoat is a little loose in the ribs, but the silver embroidery is pretty when it catches the light.  These clothes are by far the nicest he’s worn at his time in the palace, and given the wardrobe he was provided with, that’s saying something.  A part of him can’t help but feel like a child playing dress-up, wearing something as fancy as this, like he’s play-acting at being someone he’s not.  It reminds him of his discomfort in those early days at the palace, that sense of not quite belonging.  He hasn’t felt it so strongly in quite some time.

Still, there’s no use in standing here worrying any longer.  He doesn’t want to make Killua wait, or give him more reasons to gloat about beating Gon to the ballroom.  So with a deep, steadying breath, Gon leaves his bedchambers and heads to the east wing of the second floor.

Mercifully, none of the staff Gon passes on his way to the ballroom question why he’s dressed so formally.  He can’t think of a good excuse, and no doubt the truth would lead to rumors that would spread through every inch of the palace, and therefore to the king and queen, in no time.  Gon’s well aware of the risks of his relationship with Killua, well aware of how the king and queen might react should they catch wind of what the two of them have become, and he’s been doing his best to stay on guard and not arouse suspicion.  But mercifully, Gon manages to reach the ballroom largely unacknowledged beyond a few polite nods from some of the servants.

Killua is waiting for Gon outside the ballroom, and he’s simply a vision.  His dark blue coat is tailed in the back with gold epaulettes and gold fastenings down the front, and it fits him perfectly, accentuating his lithe, elegant form.  It might just be a trick of the light, but his hair nearly gleams, looking softer and shinier than Gon can ever recall it looking before.  His posture is impeccable, back straight and head high, and he looks unmistakably like royalty.

For several long moments, Killua simply stares at Gon, utterly silent, his face flushed and eyes wide.

“Killua?” Gon prompts.

Killua blinks, seeming to break from his reverie.

“Hi,” he says, his voice unusually low and gravelly.  “You… you look really nice.”

Gon grins.

“Oh?  Is that so?”

Killua’s face goes even redder and he ducks his head, staring at the floor for a long moment, as if trying to compose himself.  When he lifts his head again, the wonderstruck look in his eyes is gone, and Gon can’t help but miss it.

“You look nice, too,” Gon says softly.

Killua smiles, and then puts out an arm for Gon to take.

“C’mon, I’ve gotta escort you inside.”

Gon obliges, taking Killua’s arm.  Even through the heavy fabric of his coat, he can feel the perfectly firm muscle of Killua’s bicep, and for some reason that only makes him cling tighter.

Killua opens the door to the ballroom wide, and Gon drinks it in as they step inside.  In his time in the palace, Gon’s never been in a ballroom before, and it’s the most magnificent room he’s seen thus far--even finer than the throne room.  The chandelier in the center of the room is enormous and ornate, glittering with what looks to be thousands of tiny crystals.  The crown molding along the ceiling is an elegant gold, and the room is supported by massive marble pillars that gleam in the light.  The ceiling is painted with a mural--a dark, inky blue dotted with stars to look like the night sky.

“I know,” Killua says.  “It’s a lot.”

“It’s beautiful,” Gon breathes.

Killua shakes his head.

“Whenever I see rooms like this, all I can think is how the money used to build it could be better spent on the subjects of the kingdom.  This whole thing just strikes me as painfully excessive.”  Killua pauses for a moment.  “But it’s different, this time.  Being in here with you.  I like it better now.”

Gon’s cheeks flush warm.

“Let’s dance, okay?” Gon says softly.  “I’d really like to dance with you.”

Killua nods, leading Gon to the center of the ballroom by the hand until they’re right beneath the enormous chandelier.

“I’m sorry that we don’t have any music,” Killua says.  “There are palace musicians, but I was worried they’d talk.”

Gon shakes his head.

“I don’t need music,” he says, placing a hand on Killua’s waist, and grasping his hand with the other.  And after a moment, Killua places a tentative hand on Gon’s shoulder.  And then they begin to move.

Gon had never really understood slow dancing before.  Back on Whale Island, whenever there was a party or festival, a group of girls would always approach him, giggling and shoving one of their members forward, who would blush furiously and ask him to dance.  Gon would oblige, of course, and he’d be polite about it, making friendly conversation while they swayed together on the dance floor.  But he never felt particularly strongly about dancing.  In all the songs and poems and stories, dancing with someone else was made out to be the epitome of romance, and Gon couldn’t quite see why.  He’d never thought there was all that much to it.  At least, until now.

With Killua’s body pulled close to his and his hand on the perfect slope of Killua’s waist and Killua’s head resting on his shoulder, Gon finally understands dancing.  It’s every bit as thrilling as all those books made it out to be.  More, even.  Killua is so close, and so warm, and so alive, and Gon can feel his every breath where his hand rests on his waist.  It’s like holding him, but better, somehow.  Even more intimate, even more perfect, to be dancing together.

Gon leans down and presses a long, slow kiss to Killua’s hair.  He was right--it feels even softer than usual today.

“Tell me,” Gon says quietly, “in the future, when you’re no longer royalty and we’re living together, what’ll it be like?”

Killua’s strokes his thumb along the back of Gon’s hand where they’re clasped together, pausing for just a moment before answering.

“Well, I’d like to live in the countryside,” he finally says.  “It sounds peaceful, and after all the excess of being royalty, I think I’d enjoy the simplicity.  We could go back to Whale Island, if you’d like.  So you could be close to your family.”

Affection and fondness clench desperately in Gon’s chest, pulling so tight he has to clear his throat before he can speak again.

“I’d like that too,” Gon says softly.  “You’d love Whale Island--it’s beautiful, and the weather is so nice, especially in the springtime.  We could have a small house together, and a garden out back full of flowers.  I could bring you bouquets whenever I wanted.”

Killua laughs.

“You do seem to have a thing for bringing me flowers.”

“Mmhm,” Gon replies.  “I do.  So we have to have a flower garden.  And how about animals?  Would you want any?”

“I think you’d want animals,” Killua teases.  Gon laughs and, before he can stop himself, presses another kiss to Killua’s hair.

“But yes,” Killua continues, “I’d like some animals.  I’ve always been fond of cats, actually.  We could have a few.”

“Alright, cats it is.  We’d have to be sure to have a house with lots of windows, so they could have plenty of sunbeams to nap in.  And Aunt Mito and I could teach you to cook and bake.  I think you’d pick it up quickly.  Ooh, maybe we could keep bees.  So we could always have fresh honey.”

Killua laughs.

“I’ll have to think about the bees.”

“Oh, and what about Alluka?” Gon asks. “Do you think she’d be alright moving to Whale Island?  I think it would be fun to be neighbors.  She could come visit us whenever she’d like.”.

Killua squeezes Gon’s hand.

“I think Alluka would love to move to Whale Island with us.”

They fall quiet, but Gon doesn’t mind.  Killua is still close to him, held in his arms, his head resting against Gon’s shoulder, warm and solid and near.  Gon had wanted to freeze time earlier today, to live in one suspended moment for eternity, but now, he’s as eager for the future as he’s content with the present.  The past, the present, the future--he’ll enjoy all of it provided Killua’s at his side.  As long as he has Killua, every moment is bright and exciting and wondrous.

Slowly, Killua raises his head from Gon’s shoulder, looking into his eyes with a strange mix of urgency and hesitation.

“Gon,” he begins, “I--

Suddenly, the door to the ballroom flies open with a bang.  On instinct, Killua and Gon leap apart, putting a good foot of distance between the two of them.  Gon begins rummaging around for a good excuse as to why they’re together like this--it’ll have to be something extremely convincing given the incriminating state they were found in.

But it isn’t a nosy member of the palace staff who caught them dancing together.  It’s Kurapika, his face pale and his hands clenched tight into fists.  That’s odd--Gon can’t recall a time he’s ever seen Kurapika look frightened.

“Your Highness,” he begins, just slightly out of breath.  “They’ve decided.  The king and queen.  They have Alluka confined in her quarters, and they’ve called for a sorcerer to perform the magic to try to harness the spirit possessing her.  I estimate we have a few days, at most, before the spell is cast.”

Neither Killua nor Gon hesitate for a moment.  They both tear out of the ballroom at a full sprint.

Chapter Text

“Where are they right now?” Killua calls over his shoulder, already halfway down the hall.

“The study, Your Highness,” Kurapika calls back.

Killua nods in acknowledgement, but doesn’t stop for a moment.  Neither does Gon--they run side-by-side as quickly as they can, vaulting up the stairs two at a time, skidding around corners, tearing down the halls.  They don’t speak as they run.  It’s silent save for the slap of their boots against the floor and their harsh, rapid breaths.

Gon’s heart slams against his sternum almost violently.  Not Alluka.  She’s too kind, too gentle, too good.  More than anyone, she doesn’t deserve to suffer.  Gon’s certain Killua has a plan to try to save her, and whatever it is, Gon will do anything, anything at all, to support him.  Alluka has become like a sister to him, too, by now.  He won’t let any harm come to her, not while he still breathes.

Killua skids to a halt outside of a door at the end of a hall on the south side of the palace, panting hard, and throws it open without bothering to knock.  His hand is trembling where it grips the doorknob.

The queen is seated behind an enormous, gleaming desk, a quill gripped in her hand, and the king is reading a book in a large armchair in the corner.  Gon falls to one knee just inside the door.  In his haste to protect Alluka, he’d forgotten exactly who they were going to confront.  However much he wants to give the king and queen a piece of his mind, he knows he has to observe the proper etiquette or suffer the consequences.

Gon can only see everyone’s feet given how his head is bowed, but he hears Killua suck in a sharp breath.

“What have you done with her?” Killua demands.

The queen clicks her tongue.

“Now Killua, where are your manners?  To come barging in here uninvited like that.  I thought we’d taught you better than that.”

“I’m really not in the mood for this right now,” Killua snarls.  “What have you done with Alluka?  Tell me.  Now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gon catches a glimpse of the king standing from his chair.

“Killua,” he says, his voice a low, threatening rumble, “you know better than to speak to your mother that way.”

“You’ve imprisoned my sister,” Killua spits.  “Forgive me if courtesy isn’t my top priority at the moment.”

The king takes a large, deliberate step towards Killua, and Killua makes a small, frightened noise and shuffles backwards a half-step.  Gon can’t blame him--enduring what he has, Killua has every reason to flinch when his father advances on him.

“Killua, dear,” the queen says, her tone sickly-sweet. “That spirit possessing Alluka is dangerous.  You know this.  It’s a threat to the security of the kingdom if we don’t restrain it.  We don’t have a choice.”

“Nanika isn’t dangerous!” Killua all but shouts. “She’s generous and kind.  It’s the people who try to use her who are the problem.  I know you just want to harness her power for your own gain.  Don’t try to turn it into something noble when it’s just your own self interest!”

“Watch yourself,” the king growls.

Gon peers up slightly for a moment just in time to see Killua’s hands clench into fists.  For a long moment, he’s quiet.

“Fine,” Killua says at last, his voice soft.  “I had a feeling it would come to this.”

He pauses for a long moment, drawing in a slow, steadying breath.

“I challenge you.  To the duel for the throne.”

The whole room goes perfectly silent--Gon swears that no one even breathes.  There’s nothing but Gon’s pulse pounding in his ears and the tension he’s certain he can hear crackling like a storm in the air.  Gon knows this has been Killua’s plan all along, but he can’t help but feel that his hand is being forced.  That he’s backed against a wall, cornered and trembling, and left with no other options but to strike.  Gon doesn’t like it one bit.

“Very well,” the king says at last, his tone unreadable.  “I accept.”

Finally, Gon exhales.  That’s one obstacle overcome, at least.

“But Killua, dear,” the queen says, with that same sickly-sweet tone, “I think it’s important that you learn not to make these sorts of challenges lightly.  I think we should agree on some consequences should you lose.”

Killua sighs.

“I know I can’t challenge you for another five years if I lose on this attempt.  And you can do whatever else you want to me on top of that.  Chain me up and torture me for weeks for all I care.”

The queen hums, as if thinking.   It takes all of Gon’s strength not to lift his head and try to read everyone’s expression.

“No, I really don’t think that’s enough,” she says.  “Our usual methods just haven’t been getting through to you lately.  But I have something else in mind.”

“Oh?” Killua asks.

“You’re not nearly as discreet as you think you are, dear, and gossip travels fast.  Word of your little tryst has spread throughout the palace.  So how about this: if you lose, Gon is banished from the kingdom permanently.  I think it would be quite a lax punishment, actually, for having an affair with royalty.”

“What?” Killua demands.  “No, absolutely--

Swiftly, Gon stands, stepping in front of Killua, although he keeps his head bowed and his gaze lowered.

“We accept, Your Majesty.  Those terms are perfectly fair.”

There’s a sick knot of dread in Gon’s stomach as soon as he says it, but he refuses to waver.  This is a matter of Alluka’s safety and freedom--no price is too high to pay.  And Gon knows Killua would never willingly sacrifice Gon like that, so Gon has to do it himself.  It’s a cruel, sadistic choice the queen has offered, so Gon will protect Killua from having to make it.  Gon is still Killua’s guard, after all.  This is the very thing he’s sworn to do--spare Killua, whenever he can.

“Gon,” Killua hisses.  “What are you thinking?  You can’t actually agree to something like that.”

Gon reaches down and gives Killua’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s Alluka,” he says softly.  “We have to protect her.  And we aren’t in a position to negotiate.”

Killua is quiet for a long moment, his hand still trembling where Gon holds it.

“Fine,” Killua says at last.  “Fine.  We accept, then.”

After a moment of deliberation, Gon decides to stay on his feet, although he keeps his head bowed.  He hasn’t been reprimanded for speaking out of turn yet, so he can likely get away with standing in the king and queen’s presence for a bit longer.  And, more than anything, standing makes it easier for him to hold Killua’s hand in his own.

“Good,” the queen says, with clearly artificial warmth.  “Then we’ll do it tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?” Killua demands.  “Hold on a moment--I don’t recall agreeing to that part.”

“Killua, we’re not stupid.  You’ll no doubt do something underhanded if we give you the chance to plot, and we can’t have that.  So it’s tomorrow or not at all.”

Gon rubs his thumb over the back of Killua’s hand.  Gon doesn’t know magic, but he nonetheless tries to channel all the warmth and strength and reassurance he can through his hand and into Killua’s.  If nothing else, he wants Killua to know he isn’t alone in this.

“Fine,” Killua says.  “Gon was right.  I know I’m not in a position to negotiate.  Tomorrow it is.”

“Very well,” the king says, his tone unreadable.  “You and Gon are dismissed.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Killua.”

Although fury is rising thick and hot in the back of Gon’s throat, he manages to force himself to bow before leaving the study.

The rest of the day passes in a blur.  Time has started to warp and bend in that funny way, and the afternoon and evening are at once unbearably long and impossibly short.  Killua only eats when Gon reminds him that he has to keep up his strength for the duel tomorrow, and even then, he can’t manage more than a few bites.  Gon’s seen Killua in distress before, frightened or injured or in pain, but he can’t recall him ever looking as entirely empty as he does now, as if the life were utterly drained out of him.  Hopeless, Gon realizes.  That’s what it is.  Killua looks hopeless.  And at last, when night falls and Killua is wrapped in Gon’s arms in bed, he finally begins to cry.

“Killua, my love,” Gon says softly, pulling Killua tighter to his chest.  “What is it?”

Killua brings up a hand to fist tight in Gon’s shirt.

“Tomorrow, I lose both you and Alluka,” he says, his voice sounding achingly lifeless and hollow. “The two people I love most in the world.  I’m going to be completely and utterly alone.  I’ll have no one.”

Gon leans down and presses a kiss to Killua’s hair.

“Why are you talking like it’s already lost?” Gon says gently. “Remember the magic?  Your father won’t know it’s coming, and it’s an incredibly strong attack, right?  You have a chance, Killua.  You can’t give up before the duel’s even begun.”

For a long moment, Killua’s quiet.

“You’ll find someone else, won’t you?  I don’t want you to live your whole life with a broken heart.  I know it’ll be hard, starting over in a new kingdom, but you have to find someone else and be happy with them.  Please, Gon.  For me.  You have to be happy.”

“Killua!” Gon snaps, too loud in the quiet room.  “You can’t keep talking like this.  I have complete faith in you.  You’re going to win tomorrow.  You’re going to win, and take the throne, and establish a democracy, and move to Whale Island with me.  We’re not going to lose each other.  I refuse to accept that.”

Killua doesn’t respond.

“I mean, is that your plan?” Gon continues.  “To go find someone else and be happy with them?”

“No, Gon!  Of course not.  It’ll only ever be you.  I know that much, at least.  You’re the only person I’ll love, for the whole of my life.”

Gon presses another kiss to Killua’s hair, longer and slower than before.

“That’s exactly how I feel,” Gon says, his voice soft and tender.  “Can you try to understand that?  I feel the exact same way about you.  I have no intention of finding anyone else.  Not only because you’re going to win tomorrow, but because you’re it, for me.  You’re the only one.  For my entire life.”

Killua falls silent again.

“I’m not as confident with the magic as I’d like to be,” he says, a little unsteady.  “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to conjure it tomorrow.”

“You will.  I told you this already--I have complete faith in you.  You’re going to conjure the magic, you’re going to win the duel, and we’re going to move to Whale Island.  Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten what we planned.  What about our cats?  What about the flower garden?  We’re going to have that life, Killua.  We have to.   So you just can’t admit defeat before the fight’s started.”

Killua’s quiet for such a long time that Gon would’ve assumed he fell asleep, if not for the tears that continue to soak through his shirt.

“Okay,” Killua says at last, although his voice trembles and he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.  “Okay.  I’ll win the duel.  For now, let’s just get some rest.  I don’t want you to be exhausted tomorrow.”

Gon isn’t sure he wants to end the conversation so soon, not with Killua still sounding so hopeless and defeated, but the both of them do need their rest.  Gon will merely pray that when he wakes, Killua will have found within himself the will to fight.  That he won’t have resigned himself so fully to his fate.

“Alright,” Gon says, pressing a final kiss to Killua’s hair.  “Good night, my Killua.  Sleep well.”

Chapter Text

As Gon helps Killua into his armor, they hardly speak.

Killua’s been quiet all morning.  Quiet and withdrawn and jumpy, and more than anything, wholly and completely resigned.  Gon can’t stop repeating last night’s conversation over and over in his mind, recalling the way Killua spoke about the duel, as if it were over before it even began.  King Silva is a formidable opponent, if the stories are to be believed, and Killua’s facing him with the fight drained out of him entirely.  Gon has faith in Killua--of course he does--but he can’t help the twinge of unease he feels looking at Killua’s dull, empty eyes.

The weather seems to be matching Killua’s gloomy mood--it began drizzling this morning, and the rain has only grown heavier as the day has worn on, pounding hard on the tent where Killua is dressing, until the palace grounds are nothing but a muddy, slippery mess.  The duel is taking place in a large outdoor arena, open to spectators, so the terrain will be working against Killua as well.  Gon doesn’t like it at all.

Gon carefully fastens the bracer on Killua’s wrist--his armor is a light leather, so it doesn’t provide nearly the protection of plate mail, but according to Killua, their equipment is stipulated in the rules.  Leather armor, dulled swords--sharp enough to hurt on a proper swing, but not enough to be fatal--and no helmets.  Gon isn’t happy that Killua will be fighting with such scant protection, but he doesn’t have much of a say in the kingdom’s traditions.  Instead, he simply does his utmost to make sure Killua’s armor is fitted properly, neither too tight nor too loose, and that the fastenings are all properly secured.  It’s not much, but it’s the best he’s got.

When he’s at last finished with the bracer on Killua’s forearm, the final piece of his armor, he turns Killua’s hand over and presses a long, slow kiss to the back of it, eyes closed and head bowed.  Killua sucks in a sharp, surprised breath.

“Gon…” Killua says softly.

“Fight well,” Gon says.  “I have faith in you.”

A strange look passes over Killua’s face for a moment, but then he nods.

“I have to get to the arena now,” he says, his tone grim and resigned.  “Gon, I… I’ll do my best.”

Gon pulls Killua into a tight hug, his arms trembling, and presses a kiss to his hair.

“I have no doubt of that.  I’ll see you after the fight.”

Killua pulls back, turns around, and leaves the tent so quickly that it’s hard to say, but Gon swears he saw his eyes swimming with tears.

“I love you,” Gon says, to the empty tent.  “Please, Killua.  You can’t give up just yet.”

The rain pounding hard on the tent is the only answer.

Gon joins Kurapika and Leorio in the arena stands, all of them shivering beneath large umbrellas.  They only say a few words in acknowledgement to Gon, both of their faces pale and drawn and their hands clasped together so hard their knuckles are going white.  Still, although they may not speak much, it’s a comfort to watch the duel with friends he knows are on Killua’s side.  There’s a large crowd gathered, which is no surprise given the importance of the event, but it puts Gon on edge not to know who among them is rooting for Killua to lose.

Killua explained the rules of the duel to Gon this morning.  There’s three rounds, and whoever takes two is declared the winner.  The objective, as Killua told it, is to immobilize your opponent, usually by pinning him to the ground.  The referee will declare when a point is won, and as soon as one of the competitors has reached two points, it’s over.   It all seems fairly straightforward to Gon, but he knows by now that nothing with the Zoldyck family is ever as simple as it seems.

The referee comes out to the center of the arena, her boots visibly squelching in the mud, and lifts a large megaphone to speak to the crowd, but her words are largely lost to the ceaselessly pounding rain and the harsh wind.  And in truth, Gon isn’t in a mind to listen to her even if he could hear easily--now that the duel is about to start, Gon’s anxiety reaches a crescendo.  His stomach feels hot and sick and his throat and jaw are so tense that it’s difficult even to swallow.  He just wants the duel to be over and done with, for Killua to be safe in his arms again.  The waiting and uncertainty are threatening to send Gon out of his mind.

The referee lowers her megaphone, and then Killua and Silva step into the arena from entrances on opposite sides of the ring.  Silva’s strides are longer and more certain, so he reaches the center before Killua, staring straight ahead as Killua takes stiff, careful steps to meet him. When they’ve both reached the center, swords held up parallel to their torsos, the difference between them is even more staggering.  Silva is a good foot taller than Killua, and easily twice as wide.  He dwarfs Killua entirely--in size and stature and in his utter and complete confidence.  Killua looks so small in the center of the arena, and so vulnerable, and Gon so desperately wishes he could--

The sharp, piercing sound of the referee’s whistle interrupts Gon’s thoughts, and there’s no more time for him to fret, because Killua and Silva are suddenly moving.  Silva’s sword arcs high and fast--so fast--towards Killua’s ribs, and Killua only just manages to parry in time.  Gon’s sparred against Killua enough to know his fighting style well, and in an instant, Gon can tell something isn’t right about him today.  His movements are slower and clumsier than usual, his footwork nowhere near as nimble and precise as Gon would expect.  He isn’t fighting like himself at all, and on the next attack, Silva manages to catch him hard on the shoulder.  The sword is dulled enough that he doesn’t draw blood, but the force of the blow is enough to send Killua stumbling.

“Come on,” Gon hisses, his heart swollen and straining in his chest, “I know you’re faster than that.  You can’t let him score a hit that easily.”

But Gon’s urging does no good--Killua remains slow and imprecise.  He manages to parry more of Silva’s strikes than not, but he can’t block all of them.  He takes blows to the ribs, the arm, the shoulder, over and over, until Gon suddenly realizes that Silva has deftly backed Killua against the wall of the arena, trapping him, so swift and clever about it that Gon hadn’t even noticed until Killua was cornered.  And only then, when Killua’s exits have been completely cut off, does Silva disarm Killua with practiced ease, knocking his sword into the mud far out of reach.

Before Gon can stop himself, he’s on his feet.  He isn’t sure why--he knows full well Killua forfeits the match if anyone intervenes on his behalf--but the blood is pounding so hard in his ears that his thoughts are secondary to the sheer, all-consuming terror.  He knows Killua’s life isn’t truly in danger, but the sight of him cornered and disarmed and staring down the edge of a sword is enough to overwhelm Gon’s reason almost entirely.

But then, without any preamble, Silva too tosses his sword aside, just where Killua’s had landed.

“What’s he doing?” Gon asks, with a swift glance at Kurapika and Leorio.

But Gon’s question is answered when Silva suddenly raises his hand high and brings it down to smack Killua hard across the face, the blow so forceful that Killua has to brace himself against the wall of the arena to avoid losing his balance.

“Making an example of him,” Kurapika says, his voice flat and empty.

“But he’s immobilized him, hasn’t he?” Gon demands, as Silva hauls Killua up by the front of his shirt to hit him again.  “Shouldn’t the referee call the point?”

“She’s likely still loyal to the king,” Leorio says, with barely repressed rage.  “I have no doubt she’s going to let this continue for a while.”

And it does continue.  Gon watches, powerless and furious and sick, as Silva beats Killua bloody, hitting him again and again in front of the watching crowd.  And perhaps the worst of it is that Killua doesn’t even seem frightened--he isn’t flinching or trying to shield his face.  He looks, more than anything, like he’s simply waiting for it to be over.  Like this sort of thing has happened too many times before for him to summon the energy for terror or betrayal.

I won’t let them do this again, Gon thinks, half ferocity and half desperation.  Killua, I swear.  Even if I’m banished, even if it’s under penalty of death, I won’t let anyone raise a hand to you ever again.

Finally, after what Gon swears was an eternity, Silva releases his hold on Killua, leaving him to collapse in a crumpled heap on the ground, before collecting his discarded sword, wiping off the mud on his sleeve, and returning to the center of the arena.  Only then does the referee blow her whistle, pointing to Silva to award him the point.  Leorio was right--she was clearly waiting until Silva decided he was finished.

But even after Silva leaves him, Killua doesn’t get up from where he’s collapsed in the mud.  He stays huddled on the ground, immobile, only the occasional small movement of one of his limbs letting Gon know he’s still conscious.   The referee blows two short notes on her whistle.

“That was a warning,” Kurapika says softly.  “If he doesn’t get up soon, he forfeits the point.  And loses the match.”

“ What? ”

“And we know she’s favoring the king in this fight,” Leorio says, staring hard at Killua, still curled up on the ground.  “I doubt she’ll give Killua much leeway when it comes to these things.”

Get up, Gon urges.  Get up and keep fighting.  You can’t just surrender like this.  You can still win yet.

The referee blows another warning, but Killua merely rolls onto his back, face turned up towards the rain.

Get up.  Come on, you can get up.  Killua, this can’t be the last time I see you, bloodied and defeated and soaked in mud.  I couldn’t bear it if I never sparred with you again.  Or listened to you play the piano.  Or heard your laugh.  Killua, please, I can’t lose you now.  Not after everything.  Please, I can’t.  Please--

“KILLUA!”

Gon shouts it without fully intending to.  The tension swirling around his insides simply grew stronger and stronger until it forced its way out of him in a desperate, anguished cry.  Gon surprises himself with his volume--somehow, he shouts louder than the raging winds and pounding rain.

The crowd goes still and quiet, and although Gon can’t bring himself to tear his gaze away from Killua, he can feel the heat of their stares.  He knows what he’s just done--shouted the crown prince’s given name in front of common subjects and nobility alike.  He knows he breached a sacred taboo.  But none of that matters--goddamnit, none of it does--when facing the prospect of losing Killua for good.

But then, just as the crowd’s stares are becoming nearly unbearable, Killua sits up.  Gon knows he’s too far away to make out the details of Killua’s face, but he swears that they lock eyes across the arena.  He swears that Killua sees him with perfect clarity.  That for a long, lingering moment, he looks at Gon and understands.  And then, with more certainty and vigor than he’s displayed for the whole fight, Killua gets to his feet.

The moment Killua stands, Gon can tell.  Something’s different.  His shoulders are pulled back and his head is high.  Gon hadn’t realized how much Killua’s body had been crumpled in on itself since he entered the arena, but the change is striking.  His back is straight, his strides long and certain.  In only a moment, Killua’s gone from prey to predator.

Killua takes his sword from where it landed in the mud, wipes it clean, and then pauses for a moment, head bowed and eyes closed, as if centering himself.  And when he raises his gaze, his sword lifts along with it, until he’s holding it straight above his head, pointing at the sky.

Gon’s about to turn to Leorio and Kurapika to ask what Killua is doing, but his question is answered.  Killua’s hair and clothes begin to ripple with the unmistakable energy of magic and a dark mass of clouds gathers above his head, crackling with electricity.  Gon can’t help but grin, just a little wildly.  It’s the lightning magic Killua had been learning--he’s harnessing it now.  The fight isn’t over yet.  Not by a long shot.  Gon clenches his fists tight, but it’s in anticipation, not fear.

And just as he does, a bolt of lightning strikes, hitting the raised sword and flowing down with silver-blue energy through Killua’s body.  Even though Gon knows Killua meant to get struck, he can’t help but flinch as the thunder cracks and the energy courses through Killua’s limbs.  But Killua doesn’t collapse.  He doesn’t even falter.  He merely lowers his sword, that same silver-blue energy crackling up and down his body even as the clouds dissipate.  It’s as if Killua were now shielded by a second suit of armor.  A suit of pure lightning.

With sure, confident steps, Killua joins his father at the center of the ring, sword held in front of him just like the previous round.  While Silva had towered over Killua at the start of the first round, radiating menacing power, now Killua is the one who seems intimidating, lightning zipping up and down his limbs and into his hair, crackling with his every movement.  It’s all Gon can do not to let out a wild shout of joy.

The referee blows her whistle and Killua takes off like a shot.  The lightning has enhanced his speed to something superhuman, and in hardly an instant, he’s reached Silva and struck him hard in the back of the knees so that they buckle and he collapses forward into the mud.  Killua stands over him, sword held at the back of Silva’s neck, immobilizing him.  While the prior round had been a drawn out, bloody thing, Killua scores his point in hardly a heartbeat.  He’s like lightning itself--a sudden, ferocious strike, felling his opponent the moment he hits the ground.

Gon glances at the referee, who’s clearly avoiding blowing the whistle for as long as she can.  But after several long moments, there can’t be any prolonging it, and with a slow, reluctant movement, she raises the whistle to her lips and awards the point.

Immediately, Killua steps back from Silva, allowing him to rise to his feet.  Both of them are equally coated in mud now, thick, wet droplets of it dripping from their skin and clothes onto the ground, and something about that gives Gon hope.

“He could win,” Gon says to Kurapika and Leorio, voice trembling with excitement.  “The fire’s back in him, now.  And he was right--that magic is unbelievably powerful.”

For the first time since Gon joined them in the stands, there’s light in Leorio and Kurapika’s eyes.

“He could,” Leorio says, with a smile that approaches ferocity.  “I think he’s found something to fight for.”

For the third and final time, Killua and Silva meet back in the center of the ring.  Killua is still shrouded in lightning, and even soaked with mud and beaten bloody, Gon can’t help but find him beautiful.  His Killua, a storm made flesh.

But still, the tension swirling around Gon’s insides borders on unbearable.  This is the final point.  The moment determining Alluka’s freedom.  And Gon’s future.  Gon’s confident in Killua--of course he is--especially now that Killua is bolstered by a suit of lightning and standing at the center of the arena without a hint of trepidation.  But nonetheless, Gon’s ready to be sick with nerves, the air squeezed from his lungs and the blood from his heart.   Please, just let Killua emerge victorious.  Please, just don’t make him suffer any more pain and sorrow than he already has.

The referee blows a sharp, swift note on her whistle and Silva’s moving before the sound’s even faded.  He’s suddenly at Killua’s side, swinging his sword at full force directly towards the side of Killiua’s head.  While the sword may be dulled, a blow that hard with a heavy object would be enough to knock Killua unconscious, and likely cause damage lasting far beyond this fight.  An attack like that can’t possibly be permitted within the rules, but Silva doesn’t appear to care.  If Gon were to guess, he’d say that after his humiliation the prior round, he wants nothing more than to hit something.  Hard.

Gon leaps to his feet again, about to shout to Killua to watch out, but it proves unnecessary.  Just like before, the lightning magic seems to have enhanced Killua’s reflexes and agility, and he parries the blow with ease.

“They should call that point in Killua’s favor,” Kurapika mutters.  “That attack was illegal.  The king should lose this round on the grounds of disqualification.”

But, of course, the referee doesn’t blow the whistle.  Gon can’t even find it within himself to be outraged--he expects no less, by this point.

And it turns out not to matter, because in hardly a moment, Killua has disarmed Silva, conjured a crackling ball of lightning in his free hand, and thrown it hard into Silva’s chest.  Silva flies backwards, landing in the mud, and Killua’s on him in an instant, sword held to his throat.

It happened nearly too quickly for Gon to follow, but after a few seconds of tense, trembling silence, the referee blows a reluctant note on her whistle and points to Killua to indicate that he won the round, and with it, the match.  

And for a moment, everything stills--the crowd, the referee, Killua and Silva.  Gon swears even the rain hangs suspended in the air.

And then the whole world moves at once.  There’s a cacophony from the stands--shouts and cheers, some outraged, but most triumphant.  Silva gets to his feet, still so impossibly regal despite his loss, and stalks out of the arena.  And Killua releases the magic and collapses onto his back in the mud, arms outstretched.  Perhaps to some, falling backwards like that would appear to be defeat, but to Gon, Killua simply looks relieved.

And Gon doesn’t stop to think for a moment.  Killua won.  He’s free from his family.  Free from the cruelty and pain.  And Gon’s free to stay by his side.  That thought alone is enough to launch him up from the stands and send him racing down to the edge of the ring.  Without stopping to think for even a moment, he leaps over the wall of the arena and sprints towards Killua, nearly slipping in the mud in his haste, before throwing himself onto him, still lying on his back, and wrapping Killua tight in his arms.

Killua lets out a loud, joyful sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob, and sits up, squeezing Gon so hard his arms shake.  He pulls back to press his forehead against Gon’s, cradling Gon’s face in his hands.  He’s smearing mud onto Gon’s cheeks, but Gon can’t bring himself to care.  All that exists is the deep blue of Killua’s eyes and the sheer joy of his smile and the pressure of his forehead against Gon’s own.

“You did it,” Gon says, so breathless he struggles to get the words out.

Killua, Gon’s face still cradled in his hands, leans up to press a kiss to Gon’s forehead.

“No,” he says softly, once he’s pulled back, “you did.  I’d given up the moment I stepped into the ring, but then you shouted my name, and all I could think was that I couldn’t bear it if I never heard you call me by my name again.  And that brought me back to my senses.  You saved me again, Gon.  Like you always do.”

Gon pulls Killua tight into his arms again, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head as gently as he can manage.  And Killua returns the embrace, wrapping his arms tight around Gon’s waist and burying his face in his neck.

“You’re absolutely filthy, you know,” Gon teases, although his voice is far fonder than he intended.

“Excuse me,” Killua demands, with mock outrage, “did I just hear you insult the new king of Padokea?  Surely one of my subjects wouldn’t dare speak to their ruler that way.”

Gon laughs.

“It seems I forgot myself amid all the excitement.  Allow me to beg your pardon, Your Majesty.”

Killua pauses for a moment, and then pulls Gon impossibly tighter.

“No,” he murmurs into Gon’s neck.  “To you, it’s Killua.  It’ll only ever be Killua.”