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Killua had not known that nights were meant to be this gentle. That you would shut your eyes at night and wake in the morning, and no one would have attacked you. He breathes in the warm air. It smells of many plants. His fingers creep along the side of his mattress where he lies on the floor. He feels between the softness of it and the hardness of the wooden floor. He stares out the window. The sky is clear, and the half-moon sets low in the sky. Everything is warm except for the breeze coming off the sea, and the coolness of it is a comfort after the heat of the day.
He watches Gon sleep. He’s played games Gon will never know. Threat of life and threat of death and everything else that he can make sound dramatic when he stares someone down saying, ‘I could kill you, you know.’
Gon’s hair fluffs out in the breeze. His lashes flutter as his eyes move beneath closed eyelids. Killua finds it easier to sleep in the day than in the night. In the night, everything is more of a threat. Maybe that’s because it’s the easiest time to kill someone: as they lie asleep in their bed.
He won’t want to kill Gon someday. He won’t. He won’t. He closes his hand into a fist. He could stab his nails through his skin, right through his hand. He laughs a little, out loud, accidentally, and Gon stirs. Killua shuts up because he doesn’t want Gon to wake. He looks so peaceful sleeping, and it makes him jealous in a way that travels through his stomach and spreads out into his limbs, all anger and pain with nothing to level it.
Except that he wants Gon to be happy and peaceful and sleep through the night. And the jealousy eases, enough that he can get up and creep downstairs, slipping into the kitchen, which lies blue in the night, and eat food by the handfuls to fill his stomach with something that is not jealousy.
He’ll never want to kill Gon. He doesn’t care about strength in that way his father or mother or Illumi does. It’s all a brush with something that he didn’t want, so he left. And he was taken back, but Gon came to steal him away. And he doesn’t know how to look at Gon when he thinks of that, because Gon wanted him bad enough that he came and he’d die trying.
And then Gon says, ‘Killua,’ gently behind him and Killua can’t turn around because suddenly his throat is closed, and he forgets how to breathe, and the room is brushed over with an illumination that is the moonlight caught in his tears, and if he turns, Gon will see it all, so he stumbles forward and catches his hand against a knife that slices the heel of his palm. He doesn’t cry out. He feels the blood seep out from the cut, and he turns, holding his hand up, and Gon is blue and blurred by his tears, but they fall when Gon runs to him.
‘Killua!’
‘I cut my hand,’ Killua says even though Gon can see it, but it’s a good excuse for why he’s crying, though he wants to jump up and scream out, Why did you get this! Why did you leave? Why did you risk this all? For your father? For me?
Gon turns on the light, chasing the blue out past the windows to the quiet of the night. Now there is yellow light and red blood on the wooden counter, and it’s going to stain.
Gon shoves on the tap and pulls Killua’s hand beneath the running water. It stings, and Killua shivers because the water is cold, and he’s trying to pull himself together even though he doesn’t know what it is he has to prove to Gon. Gon’s hands are warm on him, on his wrist, on his bare arm.
Gon says, ‘we have to wash it,’ as he’s washing it. He stares up at Killua, and his big hazel eyes are trembling with the shaken light of the kitchen as a moth swerves around the lamp, knocking shadows around both of them.
Killua nods.
‘It’s not bad,’ Gon says. He crosses the kitchen for a box in one of the cupboards. He takes Killua’s hand from beneath the water and pats it dry.
‘Hold.’
Killua holds the clean cloth against the cut. His blood stays beneath his fingers, but there is still his blood on the counter. He has left a dark pool of it with a little stream towards the edge of the counter where the blood starts to drip onto the floor. Will he always leave blood behind?
Gon takes out a brown bottle and wets a cotton ball. He moves the cloth and dabs the wound. It’s hydrogen peroxide, and it stings, but Killua does not move. He watches Gon as Gon focuses on the cut on his skin. It’s just one cut. Just one. He’s had so much worse. Gon’s had so much worse.
But Gon cradles his hand like it’s the only wound Killua’s ever had, and the worst thing that could have happened.
He whispers, ‘Poor Killua.’ And then, ‘but it will be okay!’ And he wraps up the wound and smiles, and his eyes glitter dark as the moth bangs against the lamp on the ceiling. Then he bends his hand and kisses Killua’s hand ‘chuu!’ over the bandages.
‘Thanks,’ Killua mumbles, not daring to look at him. He sits in place as Gon wipes up his blood from the counter, from the floor. It will stain, but he does not look at it. If he were Mito, he would rip the Hunter License to pieces. If he were Ging, he would never leave. He can’t imagine what it is like to be Gon. He steals a glance at Gon as Gon dabs at the stain on the counter. ‘Sorry.’
‘Mm?’ Gon looks over at him.
Killua shakes his head, looks down at his hands again.
Gon washes the knife in the sink. Killua sits with his hands held in his lap. He watches the blue of the night outside. The moth hits the lamp. It doesn’t give up. It will kill itself trying.
‘Okay,’ Gon says. ‘Are you still hungry?’
Killua shakes his head.
‘Do you want water?’
Killua nods.
Gon gets him water. Killua drinks it slowly. Gon stands beside him, and he touches Killua’s hair.
‘It doesn’t hurt,’ Killua says. ‘It doesn’t hurt me.’ He looks up at Gon.
‘I know,’ Gon says. He fixes a bit of Killua’s hair, and Killua looks down again and sucks his breath in through his teeth so he won’t cry.
Gon switches the light off. The kitchen turns blue again. The moth stops dying. Gon takes Killua by the arm, and Killua leaves his glass on the table and follows Gon silent up the stairs.
He follows Gon to his bed and gets in without asking, and Gon gets in next to him, and they both fit. Gon presses his forehead to Killua’s forehead. Killua smiles. He can see out the window better from Gon’s bed. It’s a bit snug, against the tree that grows through Gon’s house. A cool wind comes in through the window, playing with the wind chimes.
‘Mmm, come here,’ Gon whispers. He shifts higher in the bed and tucks Killua’s head beneath his chin. Killua freezes a moment, and Gon follows, staying still until Killua puts his arms around Gon. Only then does Gon put his arms around Killua. He strokes Killua’s hair and back. Killua closes his eyes.
‘It’s like I have some mortal wound,’ he whispers. ‘And I’m dying in your arms on the battlefield.’
‘What are your last words?’ Gon whispers.
I love you.
‘I don’t know,’ Killua says. ‘Something brave.’
‘It doesn’t hurt?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do I die too?’
‘No!’
‘Then how do I live?’
They fall into silence. The waves of the sea are growing stronger as the tide comes in. They break over the rocks.
‘Because,’ Killua says.
‘Because what?’
‘Because you have to go home.’
‘Have to go home why?’
‘Have to tell everyone I died and how much I’ll miss them.’
Gon holds Killua tighter.
‘It’s a bad story.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it isn’t happy.’ Gon’s breath comes out a little huff. ‘I don’t live without you.’
‘I’m just saying you’re dramatic,’ Killua says.
‘You are,’ Gon says. ‘And we both die.’
‘On the battlefield?’
‘Mhm.’
‘What are your last words?’
‘I love you.’
Killua smiles. He sucks on his lip. He can’t move. Gon’s holding him too tightly.
‘When do our families find out?’ Gon says.
Never.
‘They get a letter. Two weeks later.’ Killua breathes in the scent of Gon’s skin. ‘This isn’t a happy story either.’
‘But it’s better than yours,’ Gon says.
Killua feels a tear fall from his cheek onto Gon’s chest. There’s no way Gon doesn’t feel it. Gon doesn’t say a word though. He rubs Killua’s back.
‘And we take our last breaths together.’ Gon’s voice is very low.
‘Okay.’
‘Killua?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m glad it’s just a story.’
‘Yeah.’
Gon kisses Killua’s hair, very quietly, like he isn’t sure if Killua can feel it or if he’s supposed to. Killua pretends he didn’t notice.
He listens to the wind. It sings through the leaves. Gon hums with it. He belongs here. Killua looks up at him, but he can’t see anything but the curve of Gon’s neck, blue in the moonlight.
Killua presses closer. Gently Gon holds him.