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Killua must not want.
That lesson was one of the earliest and bloodiest ones. To want means to think himself deserving of what he desires. To want means to think himself worthy of comfort and kindness and generosity. He made that mistake only once.
Only once, and never again.
Through the haze of pain and terror, he remembers hearing his mother’s voice so clearly, high and piercing.
“You’re a tool,” she reprimanded, as Killua shook and retched. “Your only desires are those of the person wielding you. Tools do not want.”
Tools do not want. That was simple and painful enough to commit to memory. Simple and painful enough that Killua managed to condition himself to flinch at the mere thought of desire. At the mere thought of asking for anything.
“So,” Leorio begins, after a sip of what is, by Killua’s count, his fourth cup of coffee of the day, “what do you want for Christmas?”
Killua’s stomach clenches, tight and hot, but he manages to mask his panic beneath condescending derision.
“What, like you’re going to be able to afford anything with the pity stipend they tacked onto your scholarship? If I want something, I’ll just get it for myself. I’m not going to exploit the lower class like that.”
Leorio, maddeningly, doesn’t rise to the bait.
“It doesn’t have to be a physical gift, brat. Do you want to decorate? Get a tree? Walk around at night looking at the lights? Drink as much hot chocolate as your scrawny body can hold?”
Killua clenches his jaw, then his fists, and swallows down against the wave of nausea churning in his stomach.
“I don’t really care–whatever you want, I guess. I didn’t exactly grow up with a lot of holiday traditions to fall back on.”
“I know,” Leorio says, and it’s too soft and too knowing. “That’s why I’m asking.”
And just like that, whatever was keeping Killua’s rage and fear restrained bursts open, and he’s jumping up from the table, chair legs scraping harshly against the kitchen floor as he does.
“What part of ‘I don’t fucking care’ are you missing here?” he snarls. “Let’s be honest–the only reason we’re spending this godforsaken holiday together is because Kurapika and Gon are both overseas right now. You don’t like me, I don’t like you, so what’s the point in pretending otherwise?”
“Killua!” Leorio begins, but Killua doesn’t hear the rest, because he’s already raced out the door into the cold December afternoon, not bothering to so much as take his coat.
Leorio deserves more credit than Killua usually gives him—he manages to find and catch up to Killua in hardly more than a half hour. He is a Hunter, after all, and, if Killua’s in a particularly generous mood, he’ll even admit that he’s a good one.
“Hey!” he calls, jogging to where Killua is determinedly trying not to shiver on a park bench.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Leorio demands, breath coming in sharp, white puffs in the cold air.
Killua braces for what’s coming. Leorio will berate him for behaving the way he did, he’ll inform Killua that he’s overstayed his welcome in the apartment, and he’ll order him to leave. It won’t be the first time this sort of thing has happened to Killua, and it’s more than a little deserved.
But then, in a blur of motion, Leorio tears off his coat, and Killua freezes, hardly daring to breathe. He knows he can take Leorio in a fight if it really comes down to it, but for some reason, Leorio going to hit him, even after everything that Killua did, somehow still comes as a shock. For some childish, pathetic reason, he’d actually convinced himself Leorio was different.
But when Leorio reached out to Killua, it’s only to throw his coat around Killua’s shoulders.
“You can’t be out in this sort of weather dressed like that, Nen or not,” he scolds, and before Killua can react, he’s grabbed Killua’s hands and is trying to rub some warmth back into them. “Next time you want to storm off dramatically somewhere, at least bring your coat.”
And only then does Killua look at Leorio properly. His cheeks are flushed not just from the cold, but exertion, too, if his quick, labored breaths are anything to go by. There’s a furrow between his brow, and his eyes are soft around the edges.
He was running. Running to find Killua. He was worried. Regardless of all Killua has survived, regardless of how the taste of blood in his mouth has all but become a constant by now, Leorio was actually worried about him being out in the cold.
It should be shame that twists at Killua’s insides at that realization, but instead, it’s a quiet warmth.
“Look,” Leorio begins, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push about the holidays. I should’ve used my head and realized that this isn’t exactly an easy time of year for a lot of people. But I didn’t think, and I’m sorry.
Killua is struck dumb for a long, lingering moment. He wants to shout. He wants to grab Leorio by the shoulders and shake him.
“People don’t apologize to me,” he wants to yell. “Certainly not adults, and certainly not after acting the way I did. You’ve gotta be an even bigger idiot than I thought if you think I deserve kindness like this.”
“Hot chocolate,” is what Killua actually says, barely above a mumbled whisper.
“What?”
“To celebrate, I mean, like we were talking about earlier. Hot chocolate sounds nice. You’re right—it is pretty cold out here. I’d like something warm to drink.”
Killua half braces himself for an explosion, having finally pushed his luck too far, but, after a beat, Leorio simply breaks into a wide, toothy grin.
“You got it, kid.”
And by the time they find a street vendor offering hot chocolate by the steaming styrofoam cup, Killua manages to summon the courage to ask for extra marshmallows and whipped cream, simply because he wants them.