Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Killua hurtled in through the door, he wasn’t really sure what sort of chaotic mess he’d just walked into at first, but he quite frankly couldn’t care less. As he leaned against the wall, gulping in mouthfuls of oxygen to feed his aching lungs, his first thoughts were, in exact order: Is anyone I knew here? to which the answer was a much-welcomed “no,” and then, Where is the food?

On second thought, some water would be awesome too—his throat was still fantastically sore from that twenty-odd minute shouting match. And the blasting music and horrifically off-key wailing coming from the center of the room didn’t exactly help his pounding headache.

Wait, what?

It was only then that he noticed the stage, two microphone stands set front and center, and—ah. Karaoke. Well, that certainly explained things. Those poor souls.

Soon losing interest, Killua finally caught a glimpse of the refreshments table—about time!—and didn’t waste any time making a beeline for it.

There was a blur of movement in the corner of his eye, and on instinct, his gaze shot to it, just as the door swung shut once more. Standing awkwardly by the entrance, brown eyes blinking in confusion and looking as equally disheveled as Killua had been several short minutes ago, was a dark-haired boy, maybe around his age.

I don’t recognize that face.

Faint stirrings of curiosity gripped him—Killua always made sure to keep track of each face and name in Padokea. It was an occupational hazard, considering—

The thought made his mood sour, and he quickly pushed it aside. Instead, eyes deliberately kept half-lidded in a mask of indifference, he surreptitiously examined the newcomer. That shade of skin was too dark to be from this far up north...

Interest now decidedly piqued, Killua edged along the walls.

“Hey, how old are you?”

The boy blinked at the sudden question, and Killua only briefly wondered if this was what would be considered a faux pas, before he answered, unperturbed, “I’m fifteen years old.”

We’re the same age… With an appraising look, Killua took a half-step closer. “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new?”

“Oh, yeah, actually! I just moved here yesterday.”

He let out an interested hum on reflex, eyes fully open now, and offered the boy a lopsided grin—no way he was doing a handshake, that was for dumb boring adults. “Well, for what it’s worth, welcome to Padokea. It’s kind of in a perpetual identity crisis since the planners couldn’t figure out if it’d be a city or a suburb, so it ended up stuck somewhere in between. Weird, but you get used to it.”

Apparently, something in Killua’s deadpan monologue struck the boy as funny, as he let out a laugh, cheeks stretching into a smile.

Then, the sound faded, and Killua frowned to himself as he tried to puzzle out why exactly he felt disappointed. What was with him? The boy’s laugh sounded kind of nice, that was all.

—and he was still nameless. That wouldn’t do—”the boy” sounded so awkward.

“I’m Killua, by the way.”

The boy’s smile grew to a radiant beam, like a sun lighting up his entire face. “That’s such a cool name!”

Caught off-guard, Killua could only utter an intelligent “Huh?”

“I’m Gon!” And his mouth was moving, forming more words, but then the chatter of the crowd swelled into a roar of applause, drowning them out before dying back down.

More than put-out that they’d been interrupted, Killua turned back to Gon, and—

White slammed into his vision and he froze in his tracks. It was only a second later, when the dots cleared, did he realize he was staring a spotlight full-on in the face. And it was only another second later until he noticed the second spotlight—shining right on Gon.

With a sneaking suspicion that was slowly morphing into something akin to horror, Killua dragged his gaze to the stage.

“Well, well, well!” A wide, cat-like grin crept over the host’s face, and a distinct sense of impending doom crawled up on Killua. “Looks like you two are getting along real well! How about you rock the house next, huh?”

ABORT ABORT ABORT—

“H-hold on!” he spluttered, slowly inching away from the advancing mass of partygoers, whose looks suddenly grew predatory. “I don’t have a clue how to sing!”

Somewhere off to his side, Gon blurted out, high in panic, “My dad sounds like a pig!”

“And mine sounds like a cow!” someone called out, and all laughing, the partygoers swarmed them, a flood of people sweeping them onto the stage before receding back and leaving Killua and Gon standing there alone, with every single pair of eyes in the room boring expectantly into them.

“Hey, someday you guys might thank me for this.” With a wink, the host pushed a microphone into Killua’s hands. But by then, his brain had completely shut down and he could only make a sound halfway between a whine and an air horn in protest.

“Or maybe not.”

And on that stunningly optimistic note, the host sauntered off the stage, just as the speakers began to thrum with the introduction instrumentals of some glitzy pop song.

If this ended up being some gross radio love song… Killua chanced an oblique look at Gon, who seemed to have already gone through the five stages of grief and reached acceptance of his fate.

If only he could say the same for himself.

Bright yellow words began to scroll across the screen, and Killua jumped, a curse on the tip of his tongue. They were starting already? Who was singing which part? The pointer was already bobbing over the first word—then the second—crap, weren’t they supposed to be singing, right now? Each beat that passed without a sound stretched out painfully, and then it was Gon who took the lead, halting as though he was constantly second-guessing his pitch every other second.

He doesn’t sound so bad, Killua thought dimly, only really half-aware of whatever the hell was going on in the mess of his mind, and more focused on staring holes into the screen. The pointer moved on, more and more words rolling past, and then—second part. Oh, hell—that was for him, wasn’t it?

Well… Guess there’s nothing to do but to do it. With a deep breath, Killua tipped the microphone towards himself, and as soon as the first few words left his mouth, he cringed. Crap, he was so off-key. Way too fast. Did his voice just crack? The audience was judging him right now—judging him so hard. His mouth felt dry already. A drink of water would be seriously helpful right now. Should he stop? The lyrics broke—just for a split second, and then—both.

With that, Gon’s voice joined his, intertwining—not exactly perfectly in harmony, but for some reason that didn’t bother him. A broad smile illuminated Gon’s whole face. Killua really liked that smile. What the hell? The tightness in his cheeks told him he was smiling too. Was he singing the right pitch? Did he care? Holy hell. Gon sounded awesome. His head felt a bit light. How much time had passed? Seconds? Minutes? Even hours? There was a strange warmth in his chest. Something light and fluttery and—

A roar of applause jarred him back to reality, and in a breathless, disoriented daze, Killua blinked, face flushed and adrenaline still tingling in his skin. It was over? The warmth still lingered, and then, as if on some unspoken cue, their eyes met, identical uncontrollable grins on their faces.

“Encore!” came a shout—then a second, even louder, and then a third and fourth and soon the whole crowd was chanting: “Encore, encore!”

The host put up his hands placatingly, as if afraid the crowd would mob him.

“Sorry to disappoint, but we’ve gotta give everyone their turn.” Some sullen murmurs rippled through the crowd, but after three more seconds no mob formed and the host sighed in relief, upbeat persona back on. “How about a final round of applause for our two stars here?”

The second round was even more deafening than the first, and a bit dizzy, Killua stumbled off the stage, searching for Gon, but his face vanished behind the masses of people as they pushed around, all shouting and laughing and making Killua’s skin prickle because damnit personal space!

After what felt like forever, Killua finally broke out of the crowd, slightly winded, and honed in on that crop of black hair.

“Hey, you can sing!”

“You were so cool, Killua!”

Heat immediately rose to his cheeks. “Wh-what? No way! I—I’ve never— I seriously don’t—” The more he stammered, the redder he could feel himself turning, without even getting anywhere, so he hurriedly changed the subject. “What was that about your dad sounding like a pig?”

“Oh—” A silly grin spread across Gon’s face. “That’s ‘cause Aunt Mito told me once he tried to sing, and then one of the neighbors came by, and they were like, ‘Are you butchering a pig in here or something?’”

An unexpectedly vivid image of his own father yodeling one of those aggravatingly catchy radio songs popped into Killua’s head—and he promptly dissolved into a fit of giggles. Yeah, like that would ever happen.

“So it definitely doesn’t run in the family,” he managed out through a hiccup, still clutching his stomach, and finally straightened with difficulty. “Not for me, either. Honestly, I’ve never even thought about singing, up till now.”

With a grave expression that looked almost comically out of place, Gon said, tone dead serious, “You should, though.”

Killua started, eyes widening ever so slightly, and stared at Gon, not quite sure if he’d just heard right. Gon stared right back at him, completely sincere and patiently expectant, and then blinked when Killua let out a laugh.

“Yeah, right.” If my family ever lets me.

Even if he hadn’t said it out loud, the very thought made his mood sour, and in the thick silence, Gon made an awkward throat-clearing sound of some kind.

“Um— I almost forgot! Killua, you, um…” Then he grew sheepish, his next words small. “Wouldn’t happen to know where Pendleton Street is, would you? ‘Cause I kinda...got lost...” He trailed off with a nervous laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck.

And how do you wind up in a karaoke party? Killua wanted to ask, but then retracted that thought as he realized that was—basically—his own situation. At any rate, it seemed they were both equally grateful for the handy topic shift for him to snark about it, so instead, he racked his brain, running through mental maps, until—there, Pendleton! And there were a couple good shortcuts too…

“How about I show you the way?”

Gon brightened. “Really? You’re a lifesaver, Killua!”

“Not like I have anything else to do.”

But he was utterly undeterred, practically bouncing on his heels with an unfailing cheer as he listened attentively to Killua’s narration of the various landmarks, alternately latching onto some topic to chatter about and halting in his tracks to ask wide-eyed questions ranging from That building’s huge! What’s it for? to Hey, I’ve never seen that kind of tree before! What is it?

To that, Killua could only hazard a guess from what limited snippets he could recall from freshman biology, and then Gon had launched off into a speculative spiel about different possibilities—which actually made sense to Killua, where a professional college-level textbook hadn’t. Huh.

It wasn’t long until the glossy asphalt became washed-out and cracked, spindly grass shoving out in scattered tangles, offices and shops giving way to houses and the chirping of crickets filling the air. Gon froze midway through a sentence, ears perking up with a gasp.

“Is that a river?”

With a sudden new rush of energy (from where, Killua had no clue), Gon bounded onto the bridge and practically flung himself an alarming ninety-degrees over the railing, wide eyes transfixed on the swirling currents meandering below them, glistening ink in the night.

“Woah… It’s almost like I’m back there…”

Only just catching up to Gon, Killua slowed down from his jog, faintly concerned that with how precariously Gon was tipping over the side, gravity would take its course and pull him down, but also considerably curious. “Back where you used to live?”

“Mhm, Whale Island. Have you heard of it?”

Whale Island… Killua frowned. The name didn’t ring any bells. “Can’t say I have.”

That only seemed to excite Gon, a gleam entering his eyes as he dropped back down from the railing, whirling around to face Killua. “It’s a really beautiful place! It’s a bit small, but everyone there knows each other. Most of it is woods and swamps, and there are lots of different animals, so it’s always fun to go outside. And—in the middle, there’s this huge lake, with an even huger fish in it—we call it the Lord of the Lake. I actually caught it once, when I was 12! It’s like the size of a house, and it almost pulled me into the lake with it, and…”

Elbow resting on the railing and chin in his hand, Killua was really only half-listening, more absorbed in the way Gon’s entire face glowed as he spoke with animated gestures, the way he never seemed to tire of the broad grin that split his cheeks. Maybe it was because he was from so far away, or maybe it was because this was the first time Killua had ever been close enough to anyone to notice these little things—

Suddenly, Gon cut himself off, cheeks pink. “S-sorry, I started rambling—I must’ve bored you—”

“Don’t sweat it,” Killua waved dismissively, turning just enough to hide the faint curve of his lips. The image of Gon’s radiant smile was still fresh in his mind, and he carefully tucked it away. “Do you miss Whale Island?”

Gon blinked, considering the question. “Well, not really? I mean, I’d like to go back there someday, but it’s also fun to go see new places. I think I’d be bored if I was just sitting around in the same place my whole life. So, I was really excited to move here.”

That was...unexpectedly thoughtful. Killua revised everything he’d assumed about Gon so far as he stared distractedly into the waters. “I guess it is pretty different, huh? Here it’s all buildings and stuff.”

“Mm, it is. I think maybe that’s why I got lost so easily.” With a sigh, he hung his head comically. “Aunt Mito’s going to be so mad…”

Pushing off the railing, Killua brushed the flecks of dust and paint flakes off his sleeves before turning back to Gon. “Speaking of which, we’d better get going. There’s—”

A shrill ring cut through the air, startlingly loud in the night, and a muffled curse escaped Killua as he scrambled for his phone—though he already had a good idea who it’d be. A single glance at the caller name confirmed his suspicions, and he let out a sharp “tch” before jabbing the hang-up button and shoving it back into his pocket. “That was my dad,” he explained apologetically, and couldn’t quite keep the annoyance out of his tone. “He probably wants me to get back home.”

Gon, thankfully, didn’t comment on how he hadn’t even bothered to pick up the call, and instead, made a small kicked-puppy sound—but then brightened. “Let’s switch numbers then! Um—I don’t have my phone on me, but—”

“Hold on,” Killua interrupted. “What about getting back to your house?”

“Your parents might get mad,” Gon insisted, blissfully unaware.

“They’re already pissed at me, it won’t make much of a difference.”

“Kiiillua.” Face set in an almost comically serious frown, Gon stared him down for several long seconds until he felt Killua was sufficiently contrite, and then eased his features into a reassuring grin. “I recognize some of these trees, anyway. I think I can find the way back myself”

Trees? Of all the landmarks… But then again, this was Gon , so with a sigh, Killua allowed an “I guess that works,” and dug his phone back out. “Put your number in—I’ll text you later.”

But even after that was done, for some reason, he still felt like he was missing something—

Of course! It was so obvious now—he almost could’ve smacked himself. But in the end he decided to go for the route that involved less overall bodily harm, and pivoted sharply to face Gon again. “The school—have you had an orientation or anything yet?”

“Oh—no, I haven’t.”

Killua’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “And school’s tomorrow—absolutely fantastic .” Several choice remarks about bureaucracy came to mind, but he settled instead for a vague grumble. “Okay, listen—see where that street over there? The one with the bushes?”

A sound of acknowledgement, and he took that as the cue to continue.

“Take a right there, then keep going ‘til you get to the corner with—I think it’s a cherry tree. Past there, it looks like a dead-end, but there’s a little hill, and if you cut over it, then go right, you’ll see the school up ahead. Got that?”

“Bushes, cherry tree, hill,” Gon repeated, forehead creased, and then nodded. “Okay, I think I can remember that!”

“Alright, good. I’ll show you around real quick before school starts tomorrow—I figure you’d need it.” Slanting into a teasing drawl at the end, Killua cracked a grin when Gon gave a sheepish laugh.

“Yeah…”

With that wrapped up, Killua double-checked the time—a quarter to nine—and clicked his tongue against his teeth. It’d already been over an hour—and knowing his mother, she must’ve worked herself close to an apoplectic rage by now.

He heaved a sigh, and then lifted a hand in a lazy salute. “Well, guess I’ve got to get going now. See you tomorrow.”

Gon beamed, waving vigorously. “See you, Killua!”

To no one’s surprise, Killua got chewed out the moment he stepped past the threshold of his house, and by the time his mother paused to catch her breath, red in the face, there were ants crawling in his feet. It was only after his father stepped in that Killua was allowed to retreat into the safety of his room.

But even still—it was more than worth it.

Sitting snugly in his contacts list was a new entry of blocky letters:

Gon Freecss.

The door was tucked away in an obscure little corridor that jutted off the side of a hallway, angled in a way that you never really noticed it unless you were actually trying to, and far away from the muted chatter of the cafeteria. Its hinges squeaked as Killua pried it open with a dramatic sweep, the lunchbox slung on his arm rocking back and forth.

“Here we are—the grand finale of the tour, right up there!”

Gon peered over his shoulder at the steps, and then upwards, where they twisted around and out of sight. “So this is the last place you wanted to show me?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of a secret though, so you can’t go around telling just anyone about this.”

“Secret? Why’s that?”

The rickety metal stairs jangled underneath their feet as Killua started up, Gon barely a step behind and practically radiating curiosity. “ Technically, ” he began, voice echoing against the whitewashed walls, “only janitors are supposed to come up here, but it’s not like there’s a rule saying students can’t too. It’s just that most people assume there is, so that means I get this whole place to myself.”

A hint of smug satisfaction leaked into the last part, and he allowed a brief moment to bask in it. Then, he paused as something occurred to him.

“Well, to ourselves now,” he amended, flashing Gon a grin, and hopped over the final step. Three more feet of hallway stretched out in front of them, and then, at the very end, another nondescript gray door. Already, he could almost feel a cool breeze against his face

“Here we are!”

Early spring sunlight spilled through the open doorway and down the stairs, tickling their skin, and Gon’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. High above them, wispy tufts of clouds drifted languidly across the blue sky, and the wind whistled in their ears, carrying with it the faint whispers of sprouting leaves and cool rain.

“Woah!”

Faster than Killua could blink, Gon had his face pressed up against the fence lining the rooftop, eyes still wide and fingers hooked in the chain-links. “You can see the whole town from here!”

Maybe that was an exaggeration, but it wasn’t far from the truth. Even from only two floors up, they could still see the roads spanning at least a mile in every direction, then fading into a blue haze of blurry figures. A car here and there cruised alongside the buildings, gliding smoothly around corners, and eventually vanishing out of sight. And further out, the glimmer of sun on water marked the river, twisting its way through the town.

Hands in his pockets, Killua strolled up to Gon, a smile playing on his lips. “Pretty neat, huh?”

“Yeah,” was Gon’s distant reply, still too absorbed in the view. Then, his eyes lit up. “Hey, there’s a lake!”

“That’s where the river flows into.”

“What about that mountain?”

Killua stiffened. He didn’t need to follow Gon’s gaze to see what he was talking about—there was only one mountain in this area, after all.

“Is that a house up there?”

Slowly, trying to mask his discomfort, he said, “That’s...Kukuroo Mountain.” The silence afterwards stretched out uncomfortably long, as the second question went unanswered, and Killua shifted, before finally deciding—to hell with it. Gon had been nothing but honest with him so far, so shouldn’t he do the same?

“It’s my family’s estate.”

Gon whipped back to him, eyes wide again. “Really? It’s huge!”

“Yeah, it is.”

Killua’s discomfort must have been more evident than he thought, because Gon watched him with a speculative expression, a dozen more questions gleaming in his face, but thankfully, he held them all back. Instead, he turned back to the fence, with the air of someone who was giving a delicate matter a great deal of consideration, before finally, tentatively speaking. “If you don’t mind, Killua… What’s your family like?”

Ah. Somehow he wasn’t surprised Gon would ask that—though, judging by the odd inflection in his tone, Killua suspected there was a bit more to it than he knew right now. Shifting, he chose his words carefully. “They’re all politicians. It’s sort of like the family business. That’s pretty much all they care about, so…they’re not exactly a touchy-feely bunch. And...” He let out a derisive scoff. “Let’s just say they have high hopes for me.”

A hint of resentment leaked into his tone— way more than he was comfortable with, because he made it a policy not to show anyone the mess that he probably was internally, more often than not.

Regardless, the damage was done—Gon fidgeted with a trailing “Oh,” at a loss for any other response. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to make you talk about something touchy like that…”

“Don’t sweat it,” Killua waved dismissively, though inside his thoughts were more along the lines of Oh hell, way to go, put a damper on the whole damned conversation, which now left it up to him to figure out some way to—

Fuck. How had he not remembered that before? Killua whirled around to face Gon, and pinned him with a serious look. “Hey, listen. My oldest brother, Illumi—he’s the student council president, and— Just watch out for him, okay?”

Gon blinked twice. “Oh—okay,” though at the end his words curled up uncertainly. Killua gave him a once-over, just to make sure he’d really gotten through to him, more because he was paranoid than anything, and then nodded.

“Well, enough about that— I didn’t tell you about my sisters yet, right?”

At the shake of Gon’s head, Killua beamed.

“Their names are Alluka and Nanika, and they’re the best little sisters ever , in the whole world. They’re”—for the briefest second, his mouth twisted sideways—”not in Padokea right now, ”but we keep in contact, so once I get a chance, I’ll introduce you.”

A grin spread across Gon’s face. “Yeah! I’d really—”

A low growl interrupted him, and they both froze, staring at each other, and then, as if on cue, broke out laughing.

“I guess we probably should eat, huh?”

It was rhetorical, but Gon made a sound of agreement anyway, and they plopped down on one of the concrete beams that criss-crossed the roof. For Killua, at least, it gave some much-appreciated rest to his sore feet.

“I’m actually an only child,” Gon said, in between bites of casserole, and then swallowed. “Or, well… I think. I don’t know my mom, and Ging’s always traveling. I’ve never met him.”

Whatever inkling of respect Killua might’ve held for Ging, by virtue of him being one of the people he’d assumed to have raised Gon, went down the drain. “Well, that’s a deadbeat dad if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Ging’s a pretty famous archeologist,” Gon explained, unperturbed by Killua’s comment. “So he goes all over the world for his work.”

What Killua would’ve liked to say was something like “That’s a pretty shitty excuse,” but in the end cooler heads (neurons, technically?) prevailed, and what came out of his mouth instead was a noncommittal “Huh” as he swallowed the rest of his sandwich. “Then who do you live with? Your aunt?”

“Yeah, and Granny too.” Then, he brightened, that distinct shine entering his eyes. “Oh—and Kite! Well, I don’t live with him, but he stops by a lot—he’s Ging’s student. He always tells me lots of stories about all the places he’s been too, and all the people he’s met, and he teaches me a lot of stuff too.”

“He sounds a whole lot more interesting than my parents.” To say the least, Killua’s inner sardonic voice added, but he kept his tone light. “Think I could meet him sometime?”

“Yeah, of course! But we’ll have to wait a bit, since Kite’s doing an excavation in the Balsa Islands right now”—Gon gestured vaguely with his fork—”and the reception there is really bad.” He wrinkled his nose. “Really, really bad.”

“Oh.” The disappointment in Killua’s tone surprised even himself. “Well, I guess there’s no helping it.”

Draining the rest of his water bottle, he stood up, bones cracking as he stretched. “Anything you need to throw out? Might as well do it all in one go.”

It wasn’t long after that until the bell rang, students promptly pouring out into the hallways, and it didn’t take much effort for them to blend in and pretend as though they hadn’t been doing anything that might’ve been somewhat borderline prohibited.

Not that Gon seemed to mind. If anything, there was a wonderfully unconcerned spring in his step as they trekked along the corridors. Which was a bit weird, but nice.

“Killua, look!”

Stopping short, Killua pivoted around on a heel, and raised a brow at the object of Gon’s interest: a bulletin board sparsely pinned with an assortment of flyers—fundraisers, concerts, some debate competition, and—

“A musical?”

“Yeah—open auditions for the leads!”

Upon closer inspection, Killua was forced to conclude that whoever designed this flyer had an excellent sense for color coordination, a pleasant surprise amongst the fluorescent eyesores of the other papers. Then, several words caught his attention.

“Huh, it’s a duet.”

The note of interest in Killua’s tone didn’t escape Gon, and he turned to Killua, eyes shining hopefully. “Do you want to sign up together, Killua?”

The obvious answer was already on the tip of his tongue—

Quiet too quiet can’t breathe CAN’T BREATHE run run AWAY can’t can’t I can’t—

“Kil—”

“I can’t!”

Too high, too sharp—something ugly and sickening gripped at him, it was only when Gon flinched, some mixture of confusion and hurt flashing across his face, that Killua realized, too late.

“Sorry—” The apology caught in his throat, coming out as a stutter. “But—my family would be...pretty pissed, so...”

“Oh,” was all Gon said, making an attempt to mask his disappointment—but that somehow only managed to make Killua feel even worse. The silence stretched out for what felt like hours, neither of them really sure what to say next, Killua determinedly staring anywhere else but Gon, until his gaze landed on a clock on the far wall.

“The bell’s going to ring soon,” he said quickly, still not looking Gon in the eye. “We should get going.”

“O-oh, yeah!” Gon tried for a tentative smile. “So then—see you tomorrow?”

“See you.” After a pause, Killua added, “Don’t get too lost,” but it fell flat, and Gon disappeared around the corner without another word.

Throughout the rest of the day, no matter how he tried, it just wouldn’t stop gnawing at him. Even lying in bed, glowing numbers ticking down 10:11, 10:26, 10:49—that scene kept playing and replaying in his head, over and over. What would’ve happened if, instead, he’d said, Yeah, let’s do this—?

Killua heaved a sigh, buried his face in his pillow, and squeezed his eyes shut.

When a frazzled and probably not wholly anchored in the waking world Killua scrambled out of bed to pick up the phone, only a string of gibberish came from the speaker, and it took staring blankly at the phone for a couple seconds (minutes?) longer than strictly necessary before the garbled sounds finally reached his sleep-muddled brain, and registered as words: Due to a power outage, there will be a delayed opening today …

For several beats afterwards, Killua stood there, shivering in his pajamas, until something of a functional thought process appeared, resembling, in a nutshell:

Delayed opening → more time → more sleep.

He promptly flopped back into the inviting blankets of his bed and returned to hibernation.

An hour later found Killua crawling out from his burrow of blankets with a yawn and a convulsive stretch, now considerably more cognizant, and fired off a couple texts to Gon. There was still a good two hours until school started, which meant—

Suddenly Killua found himself completely awake. Ordinarily, with a whole twelve hours of time zone differences separating them, the times they were both up were few and far between—but it was eight in the morning…

After the most hasty breakfast he’d ever had the dubious joy of experiencing in his life, involving gratuitous near-spills of milk and some choking, he found himself sprawled across the living room sofa, holding his breath as his phone chimed, again and again—and then a familiar face filled the screen, as a sudden flutter of joy seized his heart.

“Big brother!”

A soft smile spread across his face. “Sorry I haven’t called in so long, Alluka.”

“It’s okay! I’m just really happy I could see you again!” She tilted her head in childlike curiosity. “Though, shouldn’t you be at school right now?” Then her eyes went wide. “Don’t tell me you’re skipping!”

“I won’t tell you, then.” At Alluka’s appropriately scandalized “Big brother!”, Killua’s mouth curled into an amused grin.  “Kidding—it’s just a delayed opening, since there was a storm, and the school’s power got knocked out. More importantly, how have you and Nanika been? Are they treating you alright?”

There was a half-second pause that made Killua’s stomach clench, before Alluka replied. “We’re doing okay. Nanika’s missed you, too.”

Something seemed off, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on—then Alluka shifted and Killua’s blood ran cold. “Alluka,” he said slowly, “what happened to your hair?”

The smile vanished and she seemed to shrink in on herself, tugging fretfully at one of her choppy black locks—what had once been waist-length now barely reaching her neck. “They—they said boys aren’t supposed to have long hair.” Her voice grew small and trembling. “But—we’re not boys, right, big brother?”

Grip tightening on the phone, Killua took in a controlled breath, and softened his expression. “No. Of course not. They don’t know what they’re talking about. All that matters is what you think you are.”

It was a sentence he’d found himself repeating more and more—sometimes shorter, sometimes longer, different words and different tones, but still the same. And each time, it only sounded more and more hollow to him. Was words all he could give?

“Big brother.” Alluka dragged the syllable out in admonishment, a sudden fierce glare in her eyes. “You’re thinking like that again, aren’t you?”

Killua winced, and she let out a sigh of exasperation.

“We’ll be fine, big brother. We’ll just keep on not listening to them, and then they’ll just get so tired of us they’ll let us out! So, you don’t need to worry about us! Okay?” When Killua only pursed his lips, Alluka huffed. “Okay, big brother?”

“Okay,” he acquiesced—reluctantly—after a futile stare-down.

“Okay!” Alluka clapped her hands together, beaming. “Now, you have to tell me how you’ve been!”

Halfway through an animated recounting of the karaoke party, the hairs on the back of Killua’s neck stood up, followed barely a fraction of a second later by:

“Killua.”

Whatever brightness his mood had regained was immediately dampened once more. With a quick muttered apology to Alluka, he covered the microphone, and jaw firmly set, met the disapproving gaze of his father.

“You know what our policy about him is.”

“She”—Killua bit out, tone frigid—”is my family, and so is Nanika.”

Silva’s response was equally cold. “We’ve gone over this, Killua. That thing is nothing more than a construct of Alluka’s illness.”

Shut the fuck up, hissed the more brash part of him, but discretion held his tongue.

Without a word, he snatched up his headphones, clapped them over his ears, and cranked up the volume.

Heavy metal blasted out in a racket of clanging drums and screeching guitars, and he could barely hide a satisfied smirk when the slightest flicker of irritation crossed his father’s face. The same pragmatism that kept Killua from spitting out some rather vicious words seemed to finally bring his father to the conclusion that Killua wouldn’t budge, and he withdrew from the room without another sound.

Not that if there had been, Killua would’ve heard. The perks of headphones.

“Killua?”

With a strained smile, he uncovered the microphone. “Sorry about that, Nanika. How’ve you been?

Nanika blinked innocently, completely unaware of even the lingering tension in the atmosphere. “I wanted to play shiritori, but then they got really mad, so I played with Alluka instead.” A wide smile grew on her face. “I won!”

“That’s—” Killua halted, and then forced a bit of cheerfulness into his voice. “You’re pretty smart, huh?”

“Smart,” she echoed, looking pleased with herself, and then suddenly yawned. “Um—I think I’m tired… Sing for us, Killua?”

With a hum of agreement, Killua paused for a moment, and then reached back for the way he’d felt—standing on that stage, awash in lights, following some vague thread of feeling more than anything—and began. It was hardly after the first few notes—low and soft—that his breathing fell in sync with the rolling cadence of the lullaby, so natural that he hardly paid it a second thought.

And like that, it was over.

A loud yawn enveloped the first few syllables of the indistinct, drowsy murmur from the phone, so that he could only catch the tail end of a bleary “Big brother.” Eyelids drooping, Alluka smothered another yawn. “You looked really happy when you were singing. So—you should sing more. ‘Kay?”

Killua opened his mouth, then closed it soundlessly, not sure how to respond to her uncannily on-the-spot observation, even while half-asleep. “Oh— Sure.”

“Mm. Night, big brother.”

“Night, Alluka, Nanika.”

With a click, the video call blinked out, leaving Killua staring at a black screen.

Sing more, huh?

That would seriously piss his family off.

That flyer with its aggravatingly fantastic color coordination flashed across his mind again, for some reason, and his heart clenched in that distinct way every single time it came back to nag at him again, as if saying, Thought you could get rid of me? Hahaha nooope—and then proceeding to squat in the corner of his head for the rest of the day.

Killua laid on the couch for several more seconds before the dots finally connected, and then bolted upright, feeling inordinately giddy.

Of course! It was ridiculously perfect—why hadn’t he thought of it before?

Something small and anxious and probably well-justified tugged at him, but he pushed it aside, because dammit let me do something dumb and reckless once in a while, will you?—and it fell silent as he turned his phone back on.

A snort of laughter escaped him as he saw the long list of messages from Gon, starting as his normal uncapitalized textspeak and about halfway through, beginning a spiralling descent into caps lock peppered with frantic punctuation and emojis. The most recent one, from less than a minute ago, read as KILLLUUUUUAUAAAAAAUAUA, followed by four lines of prayer emojis.

Killua indulged himself in laughter for just a bit longer before he decided to finally put Gon out of his misery.

(09:27) Hey, I’m alive.

(09:27) UR ALIVE KIIILLUUAUAUAAA11!!!!1111!!11!!! :DDDDDDDD

(09:28) Duh, you can’t get rid of me that easily.

His fingers didn’t hesitate one moment on the keyboard.

(09:30) I changed my mind. We’re doing the musical.

Chapter Text

“I think your definition of ‘soon’ needs some work,” a slightly put-out Killua said, having been swooped down upon at his locker by an overly enthusiastic Gon, and hauled through the flood of leaving students with nothing more than a cheery “Hey Killua! The auditions are starting soon, let’s go!”

Because apparently, in Gon’s world, “soon” meant twenty minutes. Something Killua was not particularly pleased with.

Gon rubbed the back of his head with a sheepish laugh. “Sorry, Killua, but it doesn’t hurt to be early, right?”

After three seconds of an unimpressed stare, Killua sighed in resignation. “I guess not.” It was hard to stay miffed at Gon, after all.

And so the subject was left at that.

Killua had only been in the auditorium two or three times before, all for some official school assemblies, but this was Gon’s first—he let out an impressed “Oh!” as he craned his neck up at the led lights flaring in the ceiling, then back down at the rows of cushioned seats, all gently sloping downward, where the checkered carpeting pooled around a burnished wood stage, empty save for a pair of students at a grand piano. It wasn’t a half-bad place—Killua had been too busy sleeping in all those assemblies to really pay any attention to the environment before.

Actually, on closer inspection, the place was kind of a mess. The piano was terrifically banged-up, almost as if it’d been dropped down six stories à la The Aristocats, and he wasn’t quite sure what that suspicious yellow stain was.

But even in its rickety state, the melody struck out by the keys still wound gracefully through the air, in familiar chords and bars that they’d spent the past week memorizing, and Gon instantly lit up, already singing along.

“What’re you doing?” he hissed, suddenly acutely aware that they had a potential audience.

Gon only paused to say, in a single breath: “Singing, duh! You sing too!”—and then went right back to it with carefree abandon.

Killua sighed. The things Gon got him to do.

Soon, their voices joined together, passing over line after line, and before they even set foot on the stage, the last of the song had already melted away, leaving a smattering of applause.

Damn it.

“Hey, that wasn’t half-bad,” the taller of the two called out, and Killua went pink, but Gon beamed.

“You think so?” Too excited to even wait for a response, his next thought spilled out. “You were really amazing with that piano! Are you professionals?”

The urge to bury his face in his palms struck Killua, and he settled for a cut-off groan instead. Obviously they were students—well, at least the short one was. The tall one? He had no clue.

But the two only looked taken aback for a moment, before the said tall one rubbed the back of his neck, flattered.

“Er, well—not really? Kind of. Maybe. We’re just the drama club’s pianists, that’s all.”

Only then did it occur to him that they hadn’t introduced themselves, and he stuck out his hand.

“I’m Leorio, and this is—”

“Kurapika.” The shorter one gave a nod, neat blond haircut swaying with the movement and lips curved into a pleasant smile. “It’s a pleasure.”

Either unaware or uncaring that handshakes marked boring old people, Gon shook Leorio’s hand, still beaming. “I’m Gon.”

“Killua.”

He attempted to pull off a cool, nonchalant act, but his voice cracked at the second syllable, and Leorio narrowed his eyes. “Say, you two sound pretty hoarse. How long’ve you been practicing?”

The sudden scrutiny threw Gon for a loop. “Ah—well, kinda a lot? I mean, we were both pretty nervous, so we ended up practicing whenever we could.”

Apparently, that answer was unsatisfactory, because Leorio’s eyes narrowed even further, and off to the side, Kurapika muttered to himself, “There he goes again.”

As exasperated as his words sounded, the smile only seemed to widen, if anything, and Killua didn’t have time to wonder what that meant before Leorio promptly shooed them to the water fountain, grumbling under his breath, “Kids these days don’t know how to hydrate themselves,” and then a bit louder, added, “Your shoelaces are untied.”

Crouching down to tie them, Killua stuck out his tongue over his shoulder. “Sure, whatever, Dr. Leorio.”

Maybe the sarcasm fell flat, or maybe he’d struck an inside joke or something, because an outrageous beam split Leorio’s dumb horse face. Which only annoyed Killua more.

“I take that back.”

He thought for a moment, and then, with a mischievous grin, tacked on, “Old man.”

And shoelaces tied, he ambled off with Gon to find a water fountain, leaving Leorio’s indignant cries of “I’m a teenager, a teenager!” behind him.

By the time they came back, Leorio’s anger had subsided (Killua guessed that was, in no small part, due to whatever placating Kurapika must’ve done in the interim), and other auditionees had arrived, camped out in various nooks and crannies of the stage and eying them warily. But Gon paid little mind to them as he plopped down, and Killua followed, crossing his legs.

“So,” Gon started, the hoarseness in his voice more or less gone, “who’s going to be judging?”

“That’d be Bisky—she’s the drama club supervisor.”

Bisky… Killua frowned, racking his brain—that name faintly rang a bell. “As in—Biscuit Krueger? The choir teacher?”

“That’s her—though, she insists we all call her Bisky.” Kurapika pronounced the nickname with such casual ease that it conjured up a vastly different image than the one Killua had put together from—well, essentially eavesdropping on conversations.

“I hear she’s pretty tough.”

“But she’s fair. I’d put my money on you two getting the roles.”

—To say the least, Killua hadn’t been expecting that.

Or the warm smile Leorio flashed their way. Sure, it was already dead obvious that Leorio had something of a softie inside him (a fussy softie), but still. The straightforward vote of confidence made him distinctly uncomfortable, especially without a snarky retort at hand, and he scratched at a cheek, shifting awkwardly.

“Uh. Thanks? I guess.” A pause passed before Killua remembered he was supposed to be making cracks at Leorio’s age, and appended the proper “old man.”

If Leorio thought anything of that, well, no one would never know, because before any sort of reaction was visible, his eyes flicked to the side, and then a broad grin spread across his face as he twisted around in his seat. “Speak of the devil! We’re all set to go, Bisky!”

Gon and Killua both shot up, frantically attempting to pat down the wrinkles in their clothes—this was happening too fast!—then jumped as they heard another voice, heads whipping to the entrance.

And then their jaws dropped.

“Wait—that’s Bisky? She can’t be older than thirteen or something!”

“No one knows how she does it,” Kurapika confessed, part confused, part plain resigned. “Just—don’t question it.” For your own safety, went unsaid.

The answer still didn’t quite satisfy Killua because there was absolutely no way that could be possible without some—black magic, or something, but by then Bisky had already climbed up the stage, Leorio settling back onto the piano bench now that their conversation was apparently done.

“Ahem.”

It was almost comical how everyone immediately snapped to attention (with varying degrees of terror in their faces).

“Good afternoon, everyone.” An automatic chorus of “good afternoon” went up, some relaxing ever so slightly at the easy affability in her voice. “If you don’t already know me, I’m Biscuit Krueger—just Bisky—the choir teacher, and the supervisor of the drama club. I’ll be conducting these auditions, and I’ll warn you—if you don’t put everything you’ve got into this, you won’t make the cut. You go all the way, or you don’t go.”

The nonchalant smile on her face never faltered one bit, not even with that grave warning.

“But that being said—” Bisky held up a finger, adopting a more lecturing tone. “What’s important too is that you don’t work yourself to death. Loosen up and do what comes naturally to you. Everyone got that?”

Somewhat less terrified nods followed.

“Alright then, let’s begin. We’ll do it first come, first serve…”

Gon’s face fell. “So we’ll be last…”

“Guess there’s no helping it.” With a shrug, Killua flopped back down onto the floor and shifted about until he found a decent enough position. A quick nap wouldn’t be too bad right now.

The rustling of Gon’s clothes signaled he was sitting down too. “I think I’ll just watch everyone else,” he whispered. “I actually kinda want to see the others sing. Do you want me to wake you up when we’re up?”

“Whatever floats your boat.”

There was no answer to that, not even an affirmative hum of some sort. Cautiously, Killua cracked an eye open—just enough to see, but still look like he was sleeping—and cast a sideways glance at Gon.

It only took one look at the intent, one-target focus in his eyes for Killua to tell he’d zoned out everything except for the pair up right now.

He’s really taking this seriously, huh.

Killua turned back and then reclined against the wall, eyes half-lidded now. I guess I should too.

It was somehow even more daunting that Bisky’s poker face never wavered throughout the whole thing, no matter how high a note a duet struck or how low they sank, whether they sang adagio or allegro, how out of breath they were at the end, or by another other factor Killua could identify.

“Gon Freecss and Killua Zoldyck!”

His gut gave a violent lurch as they scrambled to their feet. Crap, they were up already? There was no way that much time had passed already!

“Are you ready?” Gon whispered to him. “I don’t think I am.”

“I don’t know. Just don’t panic.”

—Killua said, even as inwardly, most of his thoughts were just incoherent frazzled screaming.

But then as his gaze moved from the floor, to the rows and rows of empty seats, and then finally to the piano, Kurapika flashed them an encouraging smile, and Leorio a thumbs-up, and the flipping of his stomach eased—just a little bit. The first chord was struck, and then the next. Gon took in a deep breath, and opened his mouth:

“It’s hard to believe... That I couldn’t see…”

—and in that breathless, riveting way, it was over as quickly as it’d begun, the final notes already fading away into the air. The only sounds left were the scritch-scratch of pen on paper, Bisky’s expression still frustratingly vague enough that it might’ve been anything from approval to unsurprised dissatisfaction.

Then, the pen stilled, and heels clicking against the wooden stage, Bisky strode over to the piano. After conferring with Leorio and Kurapika in hushed murmurs, she nodded to herself, and then louder: “Alright then.”

When she cleared her throat—that same sharp “ahem”—Killua’s stomach flipped again.

“Gon, Killua!”

Instinctively, they straightened, heart skipping a beat.

Then she smiled at them, warm with approval. “Congratulations. You get the roles.”

One beat. Two. Three. And—

“Awesome!”

In sync they whirled around, cheeks stretched wide with beams, and high-fived, hard enough that a sharp smack! rang out—then fell back with a yelp and a laugh, palms smarting, but that hardly mattered because—they’d done it!

Of course, it was Gon who first remembered Bisky was still standing there, amusement painted across her face, and promptly pivoted. “We’ll do our best, Ms. Bisky!”

Still amused, she waved it off. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect any less. Oh—and just Bisky.” Then, her smile curved into a sly grin. “But I wouldn’t complain if you called me Lady Bisky,” she practically cackled.

Killua stuck his tongue out at her, which was probably a dumb and immature thing to do, and to a teacher of all people—but to hell with it, he’d lost track of his common sense somewhere in the celebratory jumble of holy crap we actually did it! so for the better or worse, it wasn’t there to stop him from opening his mouth to say: “No way, ol—”

“That concludes the auditions!” Kurapika suddenly shouted, oddly strangled and loud enough that Killua jumped. “Thank you all for coming here today”—and some other dressed-up consolations and pleasantries as the rejected auditionees began to trickle out.

Killua didn’t have much time to wonder what Kurapika’s behavior meant before Leorio ambled over, grin on his face.

“Congrats—awesome job there! I should’ve actually put money on you guys!”

Gon brightened, his beam growing even wider, if possible, stammered out a “Thanks!” and then launched into a nervous ramble about nothing in particular.

The scene might’ve been funny and—hell, even endearing (ugh that was such a gross word he was never using that ever again)—but he didn’t miss the split-second look Leorio shot him out of the side of his eye that screamed, Try to have a little more tact, will you?

Killua considered sticking his tongue out at him too, but then Bisky thumped her fist in her palm, a strange shine in her eyes.

“I’ve got it!”

She pointed at Gon. “You’re diamond.”

A bit baffled, Gon pointed at himself. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else?” Without waiting for an answer, she pointed at Killua. “And you’re sapphire.”

Gon and Killua shared what the hell is going on looks before the former tentatively ventured, “Are those—code names?”

“Code names!” Bisky echoed with a laugh. “No, they’re just nicknames I like to give out. Everyone in the drama club has one, based off of gemstones. Kurapika here is ruby”—a wave—”and Leorio’s topaz.” A longer-armed wave.

Gon made a soft sound in comprehension, and Killua raised a dubious brow. “Oh. Sure. But why rocks? There are loads of cooler things.”

“Gemstones,” Bisky corrected, tone dangerous, and Killua backed down with a vaguely contrite “Whatever,” which she ignored. “It’s just the matter of how you look at it. When you think about it—people are a lot like gemstones, aren’t we? We always start out raw, and sometimes ugly, but with proper polishing, we can shine brilliantly.”

Killua opened his mouth, then closed it, at a loss for a response. That was actually...pretty accurate. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud.

But it seemed he didn’t need to, because Bisky smiled in satisfaction.

“Well then, moving on! The drama club meets after school, right here—the fastest way is through the side door over there—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so there’ll be a meeting tomorrow. We’ll introduce you to the rest of the club, and show you the ropes. How does that sound?”

A cheer rang out, echoing in the empty auditorium, but for some reason, it felt even livelier than before.

Thick strokes of glossy red spelled out “backstage” across the cracked black paint of the door, in a scrawling script, but at the moment Killua was more convinced it actually read “impending doom.” Possibly because the chicken-scratch wobbled on a thin line between could-be-mistaken-for-something-else and complete illegibility, possibly because of the excessive crashing, shouting, and barking coming from behind the door, or possibly because he was just now beginning to regret all his life decisions.

“Maybe we’re at the wrong place,” he muttered, half to himself.

“The door literally says ‘backstage,’ Killua.”

“Well, damn.” With a sigh, he gripped the doorknob, and then glanced back at Gon. “So, we’re going in, I guess?”

“I guess,” Gon echoed, a faint note of curiosity in his voice.

The muffled yelling reached a crescendo, and then abruptly fell back down.

Killua sighed again, counted to three, and then swung the door open.

“—making the poor guy feel bad!”

“It should feel bad, it kind of—oh, I don’t know—wrecked our whole setup?”

Off to the side, casually paying no mind to the screaming, someone said, “What about the food—is the food okay?”

“It’s cool, Shoot saved it.”

A junior? senior? with an angled drawn face waved weakly, sprawled out on the ground with several platters balanced precariously on various lanky limbs. In a blink the pompadour was at his side, pulling him up with a “Shit, man, sorry.”

And then the pompadour promptly resumed the shouting match as Gon and Killua stood there, staring blankly at the flipped tables, the ripped streamers, and then at the squat furry sausage in the corner that looked entirely too pleased with itself.

Quietly, Killua turned to Gon, still watching the chaos out of the corner of his eyes with a morbid fascination. “Should we—say something?”

“Umm—” Gon hesitated, then finally worked up the nerve to raise his voice. “Umm—! Kurapika, Leorio!”

Both of them froze, then whipped around, eyes going wide.

“Crap! Guys, they’re here!”

And immediately a mad scramble ensued, tables flung upright, a crooked banner reading “Welcome!!!” hastily hung back up, and then, with completely unembarrassed broad grins, party poppers went off with a chorus of “Welcome to the drama club!”

Silence.

“Sorry about the dog,” the pompadour offered awkwardly.

Gon was the first to snap out of his daze, waving frantically. “A-ah, no! It’s okay!”

“Weird, but okay,” was Killua’s whisper, but a collective sigh of relief went up anyway.

“Did—did you guys really set up a whole party for us?”

“Well, of course!” A certain self-satisfied relish colored Bisky’s words. “A new member is always an occasion to celebrate—the more the merrier, after all! So, what say we get started?”

The pompadour, as they soon learned, lounging about in a loose circle of patchwork beanbag chairs, was Knuckle, self-proclaimed champion and defender of canines—not to mention the king of emotional monologues and stage-crying. And the one who’d saved the food was Shoot, in charge of the props partially because of his dexterity and partially because he had a crippling case of stage fright.

Then there was Melody, with a low, gentle hum every bit as musical as her flute. Pokkle and Ponzu, the go-to choices for every lovey-dovey couple that happened to crop up in a script. Meleoron, the costume designer whom everyone was convinced was secretly a lizard or chameleon of some sort, and Basho the screenwriter who tried to turn everything into a haiku, and . . .

The names and faces were still whirling around in his head when Killua flopped into his bed, a silly grin on his face even as he drifted into dreams of pizza and donuts and easy joking banter.

Chapter Text

The message arrived with an innocuous ping; innocuous enough, in fact, that Killua didn’t register it at first, being more focused on his homework.

Actually, that was a complete lie. Whatever he was, he was decidedly not focused on his homework, with all of the answers he scribbled down being little more than absent-minded guesses that were probably horrifically wrong.

Instead, what occupied the most of his attention was a particularly catchy song from the musical, fresh and vivid and likely permanently burned into his brain thanks to the rigorous rehearsal only an hour prior. Keeping it all in his head made him jittery, for some unfathomable reason that he supposed was part of the package deal of being a singer, so there he was, humming under his breath, nodding to the beat, and slowly cementing the C on his homework.

It was only when he’d filled up the first side of his worksheet with nonsensical mumbo-jumbo and flipped to the back, now on the concluding strains of the song, that he realized something had broken the tune—the culprit being the aforementioned ping.

He considered for a moment whether there was a point to check it or not. Statistically speaking, it was probably another dog photo from Knuckle, or Kurapika and Leorio shamelessly flirting right in the group chat (let it be said that they never tried particularly hard to be subtle), or something along those lines. But eventually his curiosity won out and he stretched across the table, yanked his phone free of its charger, pulled up the chat, and then stopped short.

(19:13) Meeting tomorrow— Something came up, and we need to discuss, preferably in person. Can everyone make it?

The replies came pouring in shortly after, all varying shades of “yes,” and Killua hardly needed to think twice before sending one of his own—it wasn’t like his family hadn’t been making a fuss about the club the past several weeks, and he doubted they’d start now. Which then left the matter of the impromptu meeting and whatever Bisky wanted to discuss with them—did this sort of thing happen often? Should he be worried?

“It’s not a common occurrence, but it’s not uncommon either,” was Kurapika’s answer to that, after taking a brief second to deliberate. “Regardless, there’s no need to be worried. Even if it’s bad news, we can deal with it.”

“If you say so,” Killua said, still a bit dubious, but then again the rest of the club seemed just as untroubled as they drifted about, some standing around and some seated in the beanbag chairs, all chatting away without a concern in the world.

“Sorry for the wait, everyone.”

As if a switch had been flipped, the conversation stopped, all heads turning to the side door as Bisky strode towards them, a ledger tucked under one arm and an unusual gravity in her expression. Killua’s gut twisted ever so slightly as she cleared her throat.

“I’ll get straight to it. The principal has decided to cut our funding—yes, again.” The last part she tacked on as several groans and exasperated sighs went up (“again?”) before continuing. “And he’s considering disbanding the club.”

“Wait—what? Why?”

Whoever said it first—Killua didn’t know, not even if it’d been him. He couldn’t think anything around the sudden frantic murmur that burst out, around the words disbanding the club pounding around in his head, around the the unease thick in his throat.

“The reason,” Bisky began, raising her voice over the clamor just enough that everyone fell silent again, “is that he’s concerned about how—relevant the drama club is to modern society, or some other rubbish.” A decidedly scathing undercurrent entered her tone, before—maybe it was just his imagination?—it softened, almost imperceptibly. “Though, it’d be more accurate to say that these concerns were raised to him by the student council president.”

Illumi.

A sickly nausea clawed at him, snatching the breath from his lungs and sinking deep down into his bones, the weight of stares crushing him from all sides. Stupid—I should’ve known there’s no way they’d just let me do something like this—!

“Killua—”

“I know it’s my fault!” he snapped out, a crack through the tense hush sharp enough that Gon shrank back, the rest of his words dying in his throat. Killua’s heart sank and he swallowed, gaze fixed on the floor, not wanting to see what face Gon was wearing. “I—”

“Don’t say that!”

Someone grasped his wrist, and Killua jolted, whipping straight up to meet brown eyes—Gon’s eyes. Eyes brimming with anger—but not at him.

“It’s not your fault, Killua. It’s your brother’s, okay?”

Killua opened his mouth, soundlessly, then closed it, no words or protests coming to him, and could only watch in something of a shocked silence as Gon gently tugged his hands open, finger by finger, with a tenderness in stark contrast to the taut anger in his voice. Tiny red crescents still marked where his nails had been digging into skin, hard enough to draw blood, and Gon began gently rubbing circles over them.

“Okay, Killua?” he repeated, softly this time, and looked up at him, eyes pleading.

“But—” Killua tried to pull away, to no avail, and after several more fruitless attempts, gave up, resisting the urge to rake a hand through his hair. “Illumi wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t— Dammit, just—listen! If I stay here it’ll only mean more trouble for you guys, and—”

“The hell are you going on about?” Leorio straightened from his usual slouch, nostrils flaring. “You’re saying you should leave? What kind of bullshit is that?”

“Bullshit? Do you not get it, old man?”

A vein twitched in Leorio’s forehead, possibly because Killua’s incredulity, or because of the “old man,” or because they were practically screaming in each other’s faces by that point—or all of the above. “Yeah, I get it! I get that your asshole of a brother is literally blackmailing you!”

“That—that’s not even what blackmailing is!” Killua spluttered out, for lack of any other response to Leorio up-front calling Illumi of all people an asshole. Undeterred, Leorio only scowled.

“Whatever! Stop dodging!” He jabbed a finger at Killua. “Listen—it’s not about whether you should leave or not! Do you want to leave?”

“I—” For the second time, Killua was at a complete loss for words—of all the questions he’d been expecting, that wasn’t one. What he wanted? But—no. The decision had to be logical, pragmatic—the best way to solve the problem at hand. It couldn’t be just about the whims of a single person—

“Well?”

—couldn’t they see that?

“Do you want to leave or not?”

But—looking around, no one seemed about to argue with Leorio.

They...really don’t care.

Killua’s shoulders slumped. “No,” he admitted, suddenly tired. “No, I don’t.”

It was Kurapika who spoke up after Leorio leaned back, apparently satisfied now that he’d procured that confession from Killua. “Then that settles it. If Killua doesn’t want to leave, then we won’t let anyone force him to.” A hard edge entered his tone at the last part, and several nodded in agreement, Gon particularly vigorously. “There are no objections, I presume.”

None. Kurapika relaxed ever so slightly, and smiled reassuringly at Killua, which he tentatively returned. “There you have it, Killua.”

Mutely, he nodded, and then turned. “Gon. You can let go now.”

“O-oh!” A sheepish look crossed Gon’s face, as if he hadn’t realized he’d still been holding Killua’s hand in what had become a near death-grip, and quickly dropped it. “Right. Sorry.”

A soft chuckle rang out and Killua whirled around, ready to glare the culprit into submission, but Melody looked as innocent as ever.

“All that’s left, then, is to convince the principal not to disband our club.”

“That’s the spirit!”

The graveness from earlier gone (Killua swore for a moment there was a suspicious shine in her eyes), Bisky planted her hands on her hips, grinning broadly. “Nothing’s been set in stone yet. The principal’s agreed to let our club stay in the books if we hold a successful fundraiser, on three conditions.” She held up three fingers, ticking each one down as she began listing. “One, the fundraiser must be directly related to the activities of the club. Two, all members must contribute, and be present at the fundraiser. And three, we must raise at least as much money as the funds that were just taken away.”

With a grunt, Knuckle stood up, arms folded and a terrific scowl on his face. “So, that bastard’s gonna have us play the money game, is he?” The scowl morphed into a savage grin, sharp with a promise of pain (metaphorically or literally—Killua honestly couldn’t tell), and he cracked his knuckles. “Let ‘im try! We’ll fundraise so hard, we’ll break the economy! How much’re we looking at?”

Grin equally savage, Bisky tossed the ledger to Knuckle. “There are the numbers. I’ll leave them to you.” Knuckle flashed her a thumbs-up, then immediately buried his nose in the pages, already muttering about numbers and budgets and venues under his breath.

“Now, any ideas?”

“We won’t have time to write another show,” Leorio muttered, a hand on his chin. “And just doing one already out there is pretty boring.”

“How about a concert? With original songs, I bet that’d catch a lot of people’s interest.”

Gon brightened. “A concert!” he echoed, and spun around to Killua, snatching up his hands. “A duet, a duet! Right, Killua? We’ll sing together!”

“Do you even have to ask?”

But then the reality of the whole situation that had temporarily escaped him returned, and his smile faded, hands going slack. It wasn’t like he didn’t think they could pull off the fundraiser, but Illumi was...ruthless. He wouldn’t stop until—

“Are you still worried?”

Kurapika’s calm, measured voice broke Killua’s increasingly bleak train of thought, and he jerked his head up, flustered that he’d been read so easily. “Why wouldn’t I be? Illumi—he’s—”

The words wouldn’t come to him, and he trailed off, something cold pricking up his spine. Unconsciously, his fingers curled tighter around Gon’s, who squeezed back.

“It’ll be okay, Killua,” Gon said firmly. “We won’t let anything happen. Right, Kurapika?”

“Of course.” Gently, Kurapika smiled at Killua. “Try to be a bit more optimistic, alright?”

An odd lump stuck in Killua’s throat—but it wasn’t stiff and heavy, not like before. “I guess.”

The silence was punctuated with a loud sniffle as Bisky dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, voice strangely choked up. “What beautiful young love…” She pointedly ignored Killua’s indignant shout. “It looks like we’ll be scaling down our focus on the musical for a bit. We’ll do quick refreshers once in a while, but other than that, the concert is our top priority now.”

Still grinning, she stuck out her fist.

“So, are we all in this?”

Killua didn’t get what exactly she was trying to do until a beat later, but by then everyone else had already mimicked her action, and he sighed. “That’s so cheesy…”

It didn’t particularly bother him, though—not that they were all acting like some cliched movie protagonists, or that he was playing right along too. And he couldn’t help but smile as they all bumped their fists together—”Let’s do this!”—and then flung them up into the air with a cheer.

Smack!

“Ack—Kurapika!”

“My bad. You’re just a bit too tall.”

“That’s the tenth time you’ve said that!”

But even as miffed as he sounded, it didn’t take Leorio long to join in on the laughter.

As the saying went: once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is a pattern, and four times is a conspiracy.

Well, okay, so maybe Killua added the last part. But every other day, without fail, someone from the club (or three) would pounce on him at his locker and rope him into a hodgepodge of miscellaneous activities, all with an inexplicable vigor. To say the least, it was highly suspicious.

Which led him to his current situation: leaning against the brick walls of the school, lollipop dangling from his mouth and trusty skateboard under an arm, as he watched Gon work his bike free from the rack. Something had gotten tangled somewhere, somehow, and after half a minute of metal rattling about, he finally wrenched it free with a whoop.

“So,” Killua began as Gon swung onto the seat, “now are you going to tell me where you’re dragging me off to?”

Gon stuck out his tongue. “Secret!” At Killua’s disgruntled expression, he cracked a grin—the nerve. “Just kidding! We’re going to stop by my place, to pick up my fishing stuff—oh, and Aunt Mito said she wanted to meet you! ‘Cause normally it’s just me and Granny ‘til she comes back from work, but something happened at her office—I think there were grapefruits. Um, lots of them. Anyway—after that we’re going to the park.”

“Hold up—grapefruits? Your place? Fishing stuff? What?”

Bike swaying from side to side and elbows resting on the handlebars, Gon’s grin grew wider. “I’m going to teach you how to fish, of course!” Without waiting for a response, he planted both feet on the pedals and took off, throwing a “C’mon!” over his shoulder and leaving Killua with little choice but to follow.

Gon’s house was a quaint two stories, bursting with summer colors: walls a sunshine yellow and roof shingled with poppy-red. Wheeling his bike up to the white picket fence, he darted up to the door, wiggled a key around in the lock, and then swung it open, shouting a loud “I’m back!” into the kitchen.

And then, almost as an afterthought as he noticed the person nursing a cup of tea at the table, added, “Hi, Granny!”

Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “Ah, Gon. Welcome back. Is this a friend of yours?”

Still hovering at the threshold of the house, Killua stiffened on instinct, and unsure of what else to do, gave what he hoped was a sufficiently respectful nod. “Uh—hi. I’m Killua. Gon dragged me over here, so…”

Gon glanced back with a startled blink, as if he was surprised that Killua’s voice sounded came from so far behind him. “Killua, what’re you doing, hanging all the way back there? Come in!”

“Yes, don’t be shy.”

And that left Killua with little option but to step in, a bit stiff as he looked about and tried hard not to fidget.

“Is that you, Gon?” came a distant voice, echoing from another room, and then a red-haired woman appeared in the hallway, her harried face lighting up.

“Welcome home!” Then, she caught sight of Killua, and the corners of her eyes lifted. “And you must be the illustrious Killua Gon never stops talking about.”

Killua went pink and determinedly looked everywhere except at Gon and his shameless beam, mumbling something under his breath that was honestly more of a reflex than anything. It was only a pause later that he realized that might’ve been rude, but Mito only laughed.

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you, Killua. Why don’t you both sit down?”

“A-ah. Yeah.” Tentatively, Killua seated himself in the closest chair, though Gon plopped down next to him with no such hesitations. “It’s nice to meet you too, Ms. Mito.”

“I’ll make some snacks, so hold on tight,” she called back, already bustling about the cabinets and pantries. “How was school, boys?”

Gon brightened and immediately launched into a vivid recount of the day, and after some prodding, Killua cautiously followed suit, all as Mito juggled phone calls with one hand and a bowl of cookie dough with the other, sparing quick warm words here and there.

It wasn’t long until Mito set down two misted glasses of fruit punch and a platter of piping hot chocolate chip cookies in front of them, wiping her hands on a dish towel before taking a seat herself. “So, what do you have planned for the afternoon?”

Having already inhaled five cookies and half his glass, Gon paused to swallow before responding. “I’m gonna take Killua to the lake and teach him to fish and maybe some other stuff! That’s okay, right?”

“Of course. Just don’t stay out too late.”

“Mm!”

In short order both glasses were drained, and the plate reduced to crumbs. His final cookie in his mouth, Gon made a muffled sound that probably meant “Follow me!” and then shot up the stairs, around a corner, and into what Killua guessed was his room. As Gon puttered about, gathering up rods and bait and lures, Killua leaned against the doorframe and studied the room with a faint fascination.

It was simpler than he’d expected—probably because Gon had only just moved in recently—but it had a certain charm to it, the unmistakable touch and breath of Gon in the blue-striped blankets and the potted plants on the sill and the photos on the walls.

A slim brown frame caught his attention: at first glance, he thought it was Gon—but only if Gon was a rugged man in the mid-twenties, stooped in a dramatic crouch with a single burning brown eye staring out from under a floppy hat.

It was tacky as hell.

“Is that Ging?”

Gon glanced up from the duffel bag he’d been stuffing. “Hm? Oh, yeah! That photo’s super old, but it’s the only one we have, ‘cause Ging really hates getting photographed. So, I keep that here. All set!”

And leaving no room for further questions, he slung the bag over his shoulder and zipped back down the stairs with a yell of “We’re going now!”

“Take care, boys!”

Still riding on an unexplainable surge of energy, Gon was already on his bike when Killua got to the door, jamming his sneakers back on and bending down to tie the laces.

“Killua—could you hold on a moment?”

He jerked up in surprise, quickly straightening to meet Mito’s eyes. “Oh—Ms. Mito! Is something—”

“No—it’s just that I’d just like to thank you for being a friend for Gon. He never got the chance to meet many kids his age back on Whale Island, so it’s good to see that he has someone like you now. Feel free to stop by anytime you’d like, alright?”

Killua wasn’t quite sure what he’d said after that, but there was a little flutter in his stomach as they wheeled back out onto the street, chatting aimlessly with easy grins.

When the conversation lulled, he took to humming an impromptu mashup of a bunch of radio songs, until something reoccurred to him. “I almost forgot! Have you thought up anything for our song yet?”

Gon swiveled around with a magnificent pout, and probably violated a safety rule or three in the process. “You’re ruining the point, Killua!”

“Turn around!—and I wasn’t aware there was a point.”

“The point,” he explained, thankfully facing front again and emphasizing the last word with a huff, “is to get your mind off the whole fundraiser!”

Killua blinked. “Huh?”

“Because you’ve been moping about it the whole week—”

“I’m not moping!”

”—and moping is bad for your health, so obviously, we need to get you to stop moping, and that’s by getting you to stop thinking about the fundraiser for a bit, and have some fun!”

“We?” Then it clicked together, and Killua leveled Gon a flat look. “The entire club was in on this, weren’t they?”

“Yep!” was Gon’s cheery affirmation. “Everyone agreed on it.”

A retort was already on the tip of his tongue, but at the same time, that everyone would go out of their way just to try and cheer him up was…

Something Killua didn’t know how to deal with. At all. So instead, he snapped his mouth shut and settled for a half-hearted scowl.

“Whatever.”

Which Gon decided to take as a victory, and smiled sunnily at him. “Great! Oh, we’re here!”

Here was a stretch of sloping shore, lined with thrusts of maples and sycamores, knobbly wooden fingers stretched upward, tips grazing the sky. Further in, willows stooped low over the lake, an occasional breath of wind drawing their slender limbs through the placid water, leaving minute trails of ripples in their wake that splashed apart when Gon stepped in, shoes and socks discarded to the side along with his bike.

“C’mon, Killua!”

“Unless I’m missing something,” Killua began, in the most deadpan tone he could manage, “we’re fishing, which doesn’t entail going into the water.”

“Not really! There’s a good spot further out”—appropriately, a finger was jabbed out in a vague direction, presumably at the said good spot—”but it’s pretty hard to reach with a line from the shore, so we’re going to wade closer. Is that okay with you, Killua?”

“Just peachy.” The sarcasm was lost on Gon, who instead beamed expectantly, and Killua debated the merits of clarifying his meaning for all of two seconds before looking back at Gon, and then sighing.

In short order, he was shin-deep in the lake, the water cool against his skin as he wriggled his toes experimentally. Sparse hints of green dotted the rutted bottom, swaying in the currents and tickling his feet. “This is weird,” he muttered, nose wrinkled as he gingerly stepped around them and waded after Gon.

“You’ll get used to it, don’t worry!”

Water lapping halfway up to their knees now, they stopped around four feet out, and Gon set down his bag, pulling out a rod and a line. “Here, take these—the line isn’t attached ‘cause then it’d get tangled everywhere and other stuff, so before you start fishing, you have to attach the line to the reel, like this…”

Things proceeded fairly smoothly after that, until Gon opened up the bait box and Killua let out a cut-off shriek, backpedaling furiously.

“They—don’t have legs! Or faces! And—they’re wriggling! Gon, are they—quit laughing!” Voice high in panic, Killua alternated between glaring viciously at Gon, who was somehow utterly unfazed, and looking like he wanted to put at least five miles between him and the box of—legless, faceless, wriggling things.

Gon had the grace to at least smother the rest of his laughter. “They’re worms, Killua. That’s what they’re like.” (“Worms!”) Then, looking far too amused for Killua’s liking: “And you’re gonna have to pick them up and put them on the hook.”

He considered the most eloquent way to word his response.

“Hell no.”

It had taken Gon every single persuasive device in his possession to cajole Killua into working up the nerve to at least touch one of them, and even then Killua had immediately dropped it with a shrill sound halfway between a hiss and a squawk. Three tries later, a worm was finally successfully threaded onto the hook, and Gon beamed.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, right?”

Killua suppressed a shudder and made a face instead. “Sure, whatever.” He hefted the rod, testing the weight, and gave it a few test swings. “How far out should I cast the the line?”

“Hm...” Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with a hand, Gon surveyed the lake’s surface. “Try eight—no, nine feet out.”

Nine feet… Killua gauged the distance, pulled the rod back over his shoulder, and swung. The line curved a graceful arc through the air and fell into the water with a soft plop, the red bobber bouncing up and down. Beside him, Gon let out a “Woah!”, and Killua grinned.

“Not bad for a first try, huh?”

“Yeah! You landed it in a really good spot! You’ll probably get a bite soon, just keep an eye on the bobber…”

In hindsight, Killua should’ve known already not to put much stock in Gon’s definition of “soon,” because his limbs were already growing heavy and his nerves itching with impatience by the time he felt the slightest tug.

Then the bobber jerked, and instantly, he snapped the rod back, the line whizzing towards him at breakneck speed—

—and then there was something wet and cold and slimy and frantically squirming on his face, and then with a splash, it was gone. Killua stood there for a while, mouth open and thinking What the hell just happened?, and it wasn’t until he’d blinked the dots out of his eyes and saw the flagrantly empty hook that he realized.

A fish just smacked me in the face!

One choked snicker sounded next to him, and then a second, and then Gon dissolved into hysterical giggles, and Killua held out for a grand total of two seconds before laughter overtook him too, stomach and lungs aching and tears in their eyes.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately—it was debatable), nothing nearly as amusing happened the second time Killua cast his line, or the third, or the fourth; then after that, Gon had insisted they get out of the water for a bit, before their skin started to get wrinkled.

And where would they go, after that? Maybe the shore, like a reasonable person?

But according to Gon: nope! Instead, their apparent destination was a tiny speck of an island, splat in the middle of the lake.

In the middle. Of. The. Lake.

“Gon,” Killua said slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you know that islands are surrounded on all four sides by water. You know that, right?”

Rod leaning on his shoulder, Gon stuck his lips out in an indignant pout. “Of course I do! But it’s not like we’re gonna swim—there’s a part we can wade through. Believe me, I tried it!”

“Oh yeah?” When then brought Killua to the second part of Gon’s brilliant idea: “And have you tried fishing from the top of a tree before?”

Nervous laughter. Killua’s look grew flatter, if that was even possible.

“It’s that that I was saving it for now, so the fun wouldn’t get spoiled! And I’m pretty sure it should be safe!”

“Uh-huh. Well, I think you’re forgetting just one tiny little detail—”

Abruptly breaking his deadpan expression, Killua threw his hands up into the air. “I don’t know how to climb trees! Or are you going to teach me that too?”

“Actually, yeah!”

Killua let his stink-eye bore into Gon for a bit longer before he heaved a sigh.

“Fine, whatever. Let’s get going before my legs fall off.”

The island was a haphazard outcropping of dirt and rock and trees jutting out in—okay, so maybe it wasn’t the in the middle, strictly speaking. But close enough.

Dark wet footprints followed them as they clambered out of the water, the ground rugged underneath their feet—feet with a distinct lack of socks and shoes, Killua realized with alarm. “Hey, we’re not doing this barefoot, are we?”

“Ah!” Gon glanced down at his own feet, as if he’d forgotten too, and then at the far side of the lake. “Right, we left our shoes there…”

It didn’t take long before he thumped a fist in his palm, eyes lighting up. “I know! I’ll fish them over!”

“Wha—?”

But Gon was already rigging his own rod with a cheerful whistle, and then Killua nearly had a heart attack. “GON NO—what are you doing?”

Gon blinked, hand halfway to the bait box, and only then seemed to snap back to reality. “Oh!—sorry, Killua!” And then laughed sheepishly, as if that would assuage Killua’s frayed nerves after almost landing a worm in his shoes. “It’s a habit…”

With a decidedly worm-free hook (there’d still be holes in their shoes, but, well, you couldn’t have it both ways), Gon squinted at the shore, lifted the rod, and swung, and before Killua knew it, Gon was triumphantly holding out a pair of purple sneakers to him, socks still resting fairly undisturbed inside.

A breathless “Awesome!” was the first thing out of his mouth. “You’ve gotta teach me that trick sometime!”

“Sometime,” Gon promised, beaming, and paused, then grabbed Killua’s hand, who let out a startled yelp. “Okay, let’s go find a tree!”

It wasn’t until after looping around the island several times, pulling Killua behind him, that Gon finally honed in on a tree that fulfilled whatever criteria applied for tree-climbing trees (how they were different from ordinary trees, Killua could only guess).

“Okay,” he began, adopting the air of a seasoned expert, and pointed to a stubby knot on the trunk, at about waist-level. “You can use these as footholds when you shimmy up the tree, then once you reach the lowest branch, you pull yourself up, or swing onto it. That’s”—he eyed the tree up and down—“ten feet up? Yeah, just about! So you can go on up, and I’ll be behind you, and I’ll catch you if you fall, okay, Killua?”

“Like I’m going to fall,” Killua scoffed, even though he felt vaguely queasy. But...well, there was nothing to it but to do it. Gon’s instructions hovering at the forefront of his mind, he circled the base of the trunk, mapping out all the possible footholds, and then inhaled. The rough bark rubbed against his bare skin as he wrapped his arms around the tree, and foot planted firmly on the foothold Gon had pointed out, he began to inch his way up.

“Don’t look down,” came Gon’s voice below him—three feet away? maybe four?—and on instinct, Killua almost did, but caught himself just in time, and then finally—his fingers curled around a thick branch, and he swung himself up, breaking into a grin.

“So how was that, huh?”

Down on the ground (damn everything looked so small!), Gon’s face shone at him. “Wow! You were so fast, Killua!”

Impishly, Killua stuck his tongue out. “Faster than you?”

“Definitely not!”

With that, Gon latched himself onto the trunk and scurried up, and in the blink of an eye he was crouching on the second branch, sticking his tongue back out at Killua, a good foot or so below. “How’s that for fast?”

“Unfair,” Killua grumbled, delicately hooking his foot onto another knot. “You’re already good with this.”

“You’re pretty fast for your first time though.”

Alertly, Gon watched as Killua hefted himself onto a branch, then shot out a steadying hand when he began to wobble. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Well, duh.”

Soon, winded and sore, leaves in their hair and bark dust spotting their clothes, they heaved themselves up onto the highest branch, and paused to catch their breath. The rim of the sun was barely touching the skyline. That meant they only had a small window—an hour or so, Gon estimated—until it got too dark to watch the bobber.

“Want to see who can catch the most fish before then?”

A glint appeared in Gon’s eyes. “You’re so on! Loser buys the winner ice cream!”

It didn’t take long for them to start bickering over whether a fish that dislodged itself from the hook was “caught,” and compromised that such a fish would be considered half a catch. And soon after, the window was up, and they’d concluded—to Killua’s disappointment—that they’d tied perfectly.

“Now what?”

“Hm...” Gon’s face lit up, pounding his fist into his palm again. “Then I’ll buy you ice cream, and after that, you’ll buy me ice cream!”

Killua blinked. “That...doesn’t make any sense, but sure.”

In the hush of evening, they soon lapsed into low tones of conversation: Gon describing, with meticulous detail, all the different sorts of wildlife there had been back on Whale Island, and Killua listening with a word here and there as he cleaned the grime off his rod and hook. Well, they weren’t really his, per se, but somewhere down the line he’d started thinking of them like that. Huh.

After relaying, in an animated whisper, the one time he’d happened to see a foxbear mother save her cub from falling into a river, Gon paused to catch his breath, and a question that had been in the back of Killua’s mind for a while cropped up. “When you fish—do you always release them? Since I was thinking, that kinda defeats the whole point of fishing, right?”

“Not really, actually.” Gon’s brow furrowed as he mulled over the best way to explain, absently tracing circles on the tree bark. “I mean, if you’re fishing to get fish, then you’d keep ‘em—as long as it’s not too much—but if you’re just fishing for fun, then releasing them would be better. That’s how Kite taught me, so I guess it just became a habit.”

“Kite, huh?”

“Yeah! See, Kite really loves nature and animals, and he always talks about how it’s super important that we think about what our actions might mean for the world around us. Like, if you catch too many fish in a lake, and don’t put them back, then it’ll be harder for the fish still there to make more fish, so then sometime, there won’t be any fish left. And that also throws the food chain out of whack, and it’s really bad for the whole lake…”

And he chattered on, making wide sweeping gestures once here and there, until at some point his words became thick and slurred with drowsiness, eventually tapering off.

“Definitely have to ‘troduce me to Kite sometime,” Killua mumbled, a convulsive yawn catching his words halfway through, and Gon murmured some indistinct assent, both of their eyelids drooping.

It wasn’t that late, so a quick nap wouldn’t hurt . . .

. . . There was a tug on his sleeve, accompanied by an excited “Killua, look!”

Obligingly, Killua cracked open a bleary eye—

—and, suddenly awake, nearly forgot to breathe. For a brief, unearthly moment, he thought the world had reversed and they were looking down at the sky—but that wasn’t quite right.

There was still a sky arching high above them, dotted with glimmers of light, but there was a second one, spread out below, stars painstakingly replicated in the dark waters.

And then, right before his wide eyes, a flash of silver streaked through the watery expanse.

“Gon—the fish, look...”

“It’s almost like they’re...” Gon trailed off, sentence unfinished, but the words still passed between them.

Shooting stars.

Soreness long forgotten, a silence settled over them, warm against the chill of the night, with Killua wedged up between the nook and the trunk and Gon not much further out, legs dangling freely. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Killua registered that they were closer now, shoulders brushing with each stirring of breath, and that somehow they’d ended up lacing their hands loosely together, but he hardly paid it any mind as he stared, transfixed.

“Hey, Killua?”

“Mm?”

“Remember when you asked me if I missed Whale Island?”

“Yeah.”

Turned away, expression hidden, Gon squeezed his hand.

“Well, I guess I still kinda miss it, but I’m glad I moved here.”

And then Gon was facing him, close enough that he could see every speck of gold-brown in his pupils, and every minute crinkle of his radiant beam.

“Because I got to meet you.”

Killua went bright pink and whipped his head away, determinedly fixing his stare on the lake. “D-don’t say such gross stuff all of a sudden!”

His voice cracked halfway through, but if Gon noticed, he didn’t comment on it.

“It’s not all of a sudden. It’s just that I realized it right now. Because—I have so much fun when I’m with you. How about you, Killua?”

It was quiet for a beat.

Then, softly, still facing away, Killua said, “Yeah. I guess I do.”

And even though he couldn’t see it, he knew that Gon’s beam had swelled.

Two glimmers of silver shot through the water, crossing in the blink of an eye.

“Oh!” Gon made a halting motion, as though he’d wanted to pound a fist in his hand, but then remembered he was still holding Killua’s, and then decided against it. “How about we make a pinky promise? To stick together, or something like that!”

“What—? That’s—that’s so gross!”

For all of one second, Gon looked dejected, before he turned a ludicrously effective pair of puppy eyes on Killua, and he felt his will beginning to weaken. “Aww, c’mon! We did this back on Whale Island all the time!”

“This is so dumb,” he grumbled as he hooked his pinky with a beaming Gon’s, and then shook once, firmly.

“Pinky promise made, and...”

In a flash, Gon’s thumb was pressed to his, and a smug grin crossed his face. “Sealed with a kiss!”

With a high-pitched yelp, Killua yanked his hand back. “Wh-what the hell was that?”

A grin that was entirely too mischievous shone on Gon’s face as he laughed, but Killua couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed. Even after Gon had released it, his pinky still tingled with a strange warmth, and he smiled to himself as silvery scales glided over the vast expanses of the reflected night sky, laid out before them.

It was nice, how perfectly Gon’s fingers fit between his own.

Chapter Text

The ice cream date (for lack of a better word) had quickly turned into a whole club outing, with everyone crammed into one parlor and consuming their weight in ice cream. Killua and Gon might’ve accounted for a good half of that, if Leorio and Kurapika hadn’t set their foot down and said no, Gon could not try every single flavor, nor could Killua order a tub of chocolate ice cream, because they would get cavities—the horror.

In the end, they’d both settled for the standard three-scoop cones, Gon more or less content, but Killua still alternately pouting and scowling that he’d been deprived of a significant portion of his daily sugar fix.

“Just eat your ice cream before it melts already,” Leorio huffed, and Killua stuck his tongue out at him with a scoff.

“I don’t need you to tell me that, old man.”

But that didn’t stop Leorio from looking inordinately pleased with himself when Killua did just that, and before he could so much as glare at him, he was sucked into another conversation and that little squabble was soon forgotten.

Things continued that way for a while: people drifting from conversation to conversation, shuffling seats and topics as easily as the weather. One minute he was bickering with Ponzu over the merits (or lack thereof) of sauce, and the next he was four stools over on the opposite end of the counter, debating fashion trends with Meleoron.

Only two words into what was becoming something of a mutual bemoaning of the tasteless overuse of patterns, a cheery chime from his pocket cut them off, rising and falling in the bubbly crests of an unmistakable ringtone, and his whole face lit up.

“Hey, guys! There’s someone I want you to meet!”

With a quick swipe across the screen, Alluka was beaming out from it, glowing brighter and brighter with every new name and face and shooting off dozens of questions at once, about how Melody never ran out of breath, or about how many different plants Gon knew, and somewhere in between someone leaned into Killua with a whisper along the lines of Holy hell your sister’s adorable!

“She’s the best,” Killua agreed absently, more as a blanket statement than to anyone in particular, and more focused on tracking the phone as it passed down the counter. From Gon to Kurapika to Melody to…

An impish glint entered his eyes, and before Leorio could so much as open his mouth, Killua planted his feet on the rungs of the stool, leaned over the counter as far as he could get without tipping over, and added loudly, “That’s the old man. He’ll try to tell you he’s a teenager, but don’t buy it—he’s actually senile.”

Leorio promptly swiveled around, back pointedly turned to Killua, and with a solemness that was almost comical, informed Alluka, “And your brother’s a little brat.”

Alluka giggled and Killua made an indignant sound, but it was only really half-hearted, and soon he’d settled back into his seat, chin in his hands, watching with a fond smile as Alluka peppered Leorio with questions about doctors—everything from if he ever got sick to how he remembered all the different illnesses, symptoms, chemicals…

(The answer to that was a succinct “Coffee.”)

The ice cream left in his bowl began to melt as he zoned out, staring at the glossy countertop without really seeing it, and then gave a violent jerk when someone nudged him, nearly falling off his stool.

“I’m so sorry,” Gon whispered with a frantic gesture, at some point having ended up sitting next to him.

“The hell was that for?” Killua muttered, hastily righting himself and glancing around to make sure no one had seen that. “And why’re you whispering?”

Never mind that he was whispering too.

But Gon’s only response was a sideways wink, curved with a certain mischief.

It took a moment, and as soon as Killua realized, he nearly broke out into a silly grin, but he forced an innocent expression back on. It wouldn’t do to ruin the surprise, after all.

The hum of the chatter kept floating around them, split with laughs here and there.

One, two—and three.

“Everybody wants to be a cat…”

The conversation screeched to a confused halt, and if Gon noticed the baffled looks on him, he didn’t seem to mind as he continued the jaunty tune, as carefree as ever. And finally, Killua let the grin back out as he took up the next verse.

“Everybody’s pickin’ up on that feline beat…”

And then suddenly, everyone burst out into song, swaying back and forth to the beat of the racket—sometimes too fast or too slow or sometimes hitting the wrong pitch, but somehow each word was still coherent. And above it all was Alluka’s delighted laughter, stunned and giddy at the same time, and soon she’d joined in, singing right along.

By the time they’d started stomping, the parlor had gotten fed up with them and kicked them them out—ahem, politely asked them to leave—and they poured outside in a buzz of laughter and chatter and a few terribly off-key verses still being belted out here and there, all pink in the face and out of breath.

“Do you think they’ll let us come back?” was the first thing out of Gon’s mouth, after he’d shared a breezy high-five with Killua.

“If you bribe them.”

“So, basically buy more ice cream?”

Killua took a moment to think. “I guess if you look at it that way.”

Their laughter soon dissipated into the air as they all (reluctantly) said their goodbyes to Alluka and ended the call, splitting off into their usual groups to head their separate ways, stuffed and slightly brain-frozen.

The typical hustle and bustle of the business district had faded in the odd lull between noontime and the evening rush hour, quiet save for an occasional car leisurely cruising by as Gon and Killua strolled along the sidewalk, chatting.

Well, it was actually mostly Killua listening as Gon lamented his imminent demise: the upcoming math test.

“I’m not really getting the homework,” he mumbled, arms folded. “I mean, I think I get what Mr. Wing teaches in class, but then when I try to do the problems, it’s just like...” He trailed off with a sigh and hung his head. “Maybe I’m just bad at math.”

“You could ask him for extra help,” Killua suggested, slowing his pace as Gon began to drag his feet. “He gives afterschool passes.”

“I don’t want to bother him,” Gon objected, and Killua was again reminded that, at his core, Gon happened to be the disastrous combination of an unfaltering stubbornness and a lack of common sense.

“You don’t want to fail, either.”

Conflicted, Gon chewed at his lip, and finally Killua let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Fine, how about I help you?”

The mere idea was apparently scandalous to Gon, and Killua only had the patience for a couple more seconds of loud protesting before he cut him off with an exasperated “No, stop,” and pivoted to face Gon, arms planted squarely on his hips and expression set into a firm glare.

“Don’t you get it? You’re my friend, so of course I should help you! It’s that simple, honestly!”

Gon still looked like he wanted to argue, but finally relented with a deflated, drawn-out “Oookay.”

Hopefully that had gotten through his thick skull—and would stay there. Killua studied him for a bit longer before nodding to himself. “Alright. How about we do it in the library, after school? Whenever we don’t have a club meeting—so Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“I—think I can do that?” Gon paused, ran through whatever mental schedules he had again, and then beamed. “Yeah! I’ll ask Aunt Mito just to make sure, but I think she’ll be okay with it too.”

Then, with a hum of relief, he stretched his arms up, and whirled back to face Killua, eyes gleaming in excitement. “Okay! Enough boring school stuff! Let’s sing another song, Killua!”

“Sure, whatever.”

And swinging his arms merrily, bouncing along the pavement, Gon jumped into the first verse, Killua seamlessly following not a second later:

“I wanna be the very best, that no one ever was…”

“—and since the degree of the bottom term is higher, as x goes to infinity, it’ll increase faster than the top, so the whole thing will get smaller and smaller and closer to zero, but never quite, like this...” Killua sketched out a rough graph, and turned to Gon, who made a soft sound of comprehension. “See?”

“So then the asymptote is at y equals zero?”

At Killua’s nod, Gon sat back in his chair, gears whirring in his head until the final piece clicked into place, and then let out a long “oh!”, as if he’d just had an epiphany about the nature of the universe. “I get it now!”

“About time,” Killua yawned, covering his mouth, and Gon looked up, a slight crease in his brow.

“I-I’m sorry, Killua—was I too slow?”

“Hm? Oh, no—” Another yawn threatened to escape him, and Killua muffled it before stretching out his cramped arms. “Just stayed up late last night, that’s all.”

Abruptly, Gon leaned across the table, staring Killua full-on in the eye. “That’s not good! You have to make sure you get enough sleep, otherwise it isn’t healthy!”

“It’s not a big deal,” Killua insisted. “It was just like—half an hour, or something, since I had to cram for chem.”

Gon stared him down for a couple more seconds before he fell back in his chair with a reluctant “Oookay,” and then threw a glance at the clock.

“Ah, shoot—it’s already so late! I guess we should just end it here?”

“I guess.”

Packed up and halfway to the door, Gon stopped short, as if he’d just remembered something, and whirled back around to Killua.

“And you better go to bed early today!”

“Whatever you say.”

As soon as Gon disappeared through the door with a wave, Killua’s smile faded, and he let out a sigh, lowering his hand to shove it back into his pockets. Now there was nothing left to do but to go back to his house.

When he slipped in through the door, a cursory glance around told him none of his family was in sight—unexpected, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Even if his paranoia insisted otherwise.

“You’re later than usual today, Killua.”

And maybe he should’ve listened to it after all. Grip tightening on the railing of the stairs, he turned around stiffly, mouth drawn into a thin line. “I lost track of time. That’s all.”

Silva was unmoved, frown deepening. “That’s not an excuse. We’ve been allowing you to spend time with your friends”—the undercurrent of faint disdain brought a sharp retort to Killua’s tongue, but Silva didn’t give him space to respond—”but you have important duties you can’t afford to neglect, as the future head of the family. Do you understand, Killua?”

“Yes” would get his father out of his face, but not before pouncing on that answer and backing Killua into a bad corner. Another part of him was tempted to say “No,” but he didn’t have any particular death wish, so instead, in a voice tight with restrained anger—

“Maybe I don’t want to become the head of the family!”

Too late, the words finally registered in his brain—shit. Panic only barely concealed, he stiffened, bracing himself.

But there was no shift in his father’s expression.

“How long do you spend on your homework each night?”

The non-sequitur took Killua aback for a moment, no response coming to mind—what was Silva playing at?

“Not that long.”

The evasiveness of his answer didn’t seem to bother Silva in the least.

“About two hours,” he mused, almost as if Killua hadn’t said anything. “Then, every school day, you spend three more hours with your—friends. You also tend to spend another hour everyday rehearsing alone.”

Killua started—he was positive he’d always made sure no one could hear him!—but Silva went on, ticking through numbers and calculations, all leading up to some inscrutable conclusion.

“Then, say you have an upcoming test. You typically study for around an hour. That adds up to seven hours, and then with some additional time for walking to and from school, eating, and distractions, you likely won’t be able to go to bed until around eleven. And this isn’t even including your training, which you’ve been neglecting.”

“Your point being?”

A flicker of emotion crossed Silva’s face—too quick for Killua to identify. “Even though we have our differences, I’m still your father, Killua. And—”

“I’m not sticking around to hear this,” Killua snapped, pivoting sharply on his heel and storming up the stairs.

“Aren’t you going to eat dinner?” Silva called up after him.

“Not hungry.” Which was a blatant lie, but Killua wasn’t about to subject himself to a good twenty-or-something minutes at the same table as the rest of his family.

Only when he burst through the threshold of his room and locked the door behind him did he let himself expel a sigh of relief as he tossed his backpack to the ground.

He was actually starving, considering he hadn’t eaten anything except for two small candies in the last—what, five hours? But thankfully, he always made sure to keep a stash of various sugary goodies in his closet, exactly for these sort of situations. Foresight was fantastic.

In short order all his homework was squared away, which left his mind plenty of space to wander as he tugged his pajamas on and crawled into the covers.

There was any way Silva would just let that whole scuffle slide, so why hadn’t he tried to talk to him? Or anyone, at all? It wasn’t like they couldn’t knock—or, well, bang on the door and shriek at him. Which wasn’t fun, but still.

And then there was the most persistent one:

What had Silva been about to say?

Killua turned over in his bed and pulled the covers up around him, but those questions wouldn’t stop nagging at him, until finally, his eyes slid shut.

Chapter Text

The afternoon air was muggy and damp on Killua’s skin as he leaned against his locker, a dull ache already in his legs as he scanned the flood of students streaming out of the front doors. But after a minute, then five, and then ten, the flood drained into a feeble trickle, and a chilling unease sank its roots into him.

Maybe Gon was just running a bit late.

The distress signals from his legs grew more insistent, and he wavered. If he stayed any longer without a pass, he’d probably get kicked out, but on the other hand, Gon still wasn’t here…

In the end he settled for sending a quick text—I’m going ahead to the library, when are you coming?—as he began the trudging walk alone, ears straining for the familiar ping of a new message.

The silence weighed down on his shoulders, each step like wading through mud.

Casting his backpack off onto their usual table with a muted thump, Killua dropped into a chair without particular concern for how the stiff frame dug into his back, and waited.

The seconds crawled by, agonizingly slow, and then ticked into minutes; by the time the hour hand cleared four, the pressing urge to do something overcame him, and he pulled out his homework, trying to drown the stabbing questions of Where is Gon? and What’s he doing? and When is he coming? with polynomials and chemical equations.

Killua tried not to think about the silence that hung over his phone. Tried not to think about the tables emptying around him. Tried not to think about the low hush of chatter over the library drifting away into flutters of cheery chatter, then fading out.

Tried not to think about the odd lump in his throat.

The ticking of the clock echoed in the still quiet, whispering: quarter to five, five o’clock, five-thirty. Books snapped shut, feet shuffled across the carpeted floor. Killua crossed his legs, re-crossed them, and determinedly ignored the gnawing in his stomach.

Finally, his inner voice of reason calmly reminded him that not only had three hours passed with no sign from Gon, but he hadn’t eaten since lunch. Even still… He bit his lip. It didn’t feel right. Another, bigger, probably more irrational part of him argued that it was almost like he was abandoning Gon.

Again, he ended up compromising by typing out another text—Sorry, but I’m leaving the library. I have to go eat dinner—that wedged itself underneath a stack of unanswered messages.

He didn’t give it more than a second glance as he swept papers back into their binders and jammed them into his backpack, probably with a little bit too much force. There’d be a lot of bent corners and creases to straighten out…

Only then did he realize that somewhere down the line, a dull, almost inaudible hum had seeped into the background noise, and he didn’t know where it was coming from. And as he got closer to the door, the hum became a monotone of incessant pattering, filtered through several layers of glass and brick, and a sinking suspicion settled in his stomach.

Oh no. Don’t tell me…

Killua screeched to a halt before the doors, and then let out a violent curse. Outside, gray sheets sloughed onto the pavement and threw fine sprays in all directions; the watery yellow glow of headlights glided up and down the streets, running parallel to bobbing splotches of color, all vague behind the droplets clinging to the glass.

And he didn’t have an umbrella.

Abso-fucking-lutely perfect.

Footsteps sounded behind him, followed by a voice he dimly recognized as one of the volunteer librarians:

“If you need to, you could borrow one of our spare umbrellas,” she suggested, dark eyes soft in concern. “We always keep several around.”

“Oh,” Killua stammered, taken aback, then hurriedly recollected his composure. “That’d be a lifesaver—literally. Thank you…?”

“Palm Siberia.” She offered a hand, and Killua figured this wasn’t the time to be complaining about how dumb handshakes were, so he shook it, a bit surprised by how firm her grip was.

“Killua Zoldyck.”

Ordinarily he might’ve left out his surname—it always felt more comfortable that way—but Palm had given him her full name, so it’d be rude if he didn’t too.

With a quick smile and murmur, she disappeared back around the corner, then reappeared with a plain black umbrella in hand.

“I don’t know if I’ll have time to stop by tomorrow, so could I return it Thursday?”

“Of course.” She peered out into the rain. “What a terrible storm… Make sure you don’t get sick.”

“Yeah. Thanks again,” Killua called back, umbrella tucked under one arm and other pushing open the door, and then shivered in the sudden chill before stepping out.

As soon as he did, a fierce wind swept past him, nearly ripping the handle from his grip, and he cursed again, staggering, and when he’d finally regained his balance, he bolted down the sidewalk, puddles soaking into his shoes.

The forecast hadn’t said anything about rain—what was up with that?

Hopefully Gon hadn’t gotten caught up in this ridiculous downpour.

Wherever he was.

The next day, the weather forecast was more than eager to declare that it looked they were headed for an unexpected rainy spell, with downpours expected throughout the next several weeks. It had the entire air of scrambling to cover up an embarrassing oversight, and no explanation was offered for how they’d managed to miss the storm yesterday, but regardless.

The more pressing matter at hand was Gon, who quietly reappeared at school without so much as an explanation for why he’d suddenly gone MIA the previous day, only monosyllabic responses and noncommittal sounds. So many different questions burned at his tongue, but at the unfocused look in Gon’s eyes, Killua bit them back.

I probably shouldn’t pry, he reasoned. He’ll tell me sometime later.

But that didn’t ease the heaviness in his chest.

Gon didn’t seem to care for the uneasy silence that settled between them, and when the bell rang, they went their separate ways, with only a slightly awkward bye from Killua and barely any acknowledgement from Gon.

In hindsight, Killua should’ve pried—should’ve known that they’d ask him. But he didn’t, so that left him staring at the scuffed wooden planks beneath his feet, mouth dry and heart racing and mind whirling, all because of one innocent question:

“Where’s Gon?”

“He wasn’t feeling that great, so he went straight home.”

The lie slipped out of his mouth with disturbing ease, and it was accepted with a disturbing lack of fuss, save for a general resolve to check in on Gon sometime. It only served to tie the knot in Killua’s stomach tighter, something sick twisting in him, and—

Eyes locked, just for a brief second, but something searching gleamed in Melody’s gaze before she pointedly looked away, and it was with some bizarre mix of panic and relief that he realized—she’d seen right through it.

“—alright with practicing on your own, sapphire?”

Killua started, hastily pulling his casual mask back on. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

It looked like Melody had no intention of giving him away—whether it was out of tact, pity, or something entirely else, he didn’t know—but that conversation was effectively wrapped up, and then it was back to the regular routine of practice.

Just focus on the song. That’s all you need to do.

Except that for some aggravating reason, he couldn’t. Between every line and bar he saw those three little letters spelling out the same name over and over, in the wake of every note the piano keys struck the tone of that suffocating silence lingered, and by the time they took a break—for water, Leorio had said, but his concerned lilt suggested otherwise—Killua’s head was spinning as he sat down heavily on the floor.

Why couldn’t he do this? Just sing the damn song, like every other time. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Killua?”

Even as soft as it was, he’d been lost enough in his own increasingly frustrated train of thought that the sudden voice made him jump and whip around. Melody held her hands up placatingly.

“I’m sorry I startled you, but you’ve been usually distracted today—is something on your mind?”

The half-truth spilled out a bit too quickly.

“It’s—just that I’m worried about Gon. That’s all.”

“I see,” she hummed in an odd, almost disappointed way, and Killua swallowed. “Well, if anything comes up, let us know, alright?”

It was with reluctance that Killua nodded, and Melody smiled at him. “In the meantime, why don’t we just take a break? We’re not in any particular rush, after all.”

“But—”

“One day is fine, sapphire.”

Reinforcements from the left flank, his mind supplied, somewhat sardonic as he tried to figure out some way to rebut that, but Bisky seemed to have already set her foot down.

“And god knows I need a break from babysitting you brats.”

“We love you too, Bisky,” came a shout from somewhere, and a lopsided smile stretched across her face.

“Brats,” she repeated, with an oddly fond note, and finally Killua heaved a sigh, blowing a couple stray hairs from his face.

“Alright, fine. What do we do now?”

“Good question,” Bisky said, nodding sagely, and cast a considering look about. “I’m sure there’s a projector around here somewhere—we could stream a movie. Suggestions? ‘Romeo, Juliet, and Hamlet’ would be my pick.”

“Middle School Musical?”

“My Neighbor Potatoro!”

“Howl’s Moving Casserole.”

“MANBAT!”

“How about a documentary?”

“NO.”

Kurapika looked personally offended he’d had been shot down so quickly and unanimously, and his annoyance increased with every other shouted suggestion, until finally he cleared his throat with a sharp, aggravated “A-hem!”

Immediately, everyone fell silent.

“Since this isn’t going anywhere, let’s just do a vote. Eyes closed, raise your hand for...”

Eventually, after several rounds of voting, they settled on Halfmetal Alchemist, which was generally agreeable to everyone—though more because someone had had the brilliance to scavenge through the home economics room for some leftover caramel popcorn, than anything.

Only ten minutes in, Killua gave into his itch and began inserting his own thoughts into every other scene, ranging from snarky to skeptical.

“Why the hell’s he wasting his time monologuing? Is he a complete idiot?”

“He’s a minor antagonist in a fantasy film, that’s why.”

“Quiet, old man. I’m trying to enjoy this.”

In the end Killua grew too absorbed in the climax to even give a second thought to commentary, and before he knew it, the ending credits were rolling across the screen.

It was only when they’d begun drifting off their separate ways with the usual good-byes, music sheets collected and backpacks slung over shoulders, that Killua remembered—

Gon wasn’t there.

Right.

It’d be quiet, walking back without his rambling—on and on about one thing, and then another, but it had never particularly bothered Killua, not as long as he got to hear that voice, always bright and warm.

Maybe that was why. Maybe he’d been feeling— He wasn’t even sure. He just knew that his feet had carried him across the stage, and his mouth had opened:

“Hey—could I walk with you guys today?”

Kurapika blinked, and Leorio almost dropped his briefcase, as if Killua had just professed his undying respect and admiration for him.

“Hold on a sec, what? Walk with us?”

“Yeah, since”—Killua’s eyes flicked to the empty space beside him, and he nearly fumbled the next part—”Gon isn’t here.”

The nonchalant expression he kept on only wavered for a split second, and inwardly, he held his breath, hoping no one would mention that little slip-up.

If anyone did… He didn’t know what he could say.

After what felt like just a second too long—or maybe he was imagining things—Kurapika responded.

“I don’t see why not. Though, it might be rather long, since we live on the opposite side of town.”

“It’s not that far.” After a pause, Killua added, “And I have a lot of time today.”

Still somewhat doubtful, Leorio frowned, idly pushing up his glasses. “What about your jackass family? Won’t they make a stink about it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Practically bristling in anger, he made a wild gesture, the meaning of which was lost on Killua. “The hell do you mean, ‘doesn’t matter?’ Of course it—”

As calm as ever, Kurapika ducked under a stray swing and clapped a hand over Leorio’s mouth, cutting off the beginnings of a rant.

“Leorio’s just worried, Killua. Both of us are.”

From behind Kurapika’s hand, Leorio gave a vigorous nod, and Killua averted his gaze on instinct, resisting the sudden urge to fidget. Finally, he slowly allowed, ”They’re out on a trip. College stuff. So it’s fine.”

Leorio brightened, pulling Kurapika’s hand away. “Well, aren’t you in luck? What’re you waiting for?”

It was only a quick flash—Killua wasn’t even sure if Leorio had seen it—but the grateful smile came to him just a little bit easier.

Walking with Kurapika and Leorio wasn’t really what he’d been expecting. The conversation was never a steady stream—it rose and fell from intermittent small talk to literature debates with a surprising intensity, and then sometimes to stretches of placid silence. It was during one of these stretches that Kurapika turned to Killua.

“So, any plans for the afternoon? Seeing as how you have quite some free time.”

“Eh…” Killua gave a noncommittal shrug. “Not really. Practice, study, play some games…”

Fairly standard. After all, his family would only be away for a day or two, tops. But evidently that response didn’t satisfy Leorio, because a frown grew on his face.

“Seriously? It’s not like you get a chance like this often, right? So you’ve gotta make the best of it. You know, live a little.”

Probably the more logical part of Killua agreed with that, but then there was the other, more stubborn part of him, which was already thinking up a sarcastic retort.

But before he could even make a sound, Kurapika suddenly lit up.

“Say, why don’t we have a sleepover at my house? All three of us?”

Wait, what?

But Leorio had already agreed without batting an eye, which left Kurapika to look expectantly at Killua.

“Uh… Suuure?”

But how did sleepovers even work? Did you have to, like, bring a sleeping bag, or something? And not to mention, there was the tiny little hitch that he’d never even, oh, met Kurapika’s family before?

“Well, you’ll get to meet them now,” was Kurapika’s breezy answer to that, and he smiled at Killua, who held up his skeptical expression for all of one more second before dropping it with a sigh.

The road had run alongside the river for a good distance, faint specks of blue visible through the thickets of green leaves lining the shores, before curving away and up a sloping hill—gentle enough that the landscapers had let it be, but still rose high enough that when Killua twisted back, he could see the bridge, stretching across the tranquil waters to the other half of the residential district.

Where Gon lived.

He tore his eyes away and fixed them back on Kurapika and Leorio, picking up his pace just enough to step back in line with them. “So, do you do stuff like this a lot? Have random sleepovers, I mean? Or...” Trailing off, he waggled his eyebrows, a sly grin spreading over his face. “Do you, you know…”

Half a second passed before the meaning sunk in, and then three things happened.

One, Leorio let out a shrill shriek.

Two, Kurapika buried his face in his hands.

And three, Killua descended into hysterical giggles.

The rest of the walk was a jumble of snickers and frantic denials, and by the time Kurapika loudly, and with no small amount of relief, announced that they’d arrived, Killua’s stomach hurt.

The house stood at the end of the block, a modest place decked in mellow colors and planters hanging out of every window, all bursting to the brim with vivid red flowers in full bloom.

“Geraniums,” Kurapika explained, after they’d cast their shoes and backpacks off inside, glossy cherry-wood underneath their feet and watercolor landscapes hanging on the walls, the deep rolling voice of a radio host winding its way out from further in. “My parents have a soft spot for them—those were the first flowers my dad ever got for my mom. And, well, they’re hopeless romantics.”

Hopeless romantics, and bafflingly open to a complete stranger, Killua later concluded, after being regaled with sandwiches and baby stories. Or, at least, they’d attempted to, but Kurapika had objected in that same panicked loud voice, and then hastily ushered Killua and Leorio into the living room.

“Hopeless,” he echoed, this time in a mutter to himself, with a hint of pink in his cheeks that didn’t escape Leorio’s attention (or his teasing).

Yeah, absolutely no subtlety.

“So when’s the weddi—”

Something furry batted at his legs and Killua leapt back with a yelp that probably broke his vocal range.

“You didn’t tell me you had a cat!”

Kurapika at least had the grace to suppress his amusement. “It slipped my mind,” he said pleasantly, and Killua broke from glaring at the offending animal (which was staring at him with the roundest damn eyes ever) to glare at Kurapika instead.

“She jumped me like that too, the first time I came over,” Leorio offered, though he still looked massively entertained, and crouched down to scratch the cat around the ears.

“That’s just something she likes to do. Minerva, this is Killua.” An innocent, wide-eyed purr—which he assumed meant a greeting of some sort. Not that it was particularly helpful, after she’d nearly given him a heart attack. “Killua, would you like to pet her?”

“If she bites my hand off I’ll sue you.” As an afterthought, he tacked on what he felt was a sufficiently threatening “Or something.”

With that, he cautiously reached out to the cat.

And waited.

Three seconds passed and his hand remained decidedly intact, so he stretched out a bit further, and began to carefully rub underneath her chin. That was what you were supposed to do with cats, right?

Killua figured it was reasonably safe to assume that the deep rumbling purr meant yes. And by the time they’d flicked the Wii on, popped in Mario Kart, and blazed through eight courses, Minerva was curled up in his lap with a low purr each time his hand drifted absently to stroke her fur, in the breather between one course and the next.

It was only after he’d steamrollered four more that Leorio squinted at the scoreboard, still blazoning Killua’s name at the top, then at the cat, and wrinkling his nose, made a dubious connection.

“That damn cat’s gotta be a good-luck charm or something,” he declared, swinging his glower to Killua.

All he got in response was an evil grin as Killua deliberately, pointedly clutched Minerva closer to himself, and then stuck out his tongue.

The face Leorio made sent both Killua and Kurapika into fits of laughter, hard enough that they both missed the starting signal, and it was with relish that Leorio shot ahead of them with a yell of “Payback!”

Not that it mattered in the end. With some quick maneuvering, Leorio was sent careening head-on into a pillar (screaming foul play) as Killua zipped on into first place.

Soon enough, Leorio’s anger faded as the tracks grew tougher, more concerned with avoiding the crazy obstacles thrown left and right at them. And from there, it wasn’t long until they all settled into deep and thoughtful silence as they contemplated the possible symbolism of Rainbow Road and the meaning of life, among other things, before Killua broke it.

“So,” he began, slowly and deliberately, straight-faced, “are both your parents cool with it?”

“With what?”

“You know this is like, a major life decision…”

“What is?”

“And once it’s done, it’s done...”

In a burst of frustration Kurapika threw down his controller, looking ready to tear out his hair. “What is?”

Abandoned to its own devices, his kart flew off the road and into the void with a tragic wail.

The faintest inkling of suspicion crossed Kurapika’s face (though Leorio was still as clueless as ever). “Don’t tell me—”

“Get a room.”

And just like that, both of them were reduced to blushing stammering messes.

It didn’t help that not even three seconds later, a voice drifted over from the kitchen: “Leorio would be such a wonderful son-in-law, don’t you think, dear?”

“Yes, absolutely delightful—”

“MOM, DAD, STOP, PLEASE.”

All throughout dinner, a persistent blush clung to Kurapika and Leorio’s cheeks, neither willing to look each other (or anyone else) in the eye. A smug grin still on his face, Killua opened his mouth, another cheeky remark at the tip of his tongue, but then two feet kicked him at once, and he muffled a high-pitched swear.

“Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” he managed out through grit teeth, eyes watering slightly, and shot withering I-will-kill-you-in-your-sleep looks at Kurapika and Leorio, both of whom had the nerve to put on an innocent face.

But revenge was a dish best served cold, after all, so after they’d hauled spare mattresses up to Kurapika’s room and spread out blankets, Killua said, deliberately and clearly:

“Hey, you better have the decency not to do anything gross in front of a kid like me.”

Kurapika promptly shut off the lights.

The shrill ring of the lunch bell split the teacher’s lecture in half, and Killua didn’t bother waiting for a dismissal, springing out the door and shoving through the ebb and flow of traffic, automatic rushed apologies here and there, until he finally skidded to a halt at that rickety, overlooked door, pausing to catch his breath.

That was weird—no one was there. Normally, Gon got there first and waited for him.

Gon didn’t wait yesterday, either, a little voice reminded him.

Killua shrugged it off and peered up the stairs, then back out into the hallway. Maybe Gon got caught up in the traffic. Or had to stay behind for something.

A gut feeling tugged his gaze up the steps again, and he hesitated for a brief second before taking them two at a time.

“Hey, Gon!”

There was no sound but the echo of his own voice, and after a beat that felt unbearably longer than it was, Gon finally blinked and raised his head.

“Oh. Hi.”

Killua’s smile slipped before he pulled it back on, plopping down next to Gon. “I didn’t see you at the club yesterday—did you forget, or what?”

“I guess so,” was Gon’s absent response, before he fell silent.

The sudden itch to look anywhere but at him overtook Killua, and he fixed his stare on the chain-link fence, the slightest falter in his voice.

“We actually had a sleepover at Kurapika’s house—me and the old man. You should’ve seen the look on their faces when I told them to get a room. That was when we were playing Mario Kart—I totally wrecked them, by the way—and then for dinner… Gon?”

An ambiguous hum. With effort, Killua brought his gaze back to Gon.

It was when he saw those unfocused eyes that he realized: Gon wasn’t there. And hadn’t been, not since the day he hadn’t shown up at the library.

The rest of lunch was quiet as a grave.

By the time the final bell rang and Killua began the uphill hike to the library, alone again, the sky had grown listless, blanched of its pale blue hues. And when he stepped back out, backpack lighter without the black umbrella, it’d thickened into a dense layer of slate gray.

Looked like there’d be more rain coming today—which translated into puddles and mud, and it just so happened that on his typical route from the library, there was an unkempt, rutted dust road that, without fail, transformed into a slippery slope of mud, as he’d learned the hard way the other day.

Which meant he’d have to cut through the business district.

The loud, noisy, people-filled business district.

Fantastic.

Ducking under stray arms and elbows, he pushed through the crowds of people, finally burst onto the intersection, and then clicked his tongue in impatience at the blinking red hand. He definitely did not like the business district.

A truck that was probably going above the speed limit whizzed past him, and before the next car, he caught a glimpse of a familiar ginger color, and straightened. Was that—?

The second the signal changed, he bolted across the street, already calling out.

“Ms. Mito!”

“Oh—Killua!” Even though there was a certain weariness in her face—different from the hurried look she wore so often—she still smiled at him. “How have you been?”

Now that he was closer, he could see the faint circles underneath her eyes, and he swallowed, what had merely been a vague sense of unease now a raging suspicion. “Fine,” he lied, more because he couldn’t bring himself to say anything negative when she already looked so worn out. “I was just worried about Gon—he was acting really out of it at school. Do you know if—something happened?”

Mito hesitated. Then, slowly, with the air of someone who was delicately selecting their words, she said, “That must be because of the news from the hospital.”

Hospital?

“We only got it that day, but—” She paused, and then with some difficulty, continued. “Kite—do you know who he is?”

Kite—the same Kite Gon had always talked so excitedly about? The suspicion was taking a clearer form now, but if that was the case…

“I just know that he’s an archeologist, and he’s doing an excavation in the Balsa Islands.” Just then, he remembered they were still surrounded by milling crowds of people, and lowered his voice. “Why?”

“Yes,” she replied distractedly, and then blinked, as though she’d only just heard his question. “It’s been nearly two months now, but recently there was—”

Her voice faltered.

“—an accident.”

Accident.

That single word hung between them, and Killua swallowed again as Mito blinked again, something glistening in her eyes. “That’s,” he stuttered, throat suddenly hoarse, “that’s all I needed to know. Thank—thank you. For telling me.”

Mito murmured something that he couldn’t quite hear, and then drew in an unsteady breath. “It’s been…hard on Gon, because...” She trailed off, and then shook her head. “Could you look after him, at school?”

“Of course.” Because we’re friends, Killua wanted to add, but his throat closed up. Instead, he managed out a goodbye, and trudged on with heavy feet, the bleak clouds churning above him, and his own words echoing hollowly in his head.

Chalk clicked against the board as the teacher droned on, a steady stream of equations and theories that Killua probably should’ve been listening to, if he wanted to pass the next test, but he couldn’t bring himself to. His eyes were still dry and his throat still aching the night before, and he was just tired as fuck—it wasn’t like he could’ve gotten any rest after screaming until his voice went raw.

It felt like his body was just moving on autopilot, robotically going through motions: walking, eating, carelessly tossing books into his backpack at the end of the day . . .

Killua blinked, and only then realized that he’d ended up retracing the path to the library. When did that happen? And it wasn’t even like he had anything to do at the library. But at the same time...did he want to go back?

When he stepped up to the front desk, Palm was there, idly thumbing through a sheaf of papers, and he hesitated for a moment before giving an awkward greeting, trying for a smile. But his voice came out thin and dry, and she started, looking up.

“Killua? What happened?—you look terrible!”

“I...didn’t sleep that well.”

Maybe she picked up on his vagueness, because she studied him for a second longer, before her expression softened. “So then, what brings you here today?”

The question took him aback for a moment—he didn’t have an answer. After all, he’d walked here on muscle memory more than anything, Twisting his fingers in the straps of his backpack, he finally, tiredly said, “I just don’t feel like going home right now.”

The word “home” felt plastic on his tongue. Palm was silent for a moment, before finally murmuring a solemn “I see,” and glanced down at her desk.

“There’s an empty quiet room. If you’d like, you could use it.”

Killua blinked in surprise, but gave her a grateful smile anyway.

Behind the room’s glass walls, the buzz and noise were reduced to indistinct murmurs, with the mechanical scritch-scratch of his pencil on paper the only sound in the cool air.

It was...strangely soothing. And it was easier now, to let his shoulders relax, and curl up in the cushioned chair, working through mind-numbing math problems.

Just as he’d filled out the last worksheet and shut his folder, a light knock sounded, and then a creak of the door hinges, and Palm leaned in through the open doorway.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything—are you feeling better now?”

This time, he could manage a faint smile. “Yeah, I think so. I—actually wanted to ask you—are there any books you’d recommend? Since I don’t really have anything else to do.”

Palm blinked, and then smiled back at him, her tone lighter now. “Well, that’s a tough question. Have you ever heard of ethology—?” 

Killua stared at the screen until his eyes began to burn, as though that might change the words and spell out a sunnier scenario. But long seconds passed with no luck, and finally, he clicked the phone off, eyes squeezed shut as his mind whirled.

After days and days of combing the net, he’d finally found an article on it: short and terse, delivering the facts with little mincing. An excavation error that had led to part of the structure collapsing. Crushed right arm. Internal injuries. Comatose. Critical condition. Transferred from Yorknew City Central Hospital to Northeast Dentora Medical Center just a couple days before—only a half-hour’s train ride from Padokea.

So that explained it.

With a sigh, he pulled his phone back out and dialed in a quick number.

“Sapphire? Is something the matter?”

“Not really—” The hoarseness of his own voice made him wince, and he forced the next words out through the prickling pain in his throat. “It’s just that Gon probably won’t be coming to the meetings for a while.”

“Is that so? Do you know why?”

Killua hesitated, debating how much he should tell—a slight twinge of guilt still tugged at him for essentially going behind Gon and Mito’s backs and looking this up—and eventually allowed: “Something with his family came up. And I—didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, so—”

A cough cut him off, followed by another, and he grimaced—fuck, horrible idea, that hurt like hell—shouldn’t it have gotten better by now?

Bisky’s next words were just as scolding as he’d expected. “Sapphire, you should know you need to let your voice rest! Why didn’t you just send me a message instead? No, nevermind—don’t strain yourself. Breathe in through your nose—go get some water…”

It was only after she’d ascertained Killua was following her instructions that she brought the topic of Gon back up, with a heavy sigh.

“I suppose we can just run him through a couple extra practices, once he feels up to it again, and in the meantime—it looks like you’ll be going solo for a bit longer.”

The unspoken worry lingered between them, and after a beat, Bisky sighed again.

“Now, about you—I don’t know if you’re thinking you need to compensate or something, but don’t go wearing yourself out again, alright?”

Killua swallowed, suddenly thankful for the excuse to remain silent, and wondered if Bisky realized how close she’d come to hitting the nail on the head.

But she left it at that, and after some more idle talk and updates, the call ended with a beep.

The library was fairly desolate today, with only a few sparse pockets of conversation scattered around as Killua left the quiet room, door swinging shut with a muffled thud. Backpack slung over one shoulder, not quite ready to commit to the second shoulder yet, he hovered about, and stared blankly out the window.

A part of him still half-expected to see a head of spiky black hair appear down the road any moment now, dashing up the steps and flinging open the doors.

But now, he knew for sure: Gon wasn’t coming.

At the same time, though, he wasn’t exactly eager to return home. Two days after the last turbulent argument, there was only dead silence from his family—as if nothing had ever happened. But that only inflamed his nerves even more, so stay it was.

The only downside was that Palm wasn’t here—she was taking a day off to study for an upcoming exam—which left Killua with limited options for passing the time. In the end, he settled on just browsing books, wandering up and down the aisles with no particular topic or genre in mind.

Just as he spotted a somewhat interesting title and moved to pry it from the shelf, a cascade of thumps, followed by several muffled exclamations, sent his finger skidding down the spine, clipping the frayed edge of the plastic covering and nearly tearing it in the process. Did something fall down?

With a mental apology to the book, Killua paused for a moment to try and pinpoint the source of the commotion, and then darted around the corner of the next aisle.

Books, some face-down, some on their sides, pages sticking up here and there, were spilled across the floor, and scrambling to pick them up, was a frazzled, bushy-browed redhead, who stopped short in surprise when Killua knelt down next to him.

“You—you don’t need to trouble,” he stammered out, looking on with dismay as Killua continued to stack up books. “Really! Um—” He made some sort of gesture, as if to try and take the books, but then stopped short when Killua shot him a slightly annoyed look that read I’m going to help you and you’re not going to complain, and just watched awkwardly as the pile grew higher and higher in the silence.

Killua might’ve felt bad, but it wasn’t like his throat was in any condition for small talk. It was only when he caught a glimpse of one of the fallen books that his curiosity won out.

“You’re into computers?”

“I, err...” The redhead fidgeted, glancing about, and then finally allowed, “Hacking. That’s what I’m into.”

With an interested sound, Killua shuffled around to face him, books carefully balanced in his arms. “What kind? Like, black-hat, or—?”

“Oh— White-hat, actually.”

“Cool!”

The redhead blinked, as if that was the last reaction he’d been expecting.

“So then you’re like, a knight-in-shining-armor of the Internet, protecting our computers from the anarchy of cyberevil…”

As Killua kept waxing poetic in a dramatic narrator voice, the color of the redhead’s face grew progressively closer to his hair, and when Killua finally broke off to give his sore throat a respite, he hurriedly said, “I-it’s not really as big as that! I just—do some things, here and there…”

“Well, I think it’s cool as hell,” Killua said, as dignified as possible, then coughed again and made a face.

There was a constricted sound that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle, and then the redhead produced a tissue from thin air and blew his nose in a loud, sticky, drawn-out way that was somewhat concerning.

“You okay there?”

“Just—allergies.” Killua made a dubious sound, but didn’t comment as the redhead blew his nose again. Instead, with a grunt, he stood up, the scraggly carpeting scuffing at his knees and books cradled in his arms. “Where should I put these?”

Still congested, the redhead gestured in the general direction of a cluster of tables—all of which were empty except one, so Killua figured it’d be reasonably safe to assume that was it, and plunked the books down, to profuse thank-yous.

“I didn’t catch your name, actually,” he said, after batting at his shorts in an only half-successful attempt to smooth out the wrinkles, and then resigned himself to just letting them straighten with time. “I’m Killua.”

“Ah—I’m Ikalgo.” He dropped the tissue into a nearby trashcan. “Really, thank you so much.”

“You know you can quit with that now.” Sticking his hands back in his pockets, Killua finally took a closer look at the books. Which there were a lot of. “So, is this all for extra reading or something?”

“Mostly for fun, I guess.”

He paused for a second, then pulled out a chair opposite to Ikalgo and plopped down, chin propped up in hands. “Well, I don’t have anything else to do, so mind telling me a bit about your hacking escapades?”

Chapter Text

The distinct lack of Gon beside his locker was now as familiar a sight as his presence there had been, and by now, Killua struggled to remember how exactly Gon had stood there (had he leaned against the walls, or hovered about?), and how exactly his backpack had been slung over his shoulders (left, right, or both?), and all those other little details that Killua had once thought he’d memorized.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he shook his head, slamming his locker shut with probably more force than needed. There was no point in thinking like that—Gon was just occupied. (Right?)

“Heya, Kil.”

The floor seemed to vanish from beneath him, and a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach—this voice, why is it here?—Killua whipped around.

“I-Illumi?”

In the perfect picture of confusion, Illumi cocked his head, resting his chin on a hand. “Why do you sound so surprised? Were you trying to avoid me?”

The dangerous undercurrent of that last question was anything but innocent, and Killua grit his teeth. “What do you want?”

“That’s no way to speak to your brother. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worried?” he echoed, fixing a contemptuous smile on his face. If Illumi noticed how it shook, or how he’d went white—

No, he’d definitely noticed. But he didn’t show it. Just went on with that artificial cheeriness.

“But of course! We’ve all been worried lately about how you’ve been straying off the proper path, squandering all your time away with trivial school activities...”

Killua opened his mouth to protest, but Illumi cut him off. “You’re going to say, ‘I want to spend time with my friends,’ aren’t you?”

Something was different about Illumi now—then the air went thick.

“Don’t be silly. You don’t need friends. They’d only get in your way.”

Killua scoffed, clenching his clammy fists. “What do you know? It’s not like you’ve ever had any friends.”

“Neither do you.”

His smile (could it even be called that?) froze in place. That…wasn’t true. Even Illumi, of all people, would know that, right? Because—Gon—

“Oh, that one boy—Gon?”

Killua stiffened.

“I haven’t seen him with you lately.” Illumi’s lips curled upwards. “It almost seems like—”

“Shut up! That’s—that’s none of your damn business!”

He hated it. Hated how his legs trembled, even as he stormed away. How the tears burned against his eyelids. And how, in that one instant, Illumi had—

No. It wasn’t true, it was all just some damn trick to mess with him (but it’d worked, hadn’t it?) and it was all just. Lies.

Except—Gon sitting there, next to him, but not really there, so quiet too quiet—and he stumbled out the side door, head spinning.

Was he just seeing things? When they’d all dragged him off to random places and done all those things just to—no, don’t think about it—

“You bastard!”

The relief hit him first. Curious heads had all turned at once, towards somewhere by the main entrance. Away from him.

It didn’t last. Something cold closed around him.

That had been Gon’s voice.

His heart hammered as he jostled through the crowd, some muffled, erratic commotion rising ahead of him, and then—

“You should be apologizing to Kite, not me!”

The dark-haired man didn’t so much as flinch at that, his unreadable brown eyes half-narrowed and posture an indifferent stoop. It was a face Killua had only seen once, in a single photograph hanging on a wall:

Ging Freecss.

And, glare fixed wholly on him, was Gon.

But it couldn’t be. Gon wasn’t—Gon wasn’t like this. Charred sulfur and frothing venom, face contorted and fists shaking. This wasn’t the Gon he knew. (Had he ever really known him, though?) It was someone else. Something else.

It had to be.

“Gon, calm down!”

Pain flared in his hand and he snatched it away, staggering back a step and mind wiping blank. What—?

“Calm down? You want me to calm down? Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t know anything!”

Numb. Couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t Gon. Wasn’t.

But now, he was just one more faceless onlooker, one more insignificant speck in the crowd.

“Why didn’t you take the job? Tell me!”

The response was blunt. Maybe even callous.

“Because It wasn’t interesting anymore.”

A thread snapped. Killua’s hair stood on end.

“So Kite’s in a coma because you got bored?”

Silence.

Gon’s fist curled. Trembling. Muscles pulled taut.

Static in his head, ice in his veins. He wasn’t sure why. A blur—and Killua’s hand clamped onto Gon’s.

“Leave!”

A snarl tore its way out of Gon’s throat. Wild, like an animal.

“Don’t you dare—!” A chill ran down Killua’s spine, and Gon thrashed in his grip. “Let go of me!”

I’m sorry, Gon, but I can’t—and in lieu of a reply, Killua whipped around to Ging, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Leave, now!”

Was that the right thing to do? He couldn’t tell. Sound and sight came in bits and pieces, stitching together into hazy realizations.

There was only empty space before him. Ging was gone.

“Bastard—!”

In a burst of enraged strength, Gon ripped himself away from Killua, breaths ragged and heavy.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know what Ging did, but getting angry at him won’t do anything to help Kite!”

Gon went still, the poison fire in his eyes freezing over. It was silent for an unbearably long time.

Finally, quietly, he said:

“This is none of your business, Killua. Stay out of it.”

The crowd broke into hushed whispers, but Killua couldn’t hear them, didn’t want to hear them. Just watched as Gon’s back grew smaller, smaller, smaller (please come back please) until—

It was gone.

Then his legs were moving, moving somewhere—couldn’t tell where. A crack of thunder shattered the sky and the clouds heaved open. Something trickled down his face. Then another, and another, salt and storms on his tongue.

Chapter Text

It was raining again, Gon noted.

Outside, a steady pat-pat-pat drummed, the sound of drops breaking apart on the cement, a cycling backdrop behind the smooth, rolling rhythms of the lecture.

Not that any of it particularly concerned him. The weather would be weather, and the numbers on the board meant just about as much as the smudges on the sides. Because, right now, all that mattered was—

“Gon—”

With effort, Gon tore his gaze away from the window as Wing hung up the phone with a click, expression carefully neutral. “There’s a call for you, down at the office. You’d best go get it.”

A call? Something in his stomach churned. That call flashed across his memory—that cool, mechanical voice edged with static crackling from the speaker, delivering those news with clinical detachment: Kite is—

No. Not. Dead.

But what if, now, there was that voice again, whispering—no. It wouldn’t happen.

He wasn’t really sure why he hadn’t just ignored it—stayed put and turned away. Maybe he should’ve. But at the same time, it kept gnawing at him—what would it say? What if—what if it was something else?

The office was quiet when he stepped in, save for the clacking of keys, and a tired-eyed secretary looked up when the door closed behind him with a click.

“Gon Freecss? For a call, right?”

“Um—yeah.” He shifted from foot to foot, gaze straying to the dull tan phone, and blurted out, “Who is it?”

Attention having already switched back the computer, the secretary hardly spared him a glance before answering, short and bland.

“Your aunt, Mito Freecss.”

Not the hospital.

Gon drew in a shuddering breath, curling and uncurling his fingers, waited until he thought his voice would be steady enough to speak—”Okay, I’ll take it”—but there was still a wobble he couldn’t quite flatten out. Another inhale, and then he pressed the handset to his ear.

“Hello, Aunt Mito?”

“Oh, Gon—thank goodness.” Mito broke off abruptly, whatever she’d been about to say lodging in her throat. For several beats, there was only the sound of breathing.

“Kite’s—going to be okay, Gon.”

The handset slipped through his slack grip, catching on his fingers and swaying precariously.

“Wh— What?”

“Kite’s going to be okay, Gon,” she repeated, choked, and he could almost see her—phone in hand, smiling, eyes glistening. “The doctors said—they said he’s showing more signs of responsiveness. They think he’s going to make a recovery.”

A recovery.

Of course—of course Kite was going to be okay! That was what he’d believed this whole time, wasn’t it? Maybe he’d doubted it for a moment, but there was no way Kite would ever—

(A figure swathed in sheets, white and still, the only sounds the beeping of a monitor. And then his hand would twitch, and he would open his eyes, then sit up, and smile…)

It was in a daze that Gon meandered back to the classroom, still turning those words over in his head, again and again. Somehow, with each angle he looked at them, came some newfound facet to be thrilled about. Kite was going to be okay, which meant that they could share stories again, and go out fishing together again, and—

He blinked rapidly, and it was only then that he realized he’d been staring at a locker for a while without really seeing it. He blinked again, took a moment to process the weight on his shoulders, and realized he was already carrying his backpack. Weird—then why was he still at his locker?

Closer inspection revealed that the locker number was a whole three digits off—it couldn’t even be remotely mistaken for his. So then he’d just been hanging around a random locker for who knows how long?

Except there was a faint tug in the back of his mind, a whisper—something like No, not a random locker, this is—but he couldn’t quite make it out, and a frown crossed his face. Whose—?

A lopsided grin, a teasing scoff. “Took you long enough.”

And for one horribly long second, he couldn’t discern the shape of that face, until—

Killua!

Right, this was Killua’s locker—where they met up after school. (Why did it take so long?) Gon bounced on his heels, craning over the heads of the crowd in search for that familiar shock of white hair. Killua should be coming along soon—

—but as the halls emptied, Gon swallowed, an odd pressure building up in his chest. Killua wasn’t supposed to take this long, right?

Unless—he was out? Had he been at lunch? Gon racked his brain, trying to recall if—

“Gon, calm down!”

And then it was gone, leaving only a strange chill in its wake, and Gon shivered. What—was that?

“—hear about what happened Tuesday?”

The words were muffled at first, but became sharper as a flock of students rounded the corner, chattering excitedly.

“There was a fight, wasn’t there?”

“A fight? Where?”

“Not a fight fight, but like—some kid, an underclassman, I think, got real pissed off at a guy—”

“You know—Killua Zoldyck was there!”

Gon froze, pressed against the wall and ears straining to catch their next words. Killua was—?

“A Zoldyck? Oh, man. That couldn’t have gone down well.”

Thump.

“No, but, like, he was trying to break it up, and—”

Thump.

“I heard—wasn’t he crying?”

Everything else faded into a blur of white noise, leaving only those words hammering in his skull, loud and sharp.

Killua was...crying?

But—it couldn’t be. Killua—Killua crying? There was no way—

And then it all came back to him in a rush of sound and blood in his ears—Killua’s grip on his wrist, glass in his voice and in his eyes, and then he’d—

“Stay out of it.”

Suddenly all the stares and whispers that had been following him through the halls made sense. Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? He buried his head in his hands, stomach twisting in a horrible, sick way. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

And Killua!—oh, god. He hadn’t been at school today, had he? Not today, yesterday, not—

When was the last time Gon had seen him? Spoke to him?

It was far, too far.

Something rancid caught in his throat.

He’d messed up. Badly. And he had to fix things, somehow. At the very least, he was sure of that.

But…how?

He wasn’t really sure how it’d happened, but soon he found himself in front of that familiar black door, chicken-scratch script and all, no more legible than it’d been the first time he’d ever seen it. A faint, indistinct murmur filtered through the thick wood, and Gon thought that maybe if he strained, he could pick out each individual voice.

Still a bit wobbly, he set a hand on the door. He took three slow breaths, and flung it open.

“I’m sorry!”

Staring down at the scuffed wooden planks, back already beginning to ache from the right-angle bow, he almost couldn’t see everyone’s surprised looks. He wet his lips anxiously, and before anyone could say anything, barreled on. “I haven’t been coming to any meetings for so long, and I forgot all about the concert and the musical—and I know that there are a lot of things I have to do that I haven’t been doing, and I’ve caused trouble for everyone, so—even if it doesn’t mean anything, I’m sorry…

“And—if it isn’t too much to ask, I… I need your help.” Gon squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “I’ve—been a failure of a friend. To all of you, and especially—especially to Killua. I... I don’t understand a lot of things about Killua that I should, and—I said something really horrible to him. A-and even if he doesn’t—” He fumbled the next syllable. “—f-forgive me, I want to at least apologize, and make Killua feel better somehow… What should I do?”

There was no response for what felt like hours, the erratic thumping of his heart painfully loud in the silence. Mouth dry, he kept his gaze fixed on the ground. Did I just make things worse? Maybe I shouldn’t have—

“Gon. Look at me.”

Muscles locking in surprise—Leorio’s voice!—Gon shot up, eyes wide.

“We need to apologize too.”

An automatic protest rose up—No, you don’t—but Leorio didn’t give him a chance. “We should’ve figured something was wrong when you stopped coming to meetings, but we didn’t, and—”

“It’s not your fault!”

Only when his own words reached his ears, a moment later, did Gon realize he’d been far louder than he’d intended, and he averted his gaze to his shoes. “It’s—it’s all my fault. You couldn’t have known, because I…”

He trailed off, the unspoken words hanging in the air.

“Even still,” came a new voice to the conversation—a distinct, soft, not-quite-alto and not-quite-tenor—and Gon hesitantly raised his head again, a jolt in his chest when Kurapika smiled gently at him. “We’re glad you came to talk to us in the end. Just—remember for next time that we’re always here to lend an ear or a shoulder, alright?”

“Or a dog,” Knuckle offered, straight-faced and dead-serious.

This was met with a host of unimpressed looks, and Knuckle scowled, the tips of his ears red. “What, I’m trying to help, okay?”

A laugh rang out, stopping the conversation in its tracks, and belatedly, Gon realized it’d been his own—it’d sounded so alien to his ears, so unfamiliar. When was the last time he’d been able to laugh like this? Another one escaped him—more of a hiccup than anything—and then another, and then he was doubled over, a sudden wetness pricking at his eyes. Was it from laughing so hard? Or something else?

He couldn’t help it. A silly grin spread across his face.

“Thank you, Knuckle, and everyone. I—I think I’m feeling a lot better now.”

That was one thing out of the way. He let out a long exhale, and waited until his nerves steadied themselves.

“Okay. What do I do now?”

“May I suggest something?”

Only then did Gon notice the two unfamiliar faces: the speaker, a brunette with dark and solemn eyes, and seated next to her, feet barely touching the floor, a thick-browed redhead.

“We haven’t met before—I’m Palm Siberia, and this is Ikalgo.”

The one she’d introduced as Ikalgo nodded, and Palm folded her hands in her lap, choosing her words carefully.

“We won’t get anywhere just sitting around and talking about it. None of us can speak for Killua’s feelings. You need to find him, and hear it from him.”

Gon bit his lip. “But what should I say? Will it be enough?”

“I don’t think you need to be so worried,” Ikalgo offered, with a reassuring smile. “We haven’t known Killua as long as you, but I can’t imagine he would ever hate you. I think we all at least know that much.”

How can you be sure—?

But all he saw in the faces around him was a quiet, unified agreement, there in each nod, in each crease and fold of their encouraging smiles.

“Chin up, diamond!” Bisky clapped him on the shoulder and he jumped—partly because ouch he’d forgotten how strong Bisky was, and she probably did too, shortly after, and gave him something of an apologetic pat on the smarting spot. “Take this chance to understand sapphire better—even if it’s just a little bit. And what you need to do, first and foremost, is to be honest. Whether he forgives you or not is up to him, but being anything less than yourself would only hurt him more. Understand?”

“Y-yeah!”

With an approving smile, her hand left his shoulder, and it felt as though something much heavier had lifted with it. Gon took a deep breath, mind clearer than it’d been in what had felt like ages, before bowing again. “Everyone, thank you all so much!”

The pavement was dark and damp under his feet, the color beginning to return to the ashen sky, and off in the distance, the figure out Kukuroo Mountain silently rose up from the horizon.

Somewhere on that towering peak was a house, and somewhere in that house was Killua. What expression was he making right now? What was he thinking? Gon didn’t know.

The pang in his heart only propelled him on.

Killua… Whatever you end up deciding, I’ll accept it. I owe that much to you.

Tired as Killua’s eyes were, they just wouldn’t close. He’d lost track of how long he’d been lying there, tangled in stiff blankets, staring without seeing. What time was it? What day? He didn’t know. He’d stopped counting, a long time ago.

A rap on the door, quick and shrill, followed by a voice, dripping with sickly sweet honey in a poor attempt to sound caring.

“Killua, dear—we’ve called in to let the school know you’ll be absent again. Take all the time you want resting.”

The clicking of her heels receded without waiting for a response, but Killua hardly could’ve mustered up one anyway. Another raspy cough escaped him, and he shivered, pulling the covers closer and head still pounding. Any other time, that voice might’ve chafed at him, but now…

He was just too drained to care.

Somewhere above his head, the clock droned on, a dull monotone of tick-tick-tick, over and over, and there was a faint, tinny strain of piano seeping through the air—

Suddenly his eyes were wide open.

“It’s hard to believe… That I cou—”

With a sharp screech of static, it cut off, and Killua gulped, finger still pressed to the screen, bile thick and acrid in his throat and chest horribly tight. That song, his voice, but was it just him or was it all—

“Killua—”

He froze. That was—Ikalgo? Panic shot up his veins—shit, had he pressed the wrong button? Should he answer or not?

The silence stretched out long enough that for a moment, with relief (fear?), Killua thought Ikalgo had decided to hang up. But there was no telling click.

“Where’ve you been? We’re all worried—we heard about what happened Tuesday, and…” There was a pause, filled only with the sound of breath crackling through the speakers. “Killua—you know you can always talk to us if you’re feeling down, right? Because—you helped me when I was down, so...I want to be able to do the same for you. We won’t mind at all if you want to vent for a bit, okay?”

Muffled shuffling. Then, a different voice: a low, graceful cadence.

“Killua—I can’t pretend to understand exactly what you’re going through right now, but don’t try to keep it all to yourself. Don’t try to bottle things up… Don’t be afraid to cry or scream sometimes. That’s what makes us all human. So please—give yourself that freedom.”

Shuffling again, and Killua’s heart leapt into his throat—were they actually, seriously doing—?

“Listen, Killua, don’t go taking it like Gon”—Killua’s breath hitched—”doesn’t—doesn’t trust you or anything, I mean—okay, we don’t know either, but—this is Gon we’re talking about. Like—Gon—Gon was really, honestly happy when he was with you. All that—there’s no way it was a lie. So one little—okay, big mess happened. But that doesn’t change all the times you’ve spent together! So—” Leorio’s tone softened. “—don’t lose heart, got it?”

A quieter rustle this time—and before he even spoke, Killua knew who it would be. Gentle and measured, the perfect complement to Leorio’s rough gruffness.

“Killua—whatever the case is, just please, tell us if we can help you somehow. Don’t forget—we’re here, alright? And we’ll always be here to support you however we can.”

And then, one more:

“Listen up, sapphire—”

Just like he remembered—there was still that strange undercurrent she always pronounced those dumb nicknames with, some mix of pride and fondness.

“—we might not be able to snap our fingers and make all your problems go poof, but we sure can try. So remember—there’s always a place for you, here with us.”

Click.

One tear hit the sheets, soaking in. Then a second, and a third, and then they all blended together, rolling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin.

There had only been five voices, but somehow, he just knew—it’d been the entire club piled around that phone, passing it around in a haphazard jumble of hands and people, those who hadn’t spoken spurring those who did on.

No script, no rehearsal. Only an impromptu performance.

And when Killua closed his eyes, he could almost see them all.

Ikalgo, with that open, earnest gaze of his. Palm, reserved but firm, each action and word marked with thoughtful deliberation, yet deep sincerity. Even if they weren’t in the club—he was sure that for all intents and purposes, they could’ve been.

Then—Bisky, hands planted on her hips and eyes wide and bright, never tiring of that cheesy gemstone theme (it’d grown on him, more than he’d admit). That quick little smile of Kurapika’s—sometimes only a quick little flash, but other times, a gentle curve of his lips, sometimes curling up a little bit higher with playful mirth as he teased Leorio, and—Leorio, Leorio and his dumb dopey horse face that went red at a crack at his age, but softened whenever he forgot about his gruff act for a little bit and fussed over them—drink some water, take a break, how’s everything going?

A shaky laugh bubbled up, and he rubbed clumsily at his face with a deep shuddering breath.

Illumi could go die in a hole, for all he cared.

In. Out. In again, and out. Count to five.

Muscle memory took over, exchanging pajamas for fresh clothes, and in short order Killua found himself in the bathroom, tiles cold under his bare feet as he splashed water onto his face, washing away the tear tracks. It was only when he chanced a glimpse upwards that he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and paused.

The face that stared back at him was pale and thin, lines deeply drawn under puffy eyes from several sleepless nights, cheeks still flushed from the lingering traces of a fever and a sheen of sweat sticking to his skin.

I really look like hell, huh…

Gripping the edges of the sink, he took another deep breath.

I’m not okay. But that’s fine.

The reassuring weight of his phone in his pocket, Killua stepped outside. Soft afternoon light from a sun just peeking out from the clouds bathed his skin, and a cool breeze caught at his hair as he hopped over puddles. He inhaled, lungs expanding with fresh air he hadn’t breathed in for days.

I’m going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.

The mantra repeated in his head as he traced that familiar path, along winding asphalt roads and rutted shortcuts, and then finally, the bridge rose into view, sunlight glinting off its metal railings and glimmering in the waters. This was where they’d exchanged their numbers, right? How long had it been since then? So much had happened since then. So much had changed. And—he was a bit scared, but—

—Wide brown eyes locked with his, and stole his breath away.

Standing right there, not a single hair out of place and looking exactly like he’d been on that overcast day, but at the same time entirely different, was Gon.

They stared at each other for what felt like the longest time, the only sound the burbling of the river, far beneath their feet.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Killua’s words rang out in the silence, soft but clear. Gon swallowed, head lowering.

“I’m so sorry, Killua! I—” He hesitated, his next words becoming thick and subdued. “—didn’t want to give you any trouble… I couldn’t burden any of my friends with my own problems. It’s...not worth it—”

“What the hell?”

Gon startled, head snapping back up, but Killua barely noticed as he clenched his hands into trembling fists.

“Not worth it? If it isn’t worth it for a friend, then for who? Haven’t you considered that maybe, you’re important to someone?”

And with that, everything he’d been bottling up and pushing aside for the past month finally bursting out. “I was worried sick the first day you didn’t show up at my locker, and the next day at school! Do you know how much I wanted you to say something? To tell me what was wrong? Do you know how much it hurt seeing you there and not being able to do anything? I wanted to help you—I wanted you to let me help you!”

Killua halted, chest heaving and tears stinging at his eyes. The surge of anger subsided, and when he spoke next, there was a crack in his voice he was too tired to hide. “Isn’t that what being a friend was about?”

Suddenly exhausted to the bone, he scrubbed at his eyes, deliberately not looking at Gon.

“I did find out eventually.” Voice soft again, with the smallest quaver. “From your aunt. And an article. Not all of it, but even still…” His throat closed up. “Even if you’d let me, I don’t think I would’ve known what to do at all—” The tears that’d been welling up began to slip out, and he hiccuped. “I—Gon, I’m so sorry, I…”

But no matter how hard he tried, only sobs came out, in place of words he couldn’t grasp, and his legs buckled. Somewhere in front of him, Gon uttered a faint sound—maybe shock, maybe dismay—but Killua couldn’t bring himself to see what expression was on his face.

“Killua, please—” Gon’s voice shook, faltering at each word. “Please, don’t—don’t be—” A breath sucked in. “Killua, I—couldn’t have asked for a better friend than you!”

Eyes flying open, Killua stared at Gon in shock, kneeling right in front of him. Slowly, Gon reached out, hesitating just an inch away, and then drew back.

“You’re so much better than I ever deserved… Because—” His gaze grew heavy. “Because I wasn’t the friend for you that you were for me. I’m sorry. So, even if you don’t forgive me”—a hitch—”I just wanted to let you know.”

Silence. Killua exhaled, long and deep.

“Gon.” Carefully, he brushed away his tears, and looked straight into Gon’s eyes. “Do you remember when we first met, at that party?”

“I—what?”

“How about when you took me to the lake?”

A slow nod. And a beat later, as if he’d only just mustered up the courage, words followed, quiet and tentative. “You got smacked by a fish.” After considering for a moment, Gon added, “Right in the face.”

“Wh— Don’t remind me!”

Laughter caught in Gon’s throat, tugging his lips up into a cautious smile, and Killua grinned back—god, he’d missed this, this easy carefree banter.

“Hey, but you almost landed worms in our shoes.”

With an air of great reluctance, Gon allowed a sheepish, “I remember.”

“And that time when I thought I’d put the club in danger? Do you remember that?”

Silence.

“You held my hand and told me it’d be okay.”

Gently, Killua lifted Gon’s hands, and clasped them in his own.

“Kinda like this.”

Swallow. Pulse quick beneath skin, eyes brimming with a thousand different ways to ask: why?

So Killua answered.

“Because you did that for me. Now it’s my turn.”

The words didn’t piece themselves together in his head—just came out, one after another.

“Yeah, you made some mistakes. And I can’t just forget about them. But I can’t forget about all the other good things, either. It was because of you that I got to meet the drama club. That I found people we could laugh with and lean on. It made me happy, just being with everyone—and you. You were my first friend. And my best friend. And maybe even something more. So, I forgive you, okay?”

Killua didn’t know when his tone had turned pleading, didn’t really care, not as long as this got through to Gon.

“Can you forgive yourself now?”

It was still for a beat, then another. Then—Gon’s face changed, and suddenly tears were spilling down his cheeks.

“H-hey, why’re you crying?” The only response was another hiccup, and flustered, Killua stammered out, “Quit that!”

“No, I’m just…” Through the tears, Gon smiled, eyes shining with something else. “Really happy…”

And then—Killua’s eyes widened as Gon flung his arms around him, and buried his face in his shoulder. Wet soaked through his sleeve, Gon’s heartbeat loud in his ears, and skin tingling with a faint warmth.

Though muffled by the fabric, Gon’s next words still reached Killua clearly:

“I love you so much, Killua.”

He didn’t even need to think to respond.

“I love you too.”

It might’ve been a second that passed, or maybe a minute, or even an hour. Killua didn’t know. All that he was aware of was the weight of Gon’s head leaning on him.

“Hey, Killua?”

A bit too drowsy for a proper response, Killua settled instead for a low hum.

“I’m really glad I met you.”

Now wide awake, he cast Gon a sidelong glance. “You already said that.”

“I know. I just wanted to say it again.” Gon squeezed Killua a bit tighter. “Next time will be better.”

“Yeah.” Killua squeezed Gon back. “We’ll do better next time. Both of us.”

“Mm. Promise.”

A thought struck Killua, and he pulled away from Gon, who blinked before his eyes locked on the outstretched pinky.

“Pinky promise,” Killua said with the straightest face he could muster up, even as a part of him was banging pots and pans together and screaming out how utterly stupid this was.

“I thought you said that was gross?”

“And dumb.” But he didn’t make any move to take his pinky back, and like the sun coming out from the clouds, after what had felt like years of overcast weather, Gon beamed, linking his own with Killua’s.

“Pinky promise.”

Chapter Text

A pervasive gloom stretched across the hallways, his almost inaudible footsteps the only disturbances in the thick quiet. The Zoldyck estate could hardly be considered lively, not by any stretch, but today, it was especially listless, with the absence of a shrill shriek.

Killua halted before a polished mahogany door, looming a good two feet above him, the frame bit more embellished than the rest. If he strained, he could hear the faint shf-shf of papers, but that wasn’t necessary. He already knew what—or rather, who—was behind it.

Hand poised to knock, he hesitated, hovering just before the wooden surface..

There would be no turning back after this point. He closed his eyes, breathed in, and then rapped the door three times.

A chair slid across the floor, and then Silva’s towering figure appeared in the open doorway, face a perfect facade of impassiveness.

“Killua. Is something the matter?”

“I need to talk to you. Privately.”

Mouth drawn into a thin line, Silva scrutinized him long enough that Killua had to suppress the reflex to shift nervously, and finally allowed an even “Come in.”

Taking a seat behind his desk while Killua stood in front, Silva clasped his hands together. “What is it you’d like to discuss?”

Squaring his shoulders, Killua met Silva’s gaze. “I want to make a wager with you.”

The slightest twitch signaled Silva’s surprise, before the neutral mask slid smoothly back into place. “Go on.”

“The International Politics League is hosting a debate competition next month, at the University of Padokea. I’m going to participate. If I lose—” Killua forced himself to enunciate the next words, clear and steady. “I’ll become the head of the family. I won’t complain at all.”

Silva’s eyes narrowed. “And if you win?”

“Then I get to decide what I want to do for myself. And—” Fist clenched, Killua bit back the urge to raise his voice and punctuate it with some choice words. “You have to let Alluka out of the psychiatric hospital, and stop making her to go to reparative therapy.”

The pressure in the room doubled, and Killua took an involuntary step back—shit, was that too direct?

“You need to let go of that irrational fixation on—”

Something snapped in Killua, and then controlling his temper was the last thing on his mind. “Fixation? Is it wrong to care about my little sister?”

“You’re overstepping your boundaries, Killua,” Silva warned, not quite yelling, but still dangerous, and Killua ground his teeth.

“Then I’ll just not become the head.”

The silence grew suffocating as they watched each other for the telltale signs of backing down that never appeared. Finally, it was Silva who spoke, cool once more.

“I will accept these terms, on one condition.”

Killua tensed. There was a gleam in Silva’s eyes he didn’t like…

“If you lose, you must leave that school.”

Ba-dump.

An icy grip seized Killua’s heart.

Leave?

He clenched his fists, the pounding of his heart loud in his own ears.

I don’t have a choice… This is a gamble I have to take.

And that settled it. Killua looked Silva straight in the eye.

“Fine by me.”

Only when Killua heard the click of the lock behind him did he dare to relax, slumping against the door with an exhale, palms still cold and clammy, but a certain thrill rushing through him. He’d actually done it! After days and days of anxious agonizing, all leading up to now, he’d actually—

The hairs on the back of his neck shot up, and Killua whirled around, heartbeat quickening, before he tensed again.

“This doesn’t concern you, Illumi.”

Stormy displeasure colored Illumi’s face in a rare display of emotion. “This has gone on for far too long, Kil. Give it up.”

It took more than he would’ve liked to keep himself from swallowing.

“You wish.”

Illumi studied him for a second longer. “That’s a shame,” he said evenly, an odd note in his tone that sent a shiver down Killua’s spine, and disappeared back into the shadows of the corridor.

Unease gnawed at him as his heart hammered in his chest, and he finally swallowed, throat dry. Illumi was a factor he couldn’t account for—and there was no telling how drastic of an action he would take, especially considering what he’d pulled with the principal…

He couldn’t let anyone else get involved. It would be too dangerous. Just get this over with, and that would be that.

But the sinking feeling in his stomach stayed.

At that point Killua wasn’t sure he could feel his legs anymore—he supposed sitting cross-legged for almost an hour did that to you—but a combination of inertia and his fixation on the papers strewn before him dictated he wouldn’t be standing up for a while, so there he was.

“How about a crescendo?” Gon’s words were a bit muffled, given that he was sprawled on his stomach, chin propped up on his hands, and thus limiting the movement of his jaw. “Like, after this—”

“It’s rather soon,” Melody murmured, tracing her finger along the bar. “I’d suggest you place it after this segment.”

“Gon, that’s bad for your shoulders,” Leorio chided, and dutifully, Gon pulled himself into a sitting position. “And Killua, you should stand up for a bit.”

Rolling his eyes with a “Sure, old man,” Killua obliged and stretched out his numb legs with no small amount of relief—though there was no way he was going to admit that, or that he probably wouldn’t have had the motivation to get up if no one had told him to.

The power of inertia.

They’d worked their way through two more bars when Bisky’s voice drifted towards them.

“—was rescheduled.”

Kurapika’s voice followed, mulling on whatever words had been exchanged between them. “Odd… It’s a rather sudden change, and to be at the same time as the concert too…”

A faint suspicion took hold of Killua, and his heart skipped a beat as he whirled around, trying in vain to keep the panicked edge out of his voice. “Wait—what? What was rescheduled?”

The urgency in his question seemed to take Bisky aback, and she carefully examined him before responding. “It’s that debate—the one they’re hosting over at the University of Padokea.”

“Shit.”

It was Illumi’s work—no doubt about it. Shit—how could he have let his guard down again? Killua bit his lip, hard enough he might’ve tasted copper, a stone sinking in his stomach. “Is there any way we could reschedule the concert?” he pleaded—there had to be one, right? There had to be.

“We’ve already booked the venue,” Bisky began, slowly intoning each syllable as if trying to assess what effect her answer would have, “and it’s too late to change it now.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “Sapphire, is there something you’re not telling us?”

There was something close to reproach in her tone, and Killua swallowed.

“I—made a wager with my dad. On the debate.”

A pen clattered to the ground as Gon’s head whipped up, eyes wide with alarm, and his mouth parted, but no sound came out.

Throat thick and dry, Killua couldn’t bring himself to meet his gaze.

“If I win, I don’t have to become the head of the family, and I get to do what I want… And Alluka…”

The words burned into his tongue like bitter acid, and he almost spat them out.

“She gets to leave the psychiatric hospital.”

An outraged roar erupted in a blast of sound, seething with angry and confused mutters, and Killua flinched, shrinking back. Half of him wanted to plug his ears—he didn’t want to hear what they were saying, they hadn’t known, what if they—

“Everyone, quiet!”

Bisky’s voice sliced through the commotion, and silence abruptly fell back to take its place.

A suffocating second passed, and then her features softened ever so slightly as she turned to Killua.

“Could you explain?”

Explain. How easy that sounded. Killua curled his fingers into fists, shaking at his side, and then in an explosion of breath:

“Because they’re all assholes!”

The dam broke, and everything tumbled out.

“There’s nothing wrong with her—there isn’t! Not with her, or Nanika, but they just won’t— Damn it! It’s not fucking fair!”

The stunned silence that followed hardly registered to him as he sucked in a gulp of air, something hot that might’ve been tears stinging at his eyes.

Bisky closed her eyes, composure cracking even as she struggled to keep it together, and drew in one breath, then a second. Finally, she asked the question on everyone’s minds:

“And if you lose?”

Whatever energy he might’ve had draining away, Killua lowered his head, throat closing.

“Then I have to leave this school.”

“What?”

Gon scrambled to his feet, eyes smoldering with a sort of single-minded anger Killua had only seen once before. “That’s—”

But no words came to him, and he only stared in horror at Killua, who kept his gaze on the floor, the thick silence heavy on his shoulders.

It was Kurapika who broke it, voice soft and pained. “Even if it might not’ve made a difference, Killua… You could’ve let us know.”

“I…”

—didn’t want to drag you into this, because…

Hold on, what? What was he thinking?

A smack! cut through the air, and the fog in his head ripped to shreds. Suddenly everything was so sharp and clear, and now he knew exactly what had gotten into him—or rather, who.

Cheeks still stinging, he inhaled, then exhaled, and hands falling back to his sides, managed a tired smile at Gon.

“Sorry… Looks like I’ve been a pretty big hypocrite. I was still scared of Illumi, so I ended up doing something dumb.”

“There’s no shame in that,” Bisky said gently. “No one could expect you to overcome something like that in just a night. What matters now is what we should do.”

Something still seemed to unsettle Gon, who hadn’t said a word, a deep frown on his face. Finally, he spoke up again, abrupt but forceful. “I don’t like this, Killua. I don’t like this at all. You shouldn’t have to—make a bet for your freedom, not with those people—”

“But still,” Killua argued, looking Gon straight in the eyes, “this is what I’ve decided to do. And I—I won’t give up on it. I can’t. But—at the same time…”

The sentence hung unfinished as he trailed off, gaze moving from face to face—all people he’d talked and joked and laughed with, people whose every little quirk he knew by heart—and then, at last, landed back on Gon.

I can’t give up the club either.

Silence. Then, Gon’s voice softened. “I still don’t like this. But—you’re really, completely set on it, right, Killua?”

All he could do was nod mutely, and then Gon looked up, eyes blazing with a new determination.

“Then I’m with you all the way. Because that’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

A lump lodged in Killua’s throat. “Yeah,” he choked out, and rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah, I guess.”

Silently, someone pressed a tissue into his hand, and Killua started in surprise. Leorio dipped his head at him, eyes gentle.

“You okay there?”

The words didn’t come to him for a moment. And when they did, they were quiet—but still steady.

“I’m okay.”

With a deep breath, he snapped his eyes back open.

“There’s got to be a way so that I don’t have to give up anything. I don’t know what it is, but I have to find it. So—could you help me?”

A dozen identical grins.

“Do you even have to ask?”

Chapter Text

It was less than an hour until the debate began, and Killua had been burning politics into his brain for the better part of the past several weeks until he was talking foreign policy in his sleep, on top of practicing for hours, which meant that now he was obligated to freak out over everything humanly possible.

He sighed, leaning his head out the window in the hopes that the crisp night air might help soothe his nerves. “I can’t believe it’s already here…”

“You’ll do just fine, Killua,” Palm said, eyes flicking up in the rearview mirror before returning to the road. “All you need to do is keep your composure. Though, if it makes you feel better, we could practice again.”

“How about we go over domestic policy this time?” Ikalgo suggested, twisting around as much as the seatbelt allowed him.

“Sure, shoot.”

Two intersections and three turns later, the arched spires of the university rose into view, and with them, a renewed wave of the majestic feeling known as panic.

“Well,” he said aloud, mostly to try to calm himself down, and he swallowed, tugging at his tie. “Here goes.” Hand on the car door, one last thought struck him, and he turned around. (No, he definitely wasn’t delaying.) “Ikalgo, you’ll be fine here, or—?”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Ikalgo waved, and jabbed a thumb at his laptop, propped up to the side. “I’ve got everything I need here. Just focus on your debate.”

“And remember to keep your composure. That’s all.”

Eyes closed, Killua took a deep breath, and then opened them again. “Yeah.”

The lecture hall was jam-packed with suit-clad adults, prim and stuffy and likely staring down their nose at everyone, and all their heads turned as the participants were ushered in. If Killua had bothered, he would’ve been able to pick out his father, an impassive chiseled-stone face in a sea of strangers. But that wasn’t necessary.

Just focus on the debate.

Hands gripping the edges of the podium, tightly enough to give him some sense of stability, but loose enough that he looked calm, Killua sized up his opponent. Stiff back, tense shoulders, an almost imperceptible tremble in the hands. It was a sort of tension that only could’ve come from rigorous preparation. He almost felt bad—almost.

Sorry, but I’m winning this.

Some pleasantries commenced—rules of conduct and whatnot—but none of it registered to him. All he was listening for was the fateful beep of the timer. And as the judges kept droning on and on, impatience began to itch at him. Would it ever start? The second hand crawled across the clock face, unbearably slow…

Beep.

And in a blink, they were off in a whirl of rhetoric, arguments flung back and forth, countering point after point—shit, was he talking too fast? Too slow? Did he stutter? Was that the right name?—and then in a blink their time was up, and the judges conferred in low whispers as Killua’s heart pounded.

They were taking so long—he didn’t screw up, did he? He should’ve practiced more—he was so unprepared—this was going to turn into an absolute catastrophe, wasn’t it?

Then they pulled back, tapped the microphone, and—

Nineteen points to his opponent’s six! Killua could barely hold back a whoop—he’d won the first round!

It was only when they’d stepped back down from the podium that his excitement began to settle, and he inhaled, loosening his tie just enough that he could breathe a bit more.

One down, nine to go.

Doable.

And as the rounds flew by, his point total climbed higher and higher: 31, 29, 42, 61, 85… Ticking up and up—

—and everything went black. Several alarmed shouts echoed in the hall, the organizers calling out Don’t panic, remain calm—and for a moment, Killua’s mind went blank, before recalling—that was his cue!

In the darkness and confusion, no one noticed when he darted down from the platform, footsteps masked in the agitated racket, and out into the corridor, equally dark.

In hindsight, they hadn’t really thought this part out. But all the pieces were falling into place. One hand placed against the wall for balance, Killua felt his way down, fingers moving over the wallpaper, inch by inch until they traced the outline of a knob. Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he wrenched the doors open, and as soon as his eyes adjusted, stiffened.

Standing in the weak illumination of the streetlamps, shadows thrown across his face and arms folded, was Illumi.

“I’m not going to listen to whatever bullshit you have to spout now,” Killua hissed, muscles coiling in case he needed to make a run for it. Illumi’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you going to betray your family, Kil?”

Family?

That knotted tangle of fear that’d been quietly building up for fifteen long years crumbled into pieces, and a laugh spilled out.

“What are you talking about?” A grin split his face, wide enough that his cheeks almost hurt, and he looked straight into Illumi’s eyes. “My family’s all waiting for me.”

And still grinning, Killua walked right past him.

Sky a deep black now, strewn with faint dots of light, the night air had dipped into a chill, but Killua hardly felt it as he flung himself back into the car, finally tearing that damned tie off and whirling around to Ikalgo.

“That was awesome!”

Ikalgo went pink and looked away, choosing instead to stare determinedly at the screen of his laptop as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I just took advantage of a small vulnerability, that’s all,” he muttered, and then, under his breath: “I’ll be sure to report it to them…”

“Knight in shining armor, huh?”

“Don’t start that again!”

“Back me up here, Palm—Ikalgo won’t admit he’s awesome.”

The amused curl of her lips reflected in the mirror as she flicked the wheel and pulled the car back onto the road, tires crunching on the asphalt.

“I happen to know that 100% of studies support that conclusion.”

“130% of statistics are made up.”

Laughs filled the car—Killua’s a bit louder, a bit more booming than usual, adrenaline still rushing through his veins, and soon he took to drumming his fingers on his lap in between quick jokes and chortles, lyrics spinning around and around in his head.

A blur of traffic lights and street signs and honking—then bold neon letters blinked down at them as the car rolled to a stop, the heavy-set double-doors before them thrumming with the muted roar of a crowd.

Maybe, if he pressed his ear to the glass, he would hear something else—fingers striking piano keys, a voice rolling over notes and chords. But he only spared the doors a brief glance, honing in on the back door and giving it a sharp knock.

Barely a second after his knuckles lifted from the metal, the door swung open, backstage light pouring out, and then the low hurried murmurs swelled into excited shouts—He’s here! You made it! How’d it go?—and good-luck hugs and fistbumps left and right, until finally, Meleoron steered him away towards the dressing room, and pushed his stage costume into his arms with a low whisper of “Break a leg!”

A crisp drying-machine warmth still clung to the fabric as Killua hugged it tight to his chest, breathing in the scent of cotton and linen and faint traces of the cappuccino Meleoron was so fond of, for a short moment that felt far longer…

Bisky flashed him a thumbs-up, mouthing You’ve got this, and he nodded back, butterflies stilling just enough for a quick smile. The cries of the crowd had quieted by then, as he approached the curtains, heartbeat quick and fluttering.

Ringing out clear above that was a voice, soft and low:

“There’s not a star in heaven that we can’t reach…”

And Killua stepped out, muted blue washing over him.

“If we’re trying…”

Close enough to touch now—

Their gazes locked, and Killua thought that Gon’s eyes had never looked brighter than they did now, wide and glimmering under the glow of the stage lights.

A flurry of drums and the melody exploded into a crescendo, soaring up over some invisible peak, rising and rising—

The first clap rang out, and then the second, and then it seized the whole audience, dozens and dozens of claps synchronized with each beat, and Killua couldn’t keep the laugh out of his voice as he kept on singing—louder, louder—maybe the loudest he’d ever been in his whole life.

Then, it was falling, the drums ebbing away, yielding to the slow song of the piano—gentler now, just as it’d started. And at last, with one more stroke, the music  faded away, until all that was left was the murmur of their voices, still clinging onto the final note.

Silence.

A deafening round of applause split the air, whistles and shouts all blending into one roar of sound that seemed like it would never end.

Killua let everything out in a breathless exhale. A bit lightheaded, he stared out into the audience, passing over faces but not really seeing them, until Gon squeezed his hand.

“Look there, the front row, on the left—”

—there was the unmistakable face of the principal, clad in a gray flannel suit, clapping along, with a smile a bit too wide to be just a polite pleasantry.

Which meant…

“We did it,” Killua whispered back, hardly believing his own ears. “We actually did it!”

A laugh of relief—a bit high, a bit messy, and from who, Killua didn’t know, but then the cheering swelled again as Kurapika took up his free hand, smile as bright as the stage lights, and Leorio next to him with the most infectiously wide grin plastered on his dumb face—and then everyone poured out onto the stage, linking one hand with another, raising them all up, and as one, bowed.

As soon as the curtains slid closed, shutting out the final glimpse of the crowd, they all broke apart with a cheer of “Alright!”—and then suddenly they burst into exhilarated chatter, hugging and high-fiving every person in sight.

“Give yourselves all a pat on the back—we kicked ass today!” A collective whoop went up, and Bisky’s cheeks looked about ready to fall off. “But—we’ve got to hold off the celebration just a bit longer. Sapphire, you’ve got a debate to steamroller.”

It was silly, completely irrational. But at that instant, Killua felt like he could take on the world and win.

“Right!”

In the lingering confusion of the unexplainable blackout, no one noticed the dozen or so new audience members: loud, colorful, conspicuous, new audience members, to be exact, all crammed into a cluster of back row seats and going crazy as Killua’s point total kept climbing, and climbing, and climbing until…

“And the winner, with 209 points...is Killua Zoldyck!”

Wild applause erupted from the back, but Killua could hardly make out the cheers over his own “Yes!”, throwing away any lofty pretenses of composure as he pumped his fists into the air.

Hardly caring for the rest of the formalities, he snatched up the certificate with some rushed pleasantry and took the steps down two at a time, fast enough he almost slipped, but he barely even noticed.

Even on the far side of the hall, he could still make them out: vivid splashes of color amidst the sea of blacks and grays, beaming ear-to-ear as they cheered and shouted.

Something warm jumped in his chest, and he beamed right back. Part of him wanted to bask in that feeling forever, soak in every sight and sound and capture it all in memory, so he could replay it over and over again in his head. But the quiet, firm voice in his ear reminded him—there was just one final thing left to do.

He only lingered for a second longer before he dropped off the stage, foregoing the stairs entirely, and pushed past rows and rows of seats, until finally, eyes sharp and defiant, he stared up at the towering figure of Silva.

“So?”

Silva studied him, expression unreadable. “That blackout earlier,” he finally said. “That was your doing.”

It wasn’t a question. Nonchalantly, Killua responded, “It’s kind of hard to be in two places at once, so we had to get creative.”

Silence.

A glimmer of—approval?—crossed Silva’s face, something in his features thawing.

“I see,” he said with an odd note, as if he’d gleaned something else from that statement. “Then all I have left to say is—whatever you decide to do…” He fixed Killua with a firm look, then, ever so slightly smiled. “Do it well.”

And before Killua could regret it, he flung his arms around Silva, stammered out a “Thank you!”, and bolted off as fast as humanly possible.

In retrospect, maybe the “bolting off” part wasn’t the best idea. He let out an oomph! as Gon collided bodily with him with a shout of “You won, Killua, you won!”, the momentum carrying him off the ground, and soon Killua’s indignant shrieks turned into giddy laughter as they swung around in a full circle—then, teetering dangerously, Gon finally set Killua down, cheeks flushed, and pulled him in closer.

“I’m so happy for you, Killua…”

“I’m happy for me too,” he murmured, breathing in deep lungfuls of Gon’s scent, and then they both yelped as they found themselves enveloped in a multiway bone-crushing hug, surrounded by arms and hands—some patting Killua on the shoulder, some thumping him on the back, a big and thick one (looking back on it, Killua harbored a deep suspicion it had been Leorio’s) mussing his hair—and he was maybe, possibly, probably suffocating, but he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Chapter Text

“Well, Kain, what’s been on my mind lately is the Killboard 200—music-lovers might be in for quite a surprise this week! Appearing at a whopping #8 is an album produced by—wait for it—none other than our very own local Padokea High School’s drama club, released just this weekend for a fundraiser! The album, featuring over a dozen original songs, quickly rocketed to the Killboard 200’s top 10 after their concert went viral on the Internet—”

Eyes fixed on the TV screen, Killua let out a muffled “Huh” around the straw of his juicebox, only sounding half as interested as he really was—though Alluka had no such restraint as she let out a gasp.

“Wow! You’re all on the news! That’s so cool!”

Halting in his absentminded browsing of a book, Kurapika snatched up the remote and flicked the volume up a notch. “The Killboard 200,” he echoed, startled, and abruptly cut off, as if he’d run out of words.

“Did you hear that, Ikalgo?” Killua called over his shoulder. “The Killboard 200! Awesome, isn’t it?”

No response. He debated the pros and cons of just getting up instead of calling, the pro being that he might finally get Ikalgo to admit he was cool, and the con being that he was sitting in a nice chair in a nice position that he wasn’t exactly eager to get out of.

He still hadn’t reached a decision by the time Kurapika recollected himself, and with an amused smile on his lips, said, “I might just have to join in on that bandwagon you’ve got going there, Killua.”

“Please don’t,” came Ikalgo’s muffled groan from somewhere behind a bookshelf, safely insulated from reality.

“That’s the first phase of my master plan,” Killua declared, imitating the dramatic inflections Knuckle always used for his overwrought monologues. “Get everyone onto the Ikalgo-is-awesome bandwagon. Then, with the power of blogging and memes, we’ll conquer the world.”

Plus a maniacal cackle, for good measure.

Cue another groan. He could almost picture Ikalgo right now: red all the way to—well, he would say “the roots of his hair,” but at that point it probably would’ve been kind of hard to tell where one ended and the other began, so.

“A bit lower,” Alluka advised, and Killua was all too happy to comply.

“Congratulations. You’ve mastered the fine art of the villainous laugh,” Kurapika deadpanned.

“Second phase complete,” Killua deadpanned right back.

“I’M LEAVING.”

And with that, they dissolved into laughter.

In the end, Ikalgo did leave shortly after, though mostly because his ride had come early, and by then the newscast had turned back to talking about—what exactly, Killua didn’t know, but in the first minute, Kurapika’s eyes glazed over, and remote in hand, began idly flipping through the channels.

A thought occurred to Killua, and he twisted around in his seat. “Hey, how’d the numbers turn out? Did we clear the goal?”

Kurapika hummed in consideration, settling on a nonintrusive documentary about birds (which was so him). “I haven’t gotten the official figures from Knuckle yet, but judging by the various loud excited sounds he was making, I think it’s safe to say yes.”

“Ha!”—followed by a cheer from Alluka.

“Maybe we should’ve been a music club instead,” Killua mused, draining the last of his juice. “Killer profits, never have to worry defunding ever again…”

“And what about theater?”

“Ugh, don’t make me choose! It’s too hard!” With a sullen scowl, he flung the empty box at the trashcan, missed, and cursed.

Mild as it was, Alluka still looked scandalized, and Killua quickly apologized, grudgingly trekking over to the wayward box and dropping it into the trashcan.

“At any rate,” Kurapika was saying when Killua flopped back into his chair, “seeing how much of a success this turned out to be, we’ll definitely be doing some similar things in the future.”

It only then occurred to Killua that Kurapika had taken to humming nonsensical upbeat tunes when the conversation lulled, and sometimes, stared off into the distance with an odd look on his face. Which was decidedly un-Kurapika.

“Hey, you’re in a good mood all of a sudden. Is it ‘cos everything ended up working out?”

A distracted “Hm?” before Kurapika blinked and finally processed the question. “Oh—part of it, I suppose.”

Something of a vague suspicion began to bug Killua, and he narrowed his eyes. “Hold on, don’t tell me—”

Leorio chose that moment to appear around the corner, a blazer draped over an arm, glasses askew, and shirt rumpled—all in all disheveled enough that he looked rather like he’d tried to walk through a windstorm.

“I’m so sorry Kurapika, traffic was horrible—I didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”

“Oh—Leorio! No, not at all—”

Awkward flustered motions and some vague mumbling ensued until Leorio finally noticed they had an audience, and eyes going comically wide, flung an emphatic finger out at Killua. “What’re you doing here?”

To be exact, it was a distinctly straight-faced, secretly amused audience.

“Drinking juice, duh,” Killua drawled, relishing in Leorio’s gradual reddening. “Looks like you need new glasses, old man.”

“Th-that’s—that’s not what I meant!”

“It’s Dr. Leorio! Hi!”

And just like that, Leorio melted. “Alluka—I didn’t see you there for a sec! How’re you and Nanika doing?”

“Excited!” she chirped.

It was only after a couple minutes of animated chatter that Leorio noticed Killua had fallen into a sullen silence, glanced back at the phone, put two and two together, and then, broke out into the most shit-eating grin—Killua could practically hear him laughing.

He considered flipping him the middle finger, or saying some choice words, or both, but the fact that Alluka was there too effectively put a stop to that train of thought, the same way that it effectively prevented him from cracking even the most vaguely…embarrassing…joke. Which Leorio had, evidently, realized—to his glee.

And he hadn’t even tried to hide it.

“Don’t you have your dumb date to get to, or whatever?” Killua snapped, arms folded aggressively.

“A date?”

Before Leorio could even get a word in edgewise, Killua yanked the phone back. “They’re going to do gross stuff together,” he explained.

A shrill squawk—whether it’d come from the documentary or Leorio, Killua couldn’t tell. Or maybe it’d been both—the product of some uncanny timing.

Whatever the case, Kurapika and Leorio quickly vacated the area with a hasty goodbye, the former dragging the latter along (still red), which left Killua to whirl around to Alluka, grin even wider than before. “Virtual high-five!”

As best as they could without accidentally slapping their phone screens (and possibly breaking something), they mimed a high-five.

“Soon, we’ll get to do a real-life high-five, won’t we, big brother?”

His smile softened. “Yeah. Real soon.”

Alluka beamed, looking like she was about to say something else, but then paused. “Nanika says she has a question, so we’re gonna switch.”

With that, her head drooped, and then Nanika blinked at Killua, eyes round. “What’s Padokea?”

Of course—both of them had been so young when they’d left, enough that Alluka only remembered bits and pieces at best, and Nanika none. Which then begged the question: where would he even start?

“Well,” he said slowly, more to give himself some time to think as he reclined in his chair, “Padokea’s the name of the town where we live. It’s not that big of a place…”

As he moved on from the town itself to the local attractions—the school, the library, ice cream parlor, the river and the lake with that tiny island—Nanika absorbed it all in with rapt attention, and soon Killua found himself adding in silly little anecdotes here and there. Like that one time with Ponzu and the bees, and the mishap with the shelter dogs, and when Gon had dragged him out there to…

An idea struck him—how hadn’t he thought of that earlier?—and he leaned forward eagerly. “Say, once you get here, I’ll teach you how to fish—how about it?”

“Fish?” Nanika echoed, as though trying out the word on her tongue.

“Yeah—and how to climb trees, too.”

“Really?” He nodded, and she beamed. “Killua’s the best!”

“It’s a promise then.”

It wasn’t long until they had to hang up, with only four hours until Alluka had to leave for the airport and plenty left to get packed. That left Killua to scroll through his new texts, fire off a couple replies, and then finally pull himself up out of the chair, stretching his sore limbs with a jaw-cracking yawn. The documentary had switched to some tacky reality TV show that he honestly couldn’t care less for, which left him with little options to occupy his time.

There weren’t too many people here today… Maybe Palm would have some time to talk?

That in mind, he let out another yawn before ambling up to the front desk, and sure enough, it was void of patrons.

“Bored with the TV already?”

“Yeah, basically. None of the shows I like are on right now.” Killua peered down at the magazine Palm had been browsing through. “Is that Psychology Yesterday?”

“The latest issue,” she affirmed. “Have you read it yet?”

“No, actually. Anything interesting?”

In short order, it went from Palm recounting the various articles in that issue and Killua commenting here and there, to a debate over a particularly out-there opinion piece. And to Killua’s irritation, just as he’d been about to make a counterargument, a patron stumbled up, arms loaded to the brim with books, forcing Killua to scoot away from the counter as Palm went back to business. That left him to lean against the wall, hands folded behind his head, and eyes half-lidded as he waited.

It wasn’t long until the receding footsteps, muffled slightly by the carpeting, signaled the leaving of the patron, and Palm’s chair creaked as she swiveled back around.

“Have things blown over with your family yet?”

Killua opened his eyes in surprise, looking back at Palm. “Well...” An answer didn’t come to him immediately, and he leaned his head back, considering how to word it. “Not yet—my dad’s working on it, but…”

With a sigh, he pushed himself off the wall, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know—they’re never going to completely accept the outcome. That’s just how it is.”

Palm went silent with a frown, before finally responding. “Just make sure to contact us if it gets out of hand, alright?”

“Right.”

Suddenly, Killua’s phone vibrated against his leg with that distinct tinny ringtone he’d only set for one person—Gon? But why?

“Hey, wh—”

“KILLUA KILLUA KILLUA—!”

Self-preservation instinct kicked in as Killua flung his arm out, ears ringing, and even with a good foot or so between him and his phone he could still hear Gon rambling incoherently about something or the other. Frantically, he made an apologetic gesture to Palm before dashing outside, and took a deep breath.

“Are you trying to BLOW MY EARDRUMS OUT?”

One blissful second of silence passed before Killua dared put the phone to his ear again. “Breathe, Gon. What’s up?”

“Kite—Kite—”

“Spit it out, what about Kite?”

And Gon did spit it out, in a breathless shout:

“Kite woke up!”

“Wait—Kite what?” But the words finally hit him, and a grin spread across Killua’s face. “That’s—that’s awesome! Is it gonna be like—a full recovery?”

On the other end, Gon loudly blew his nose, voice choked-up. “Yeah—the doctors said—”

Abruptly, he said, “Isn’t it amazing, Killua? Like—a miracle!”—and then broke off, with a trembling laugh. Even through the static of the receiver, Killua could hear the faint sniffling and hiccups, the rustle of tissues, and maybe, if he strained, the plik-plik of tears.

“Yeah, it is.” He cradled the phone, voice softening. “I’m—I’m glad. Really.”

What they’d said next, he wasn’t really sure of. Or maybe it was nothing at all—maybe they’d just lapsed into quiet, listening to each other breathe.

The sky was just starting to sink into the golden-blue shades of late afternoon when the thought crossed Killua’s mind.

“Hey—how about I come over? If—if you want to talk. About anything.”

A beat of silence passed, filled only with the crackle of static, and then, a shaky inhale.

“Y-yeah. That’d—that’d be great.” With effort, Gon mustered up a little humor. “I’ll be kinda a mess though. Like a zombie.”

Killua let out a snort. “Oh, please. I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

Not a second after he’d knocked on the door, it swung open, and Gon stared out at him, puffy red eyes wide, before a beam split his face.

“Killua! You came!”

“‘Course I did.” After a pause, he added, “And I’ve seen scarier stuff on The Talking Dead.”

Gon’s laugh—a real, genuine laugh—soothed some of the worries that had been gnawing at Killua, and he grinned back, easily slipping into casual catching up as Gon quickly ushered him in.

“Granny’s sleeping, so we shouldn’t be too loud,” he said, with a nod to the far end of the hallway, and then pushed open the door to his own room, careful not to make it creak.

It looked just like Killua remembered it: the blue-striped blankets that dipped under Gon’s weight, the potted plants on the windowsill (taller and leafier now, though that was to be expected), and the wall…

Formerly sparse expanses of wallpaper were now plastered with song sheets, script pages, newspaper clippings, and a whole new host of glossy photos filled with familiar faces—including, much to his chagrin, his own. In various not-exactly-flattering states.

“I’d like to file an official complaint that too many of these photos make me look dumb,” he sniffed haughtily, and Gon laughed again.

“I like them.”

With a huff, Killua sat down next to Gon, angled just enough that he could face him. “So—anything in particular you wanted to talk about?”

At that, Gon grew somber. “Yeah, actually. I’m...going to visit Kite this weekend. But, the thing is—” He hesitated, averting his gaze. “Ging’s going to be there too.”

A trailing “Oh” was the only response Killua could think up for that, and Gon, still not looking at him, began picking at the hem of his blankets, his words unsteady.

“I…want to sort things out. Somehow. But—what if, when I see him, I get mad again, and I’m not thinking straight? Like—like last time.”

Snatches of memories flashed unbidden across Killua’s mind, and he stiffened, fingers digging into the sheets. “That—”

But he couldn’t finish it.

Gon was silent for a moment, before he finally spoke, voice small. “Killua, what—”

Something flickered over his face, and he broke off, before squaring his shoulders, and raising his head, eyes locking with Killua’s.

“What do you think?”

His hand found Gon’s, somehow such a natural, instinctive motion now.

“Honestly? I’m scared. I know you have to do this, but part of me keeps thinking you’ll end up losing it.”

Gon swallowed audibly, eyes flicking down for a split-second, as if he’d wanted to lower his gaze, but then caught himself just in time.

That’d been a bit harsher than he’d intended. Quickly, Killua added, “Part of me. And it’s pretty unfair, isn’t it? Since that was a while back. I think—”

He paused, and then shook his head, tone growing confident. “No, I’m sure. It won’t happen again.”

“I don’t know,” Gon murmured, fingers curling around his. “I want to think that. But I can’t help but worry. So…” He licked his lips anxiously. “I guess what I’m trying to say is—could you come with me?”

Before Killua could even get in a single word, Gon hurriedly explained, “It’s just that I feel like if you’re there with me, I’d feel a lot better, and I still have to introduce you to Kite, but you don’t have to if you’re busy or anything I mean—”

“Wait, calm down,” Killua interrupted, before Gon could keep on rambling himself into a nervous wreck. “When this weekend?”

“Huh?”

He heaved a sigh, though it was more for show than anything. “I said—when this weekend? ‘Cause it’d be kinda hard if I didn’t know when we’re going.”

“O-oh—” Gon still looked flustered, as if he hadn’t even been expecting Killua to agree, for some weird reason. “Um—I was thinking Saturday afternoon?”

Saturday afternoon… With a frown, Killua went through whatever plans he’d already assembled, then clicked his tongue. “I don’t think I can do that—I have a project, and I was planning on spreading the work out over the week, so I don’t lose sleep or anything.”

Even though Gon made an admirable attempt to still look cheerful, the disappointment in his face was obvious to Killua. “Yeah, I guess you—”

“No, wait. What about Sunday afternoon? I’m a bit less busy then.”

“Hm… I have some things to do in the afternoon, but…” Gon had been mumbling to himself, but then perked up. “How about we leave around four, Sunday afternoon, then catch an evening train back?”

“Sunday, 4 PM,” Killua repeated, going through his plans again, and then sighed with relief. “That works, definitely—what about tickets?”

“I’ll order them later.”

After a pause, Gon began to fidget, and finally blurted out: “Could—could you stay a bit longer?”

If Killua’s heartbeat went a bit faster—that’d be just for him to know.

“Yeah, no problem. So you know that movie that came out last week…?”

It was almost sundown by the time Killua finally stepped back out the door and down the weathered steps, about to lower his hand and stuff it back into his pocket, before he stopped short, and then turned back.

“Hey, Gon.”

Still hanging in the doorway, Gon blinked out at him. “Hm? What is it, Killua?”

“I’m—happy you asked. Really.”

A confused look. Gon opened his mouth, as if to ask a question, but then, understanding passed over his face, and his eyes lit up with a brilliant smile.

“Yeah! Of course!”

 Low, indistinct murmurs drifted around them, the dim hum punctuated with the beeping and clicking of machines. Each of Killua’s steps sank into the muted green carpeting as he followed behind Gon, gaze moving back and forth between the pale wallpaper, the plain wooden doors, and the white lights that lined the ceiling.

“Do you know when he’ll be discharged yet?”

“No, not yet. But…” Gon kept his eyes fixed in front of him, and even though Killua couldn’t see his face, he could tell he was chewing his lip. “I’m more worried about the bills.”

“Oh,” was Killua’s feeble response. Of course, medical bills—one of the greatest evils in modern society. And especially considering…

“We’ll figure something out,” Gon declared suddenly, all matter-of-fact optimism as he squared his shoulders. “I’m sure we’ll be able to.”

“And if not—” Killua stepped in front of Gon, halting him in his tracks, and planted his hands on his hips. “You’ll give us a shout. Got it?”

“If not.”

The staredown lasted another second before Killua nodded in satisfaction, and fell back in line with Gon. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Right.”

It wasn’t long until they rounded the corner, into a new hallway that looked no different from the others—but judging by the room numbers, Kite’s room was—

Gon froze in his tracks, and so did the man coming down the hall. Two identical pairs of eyes met, and Killua stiffened—it was now only the third time he’d seen it, but how could he ever forget—

“Ging.”

The even tone Gon spoke that name with might’ve seemed like calmness to an onlooker, but Killua knew better—he could detect the faint sibilance the words carried from being hissed through grit teeth, could catch the tightening of his fists.

“Gon,” he warned, touching Gon’s arm. He stiffened, and Killua took a step closer.

For all of one, unbearable second, nothing changed, no one moved—and then Gon shifted beneath his hand, and—took a deep breath.

“Were you just visiting Kite?”

The question seemed to catch Ging off-guard as he blinked, the first traces of emotion Killua had ever seen him display. “Yeah, I was just leaving.”

If that had been the answer Gon was expecting—or if he’d been expecting one at all—he didn’t show it, and Ging scratched at his head, looking almost comically unsure of how to deal with the situation. “Uh, listen—what happened to Kite—”

But whatever he’d been about to say, he changed his mind, and instead, turned his head to the side with a slight scowl. “Nevermind. I’ve already said what I needed to.”

With that, Ging shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and back stooped, and tramped off, muttering something indistinct under his breath.

“Probably just too embarrassed to say it,” Killua muttered under his breath.

Suddenly, Ging stopped short, straightening up from his hunch. “Oh yeah—and don’t worry about the medical bills or anything. That’s taken care of already.”

And then, with a lazy half-wave, he was gone.

They kept staring in the direction Ging had left for several beats, both slightly baffled by what had just happened, until Gon exhaled again.

“I think…” He paused, words coming out haltingly. “I think being angry with Ging for all that time really made me feel a lot worse, but now… I suppose I’m still kind of mad, but I feel a lot better.” With that, he whirled around to Killua, a smile on his face. “So, Killua, ready to meet Kite?”

Relieved, Killua smiled back. “Whenever you are.”

The door marked with Kite’s room number looked just like every other door they’d passed—glossy, undecorated wood, with a simple metal knob. Beyond it was only silence, and Gon shifted from foot to foot, before finally tentatively knocking.

“Come in.”

The voice, muffled through the door, didn’t sound particularly extraordinary—deep and even, but at it, Gon’s eyes widened, and in a whiplash blur, he threw the door open.

“Kite!”

The gray-haired man in the bed (who Killua guessed was Kite) started at Gon’s shout, and before he could say a single thing, Gon darted up to him, made an aborted movement that seemed to be an attempt at a hug, until he realized it probably wasn’t a good idea to hug someone who’d just come out of a coma and was still rather weak, and settled instead for hovering around Kite’s bed, babbling on and on about Kite you’re okay I’m so happy you’re okay you’re okay—

“Two things first, Gon,” Kite interrupted firmly, even though his voice—clearer now—was slightly hoarse. “First—calm down.” Dutifully, Gon snapped his mouth shut. “Alright, good. And second—this is a hospital. Lower your voice.”

The last part was a bit chiding, and Gon rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh, obliging. “Right, sorry…”

Kite’s expression softened, and the stump of his right arm gave an awkward twitch, as if he’d tried to move it on instinct, but then paused, and switched to his left, clapping Gon on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you too, Gon.”

Lower lip quivering, tears already welling up in his eyes, Gon choked out a “Y-yeah,” and then scrubbed vigorously at his face.

A small smile crossed Killua’s face as he watched on from the door. So everything had turned out alright in the end…

“Oh yeah!” Eyes dry now, Gon thumped his fist in his palm. “There’s someone I really wanted you to meet!” Emphatically, he gestured for Killua to come over, and chest puffed up in pride, with an earsplitting beam, Gon declared, “This is Killua—my best friend in the whole world!”

Going red, Killua mumbled something incoherent and shot Gon a look that he hoped screamed for-the-love-of-everything-good-and-holy-please-stop-right-now, but now he was just convinced Gon was doing this on purpose, because he didn’t even blink before continuing.

“He’s super smart, and always fun to hang around with, and cares about everyone, and he always tries to be there for me whenever he can. So—I’m really glad I met him!”

“Wh-what’re you saying, all of a sudden?” Killua sputtered out when Gon finally finished waxing shameless poetic, tips of his ears as red as his face. Gon only laughed, and Kite cracked an amused smile as he held out his hand.

“Well, it certainly sounds like Gon’s picked up a good friend. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Killua.”

With a cough, Killua recollected himself just enough to remember his manners and shake the proffered hand. “It’s nice to meet you too, Kite.” After a beat, he tacked on a little something extra. “I was actually wanting to meet you for a while, just to see why Gon would never shut up about you.”

This time it was Gon’s turn to flush as Kite gave him a surprised look.

“Hey!”

Killua grinned, and stuck his tongue out. “That’s payback.”

Their laughter faded into idle chatter soon enough, and, well, he didn’t normally consider himself one for cheesy sentiments, but he could’ve sworn the room felt warmer than it’d been before.

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon when the train dropped them back off at the platform, its evening rays suffusing the sky with fiery streaks of color, and bathing the town in a soft gold-orange light. Eyelids heavy, Killua let out a yawn, only then noticing that Gon was, for all intents and purposes, leaning on him as he drifted in and out of the waking world.

“Gon,” he mumbled, nudging him half-heartedly. The train whistled and lumbered off, the rattling of its wheels fading into the distance, and now slightly more awake, Killua nudged him again. “Hey, snap out of it. You can sleep back home.”

“‘M awake,” Gon slurred, blinking and rubbing his eyes. “Can we—” He smothered a yawn of his own. “Can we sit somewhere a bit? ‘Cause ‘m tired.”

“Fine, a bit.” Though Killua wouldn’t admit it, his legs were starting to feel sore too, and they plodded over to a bench, Gon curling up on one end and Killua sitting cross-legged on the other. After what could’ve been a minute or an hour, clothes rustled, and Killua stifled his typical indignant snap when Gon dropped his head against his shoulder, lolling slightly with the cadence of his breathing.

“And he falls asleep anyway,” Killua sighed. He shifted on the bench, careful not to dislodge Gon’s head, and shook him.

“Hey, wake up. Seriously. Unless you want me to have to carry you back, and I have zero experience carrying people, so I might drop you. Just saying.”

Gon made a sound that was mostly a drawn out mmmf, cracking his eyes open, and stared blankly at Killua. “Wha’ time’s it?”

“Almost eight.”

“Ah.” With a grunt, Gon heaved himself off the bench, stretched out his arms, and then moved onto working the cramps out of his legs. Off to the side, Killua stuck his hands into his pockets, absently wandering about the platform. A slight breeze caught at their hair as far below them, waning rush hour traffic rumbled along the roads, a low hum of white noise.

“That’s the third time you’ve said that now.”

Gazing off into the distance, Killua couldn’t see Gon’s expression, but he could almost hear his owlish blink.

“Said what?”

“That you’re glad you met me.” Still not looking at Gon, Killua took to studying the city skyline. “You’d think that’d get old over time.”

“Well… I don’t think it does.”

“Hm.” Killua smiled to himself. “Neither do I.” Then, he finally turned around to face Gon, the evening sunshine warm on his back, and smiled.

“I’m really glad I met you too.”