Chapter Text
Killua throws open the door to the warehouse, panting hard and utterly desperate, just in time to see some red gust of energy toss Gon across the room as if he were merely a ragdoll.
And something comes over Killua as he witnesses Gon’s body collide with the unforgiving cement wall with a sickening thud. A rage that overwhelms his reason, and anger so profound that he perceives it in each of his senses. His ears ring, his whole body goes hot, his vision clouds, he’s enveloped in the scent and taste of something bitter and metallic. And before he can stop himself he’s crossed the dusty warehouse floor and has grabbed the assailant with one hand by the throat, holding him up and pressing against his windpipe with more force than is strictly necessary.
“What the hell did you do to him?” Killua demands, electricity crackling up and down the lengths of his arms. The assailant merely snickers.
“It’s my Nen ability,” he replies, with a disconcertingly wide grin. “I’m an Emitter. Think of it like a spell, or maybe a potion. You’ll see what it’ll do to him soon enough.”
Behind Killua, Gon stirs with a slight whimper.
“What, you’re just going to leave your buddy on the floor by himself?” The assailant clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “Some friend you are.”
Killua’s not stupid. He knows this man is merely trying to distract Killua so he can make an escape. He knows running to check on Gon would be playing right into the man’s hand. But he’s heard stories of some truly awful Emitter abilities. Painful, disfiguring, potentially fatal abilities. What does it matter, really, if this man gets away? What does anything matter, really, besides Gon’s safety?
So, with a snarl, Killua tosses the man across the room and runs to check on Gon. He’s aware, vaguely, that the assailant is escaping behind him, but that’s the least of his worries. He crouches down beside Gon, using one hand to check the pulse on his wrist and the other to gently push his hair back from his forehead. Gon’s eyelids flutter open.
“Hey, Killua,” Gon murmurs, smiling ever so slightly.
“Are you alright?” Killua demands. “Are you hurt?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine. Just fine. I’m really happy to see you.”
“Yeah, well, you should be. You just got your idiotic ass kicked, and, as usual, I had to come to your rescue.” Somehow, the teasing is far easier to Killua than admitting just how terrified he is.
“Of course you did,” Gon says, with that same gentle smile. “You’re always saving me.”
“Yeah, and it gets pretty old, idiot. Next time don’t run on ahead without me. I always cover your six, so you can’t just leave me behind.”
“Okay, Killua. Next time. I promise.”
Killua isn’t exactly satisfied with his examination, but he’s no longer quite as frantic. Perhaps Gon had such a strong Ken barrier around his body that the ability didn’t affect him too profoundly. He doesn’t seem to be in any pain, appears lucid and coherent. He might have dodged a tremendous bullet.
“Can you get up or am I gonna have to carry you piggy-back style?”
“I can get up,” Gon asserts brightly, and does indeed get off the ground with remarkable agility and ease. Killua’s heart slows just a fraction more.
Together, they exit the warehouse. Gon is walking on his own unassisted, which is a good sign. No indication of pain or injury, no stumbling that might suggest some sort incapacitation. The only unusual thing about Gon’s demeanor, really, is that he won’t stop staring at Killua.
It’s not that Killua dislikes Gon looking at him. The sensation in Killua’s insides that arises when Gon looks at him can’t be categorized as something as simple and dichotomous as good or bad. It’s a sort of heat, a sort of tension, a sort of pressure that isn’t so much bad as it is overwhelming. And any sensation, if intense enough, can’t easily be endured for long.
“What are you staring at?” Killua finally says, when that strange heat in his gut finally becomes too much to bear.
“Just you, Killua.” There’s an unusually soft, gentle lilt to Gon’s voice that Killua can’t quite identify.
“Well, why don’t you look at something else?” Killua ducks his head in the vain hope Gon won’t notice him blushing from the sheer force of Gon’s gaze.
“But I like looking at you, Killua. You’re my favorite thing to look at in the whole world!”
Killua can’t allow himself to dwell on that statement for too long for fear of that tension in his stomach overwhelming his better judgment and leading him to do something unforgivably rash. So he merely settles for scoffing, feigning indifference.
“Clearly you hit your head a lot harder than I thought.”
Gon stops in his tracks and Killua makes the mistake of turning to look at him. His eyes are shining in that earnest, eager, distinctly Gon way of his.
“But you’re so beautiful, Killua! You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life!”
Killua is, for a moment, rendered entirely speechless, trying desperately to find some alternate way of interpreting what Gon just said. Surely he was joking, or meant to say something else. There must be a double entendre that Killua missed. But there’s no trace of humor on Gon’s face, just an unusual fondness.
“Really, Killua. Your eyes are so blue. I’ve never seen a deeper blue in my life. And you’ve got these eyelashes that don’t even make any sense. I mean, they’re so dark and long and perfect, but your hair is white, so I don’t know how that would be possible. But it is. Your eyelashes are just completely ridiculous. And your nose is so cute. It’s all small and delicate, like a kitten or something. And your smile--”
“Gon.” Killua cuts Gon off a bit more sternly that he intended. The strange, warm tension in Killua’s stomach is gone, replaced by a bone deep terror. Clearly something is wrong. Very wrong. It must be the Nen ability. Gon must under the influence of something extremely sinister; it’s the only reason he’d be talking like this. Whatever’s been done to him is profound, corrupting his very capacity for reason.
“Gon, listen. I’m gonna fix this, alright? Whatever’s going on, I’m going to make it better. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I’m gonna call Leorio. And I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong and I’m gonna fix it. I swear.”
The fond, gentle smile on Gon’s face doesn’t waver in the slightest.
“Okay, Killua. I know you’ll make it better. You make everything better, really, just by being with me.”
Killua can’t permit himself to blush at this, to enjoy Gon saying these things when they’re clearly the result of some insidious poison or infection or brainwashing. It would be wrong, unconscionable even, to take pleasure in Gon’s suffering.
(But when has Killua ever known himself to do the right thing?)
With trembling hands, he pulls out his phone and dials Leorio’s number. The moment Leorio picks up, Killua begins speaking, not even waiting for an answer.
“Leorio. Listen. I need help. Medical help. There’s something wrong with Gon. Really, really wrong.”
For a moment, the line is quiet. When Leorio speaks, it’s with his clinical tone, the one he uses with patients. Calm, measured, and even.
“Alright. Killua. Just stay calm. Can you give me details of his condition? Anything at all? Where the injury is, maybe?”
Killua hesitates. He certainly doesn’t want to repeat what Gon had said; the mortification may kill him. But he needs to impress upon Leorio the urgency of the situation.
“It’s not an injury, exactly. He was hit with a Nen ability. I don’t know the exact nature of it, but I think he may be drugged or something. Poisoned, even.”
“What are his symptoms? Is he dizzy? Vomiting? Anything you can give me would be helpful.”
Leorio keeps his voice steady. Killua knows it’s meant to be calming, but it only serves to frustrate him. He’d much rather Leorio indicate some degree of panic or concern. At least then Killua would know he’s taking the matter as seriously as it deserves.
“He’s just… saying things. Really weird things. Things he’d only say if he were drugged.”
“Alright, can you give me any details as to what he’s saying? How coherent is he? Is he slurring his speech?”
“It doesn’t matter what he’s saying!” Killua snaps. “The point is that he isn’t acting like himself!”
Leorio sighs on the other end of the line.
“Alright, Killua, I understand that you’re worried, but I’m going to need some more details if I’m going to be of any help to you. Could you put Gon on the line, maybe?”
For a moment, Killua hesitates. He doesn’t want Gon to start saying those ridiculous things in front Leorio. Killua isn’t sure he could bear that. But, he tells himself sternly, this isn’t about him. He’s being selfish, as usual. His slight embarrassment doesn’t matter nearly as much as getting Gon the medical attention he needs. What if something bad happens to Gon, something really bad, simply because he’s too shy to let Leorio know the extent of Gon’s condition?
“Fine,” he says, mind made up, and puts the phone on speaker. “Gon, Leorio’s on the phone, okay? He wants to talk to you.”
“Oh!” Gon’s smile grows even wider. “Hi, Leorio! How are you?”
“I’m just fine, Gon. But I want to know how you are.”
“I’m wonderful, Leorio. Really wonderful.”
Gon looks right at Killua as he says it, his eyes warm with something Killua can’t quite place.
“Really?” Leorio says.
“Yes, of course I am. Because I’m here with Killua. I’m always happy when I’m with Killua.”
Killua’s cheeks get hot, and he’s suddenly looking anywhere but at Gon.
“That’s good to hear,” Leorio replies, unbothered.
“Yeah!” Gon says brightly. “And I was just telling him how beautiful he is. Like his eyelashes, Leorio. Have you ever stopped and really looked at Killua’s eyelashes before?”
Despite obvious the obvious severity of Gon’s impairment, Leorio has the audacity to snicker.
“If you’re not going to take this seriously, I’ll call someone else,” Killua snaps, swiftly taking the phone off speaker.
Leorio sighs.
“Killua, I promise I’m taking this seriously. I just don’t think there’s anything terribly wrong here.”
“Obviously there is!” Killua is nearly yelling at this point. Why is Leorio failing to see just how ill Gon is? “Do you even hear what he’s saying? That doesn’t sound like Gon at all! That sounds like he’s drugged!”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think Gon’s acting all that out of the ordinary.”
Killua can practically picture the unbearably condescending smile on Leorio’s face as he speaks, although he doesn’t understand what it might mean.
“Well then you’re as useless a doctor as you are a Hunter!”
Leorio, maddeningly, doesn’t rise to the bait.
“Listen, you want my professional medical opinion? I think the worst that’s happening is that Gon has been hit with some sort of inhibition-lowering Nen ability. I don’t think he’s in any danger. I just think he’s gonna be talking like that for a little while. Keep an eye on him and keep him hydrated. If he starts sweating excessively, gets really pale, vomits, passes out, or actually becomes delirious, go to a hospital. If you don’t see any improvement in the next twenty-four hours, hospital again. Short of that, I think it’s going to be fine and the best you can do is wait it out.”
“You’re absolutely useless. If anything at all happens to Gon, you’ll suffer ten times whatever he does, and that is a promise.”
And with that, Killua smashes the “end call” button. He takes a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. As angry as Leorio made him, perhaps there was some truth in what he was saying. Killua is well acquainted with poison, and Leorio had a point. Gon’s conscious, lucid, not vomiting or sweating, not in any pain, fully capable of walking and speaking without impairment. Killua can’t think of a single poison that wouldn’t cause at least one of those symptoms. Perhaps he really is just under some sort of Nen ability akin to a love potion. He might not truly be in mortal danger. It’s possible he’s merely experiencing a mere emotional alteration, as extreme as it may be.
“Hey, Gon,” he says softly, turning to Gon without a trace of his previous anger. “I need you to do something for me, alright? I need you to let me know if you start feeling bad. Anything at all—pain, nausea, dizziness, confusion, anything, okay? This is really important. You need to tell me if you feel anything weird at all.”
“Okay, Killua,” Gon says, with that same gentle smile.
“Okay,” Killua replies, not satisfied, exactly, but no longer quite as frantic.
“Actually, I am feeling something kinda weird right now.”
Killua’s insides go cold with sickening speed. Damn Leorio for not taking this seriously. Gon could be seriously ill, could be on the verge of fainting at this very moment for all Killua knows.
“What is it, Gon? Do you want to sit down? Do you need some water?”
“No, it’s okay. It’s just that my heart is beating really fast.”
“You’re experiencing a tachycardic episode?” Killua demands. Gon’s brow furrows.
“I don’t know what that means. But it’s just that my heart is beating fast. My heart always beats fast around you, though. You know how they talk about butterflies in your stomach? I never really understood what that felt like. But then I met you and I get them all the time. So those are the only weird things--my heart is beating fast and I’ve got some butterflies. But like I said, that’s normal when I’m around you.”
One of Killua’s most distinct memories of his torture training was of a particular starvation exercise. He was seven years old and was going on his second week of hardly any food. He was weak and trembling with hunger, desperate for anything to eat. He would’ve killed for food. Would’ve died for it. And one morning, his parents chained him up and put a hot, steaming bowl of soup right outside his reach. It was agonizing. The food was right there, perfect and fragrant and hot, and just out of reach. And he’d wept, wept for hours with sheer desperation. It was everything he wanted, everything that had occupied his thoughts for days, right in front of him. And he couldn’t have it.
Hearing Gon say these things to him, claim to feel for Killua the way Killua feels for him, and knowing none of it is real? It’s a bit like that.
But Killua won’t permit himself to be selfish. This isn’t about his pathetic longing for Gon, his unrequited, agonizing love. This is about Gon. Keeping him safe. Ensuring the Nen ability doesn’t have any adverse side effects. That’s all this is. A mission. A mission to save Gon. He can do that. He can complete a mission. Just get Gon back to the hotel, let him rest, make sure he drinks enough water, and stay with him until it passes. Killua can manage that.
So Killua flags down a cab and gently ushers Gon into the back seat. The ride is quiet, mercifully. Killua’s not sure he could stand hearing Gon say those sorts of things in front of the cab driver.
Back in their hotel room, Killua helps Gon into bed, fetches him some water, prepares a cool towel in case he starts feeling too hot, and manages to find some crackers buried deep in their suitcase in case Gon’s stomach gets upset. It’s not much, but it’s the best he can do. And then he settles into the chair in the corner of the room, pretending to read a comic book, to keep an eye on Gon.
“Will you come lie with me, Killua?” Gon asks after several long minutes, his voice so sweet and tentative Killua could die.
“Gon, I… I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
Gon’s wide, brown eyes get impossibly bigger.
“Please, Killua.” His voice is approaching a whine. In anyone else, it would be annoying, but Gon somehow makes that particular tone endearing.
“Gon, listen, I’m just trying to do right by you. I know you don’t really mean the things you’re saying. And taking advantage of that… it would be really wrong. I think it’s better if I stay here.”
The pout on Gon’s face would be comical in any other circumstances.
“Please, Killua! We get these double rooms when we travel and it’s so hard because I just lie there at night and I listen to you breathe and you’re so close and I just want to reach out and touch you. I just want to lie with you and hold you and stroke your hair until you fall asleep, But I know I can’t. So you’re close but not really. And it’s awful. So I just want to lie with you and maybe touch you if that’s alright. Is that okay? Please?”
There are a thousand things Killua could name that would be less agonizing than this. He’d rather have his fingernails torn out one by one. He’d rather have a bone twisted until it snaps. He’d rather have a cigarette snuffed out on his skin. He’s well acquainted with the pain of all of those experiences, more acquainted than he’d like to be, and none of them can touch how deeply and acutely he’s hurting right now.
And at his core, Killua is selfish. He’s always known this. So when Gon talks to him so sweetly, invites him to come lie in his arms, Killua knows himself. And he knows he isn’t good enough to say no.
Wordlessly, he stands, closes the comic book, lies it on the chair, and walks over to Gon. Gon’s whole face lights up in the most awed, delighted way and it just twists the knife all the deeper.
Killua slips off his shoes as Gon pulls back the blankets, the invitation so painfully clear. And Killua obliges—goddamnit, of course he does—and lies back on the pillows beside Gon.
Gon doesn’t hesitate for a moment. He reaches out and pulls Killua flush against him and wraps his arms around his shoulders and guides Killua to lay his head on Gon’s chest.
And it’s perfect. It’s more than perfect. Gon is so warm and his arms are solid and gentle and Killua could cry if he let himself, could just lie here and weep because he’s never felt anything quite this exquisite before. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the strength to get back up.
Gon sighs, so clearly contentend.
“This is so wonderful,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long, you know. And I thought about it and I thought about how it might feel and it’s better, somehow. I don’t know how it is, but somehow, it’s even better than I imagined.”
The knife Gon’s twisting is serrated. It’s barbed and sharp and utterly wicked. It tears at Killua’s insides, rips right through his vital organs, and he can’t bring himself to care.
All he can hope is that when tomorrow comes, Gon will forgive him. That Killua’s explanation that he was acting solely out of altruism will suffice. That Killua’s bone-deep, aching, completely unforgivable love won’t be as painfully obvious as he imagines it will be.
And then, after several long minutes, Gon’s hand is in Killua’s hair, stroking as gently as one might pet a newborn kitten. The irony of it all doesn’t escape Killua—he was bred and raised to be a killer, a ruthlessly efficient machine designed for the sole purpose of dispatching with lives as quickly as possible. And here Gon is, stroking his hair as if Killua were something small and delicate and vulnerable. Killua shouldn’t love it as much as he does.
“Your hair is so soft, Killua,” Gon murmurs. “And you’re so small and warm. You just fit so perfectly right against me, like I’m meant to hold you. Do you think that’s possible? Do you think we were meant to be together like this?”
This is not about you, Killua chants to himself. This is not about you. This is not about you. Answer neutrally. Placate Gon. But goddamn it, this is not about you.
“I suppose anything’s possible, right?”
Gon makes a contented sort of humming noise.
“Well, I think it’s true. I think you and I were meant for each other.”
Killua stays silent. It’s only thanks to the discipline he cultivated his years of brutal training that he’s able to avoid crying, to keep his muscles from tensing too obviously, to avoid leaping up and running away entirely.
“Gon,” Killua says after several more minutes, when all of it finally becomes too much to bear. “I bet you’re hungry. How about I see what there is to eat nearby and bring you some food?”
It’s a plausible excuse, and true. Gon has a voracious appetite. He probably is hungry after today’s battle.
“Alright. Thanks, Killua. You always take such good care of me. I never have to worry when I’m in a fight if you’re there. I know whenever you’re around, that I’ll be okay.”
Killua doesn’t trust himself to keep his voice steady when answering, so wordlessly, he gets up, tucks Gon back under the blanket, and silently leaves the room.
Killua comes back with a pizza, topped with what Gon likes best—mushrooms and hot peppers and spinach. Gon is sitting upright in bed, idly flipping through a magazine, and when Killua steps into the room, his whole face brightens. Like the first few golden rays of a sunrise. And God, how Killua wishes it could be real.
“How are you feeling?” Killua asks, kicking off his shoes by the door.
“Wonderful,” Gon says with a warm, beautiful smile. “You’re back, so of course I’m wonderful.”
“I brought pizza,” Killua replies, in lieu of actually responding to that. “Why don’t you have some? And I’ll refill that cup of water.”
This Killua can do. Just focus on taking care of Gon. It’s one of the few things besides killing that comes naturally to him. Keep Gon happy and safe and comfortable. That’s the closest thing Killua’s found to a calling.
So he sets the pizza box down on the bed, grabs the glass of water, and refills it from the bathroom sink. When he returns, Gon’s halfway through an enormous slice of pizza, greedily licking the grease off of his fingers. Something about that action makes heat pool low in the pit of Killua’s stomach. He tries desperately not to think about Gon’s mouth. About touching it, and how warm and soft it would feel beneath his fingers. About kissing it, and how Gon might gasp slightly in surprise. But the good sort of surprise. The happy sort. And Gon might reach up and thread his fingers through Killua’s hair and he might like kissing Killua so much that he forgets himself for a moment and he might insistently push Killua’s head even closer to his own. And one of his hands might find its way to the small of Killua’s back, and he might push him closer there, too, until they’re flush up against each other, and so warm, and—
“Do you want a piece, Killua?”
Killua breaks from his reverie.
“I’m okay, thanks. Not that hungry.”
“Okay,” Gon says. “I’ll save some in the fridge just in case you want some later.”
Killua nods. Not quite sure what else to do with himself, he takes a seat on the same chair as before and resumes his feigned reading of the comic book. This is an endurance match. A test to see just how much torture he can take. They were a frequent feature of his training as a child. The key is to relax, to slow his breathing, not to focus on the pain. Just relax and breathe. In and out. Nice and steady. In and out.
“Killua, can I say something?”
In and out. In and out.
“Sure, Gon.”
Gon smiles as if Killua had just given him a wonderful gift.
“I just wanted to say that I love you. It’s been so long that I can’t really remember what it felt like not to love you. I just love you so much. So much it almost hurts. I just love you.”
Killua goes very cold and then suddenly very hot. He’s vaguely aware that he’s supposed to relax, supposed to be breathing, but he can’t. There’s a vise around his chest, constricting tighter and tighter. He can’t get enough air. His vision swims. His ears ring. His mouth goes dry.
In and out.
No, it’s useless, he can’t get any air.
Breathe, goddamnit. It’s not that hard.
He can’t. He’s trying but he can’t.
It’s the easiest thing in the world, you idiot. Just breathe.
How does it go again, though? The breathing. He can’t quite recall.
In through your nose. Come on. This is pathetic. Get a grip. In through your nose.
In through his nose. He can manage that. In through his nose.
There, there’s the air. Blissfully cool and sweet. There it goes. He’s breathing again. The world comes back into focus. The ringing in his ears subsides. He can breathe. He’s okay.
And then, because his strength is failing him, and because there’s a limit somewhere, even for him, to what a person can endure, and because goddamnit, he’ll never have the chance to say it again, he replies.
“Yeah, Gon. Me too. I love you too.”