Chapter Text
Killua is quiet, Gon noticed, observed, the epiphany of the thought clenching around his heart with a tugging force, quiet and gentle . In the still moments of the night, he likes to be held close, so, so close, until their chests are crushed together and their heartbeats sync. He’ll wrap his arms around Gon’s shoulders and rest his head on the junction of his neck, let his lips rest against the pulse point, and smile against the gentle thrum of his heart beating. He likes to be held, treated as something precious, though he’ll never admit to it. He’ll pretend to be to be sleepy, unassuming, as Gon slowly pulls him into his lap. He likes the comfort of how their breaths mingle and their noses just barely touch.
In the early mornings, Gon will notice their hands interlocked, no matter what position he wakes in. More often than not, he’ll find them linked over his own chest, and he has no doubt that Killua slid them together somewhere in the night. His thumb will linger on the vein on Gon’s wrist, and Gon knows it’s to feel the steady pulse of his heart beating, to find solace in the fact that he’s not deteriorating like in so many of his nightmares.
Gon doesn’t mind these nights; he looks forward to them. He likes slowly unwrapping all of what makes his Killua, uncovering the ways he truly wants to be loved. It’s captivating, and somber, knowing that he’ll never voice these desires outwardly.
There’s a lot of hidden fears in Killua’s mind, he’s discovered, and has taken to uncovering them one by one. There are things that haunt him still, after years that felt like an era. He wants to mend flowers in those old wounds, but is never surprised when they wilt and the petals drop. There are only so many roses he can stitch in before he falls short; but it’s better to let things progress naturally than to force them away with new memories and sweet kisses.
Rarely, Killua will initiate contact, he can count the number on both hands of the times he has taken initiative. But he does, depending on the light of day (or if Mercury’s in retrograde) – and Gon is an eager participant regardless. He’ll feel his hand grabbed in their kitchenette late in the evening, the sun drowning every color in their studio apartment in shadows of blacks and washed-out oranges, and lead them both in a waltz, flushed face hidden, with only the dishwasher to provide ambience.
He knows Killua’s a secret romantic, his heart so soft and so shy. On good nights, he’ll dream of sweet things, like marriage and family. He’ll sign his name as Killua Freecs, both to hide from his family, and because he wants to, and hide his flushed smile behind thin fingers.
His eyes light up when Gon dresses nicely for formal events, in hazardly bought suits and button-ups. It’s one of the rare occasions Killua will take the lead, slide their palms together, and pull them close.
Like a waltz, their relationship has a lead and a follow. And like a waltz, Killua will follow Gon. To the ends of the earth, and further beyond. His home is wherever Gon is, and Gon knows this.
Maybe he’s taken advantage of how deep Killua’s adoration goes. He’s known about it for so long, maybe even while Killua was coming to terms with it himself.
He knows in those serene moments that Killua dreams of domesticity, of marriage and normalcy, as they sway together in the comfortable darkness of the kitchenette.
If he could crawl inside Killua’s head, he thinks he’d see a longing desire for a different life. To grow up as a regular kid alongside Gon. He’d keep a journal filled with his name surrounded by hearts, a child with a crush, and pages upon pages of their names blended together in every imaginable combination.
He’s not ready for marriage, doesn’t think of it much unlike Killua. He might one day, when he’s older and ready to settle down, but he doesn’t see that day forthcoming anytime soon. But he knows it’s what Killua wants, what he dreams of on good nights, so he’ll indulge him. He’ll kiss the ring finger of his left hand as an unsaid promise, and watch in not-so-hidden glee as Killua melts . It’s moments like those that he knows how mendable Killua can be in his hands.
Sometimes he wonders if Killua would be happier elsewhere, with someone else who shares his dreams and ambitions, with someone who can sweep him off his feet and grant every one of his dreams that Gon can’t yet. The thought makes his stomach twist and curl, because he knows he’ll selfishly keep Killua by his side for as long as he can.
Perhaps in another world, in another time, Killua has a ring on his finger. But when the thought crosses his mind, he can’t be sure it’s from him. He’s too afraid of being like his dad to be able to commit to things like engagement so soon. Too soon.
But during their nights pressed together, unable to tell where one ends and the other begins, he doesn’t think he can spend so much of his life with anyone else.
Even still, he wonders what it means to be in love, the way Killua is. He’d die for Killua, he knows that for certain; but he would for anyone he cares about. He’s not afraid of death, but he’s in no hurry to die. There’s a physical side of their relationship he wouldn’t want to do with anyone else, sex and intimacy, but sometimes for him it’s just a way to get off.
When he finds himself pushing Killua down onto soft blankets, as he too often does, Killua lets him; despite having the strength to flip them around. He’ll let his hands loop around to the back of Gon’s neck, and gently tug him down for a slow, loving kiss.
It’s their own version of the waltz.
He’ll indulge in Gon’s roughness some nights, scratching red ribbons down his back like a lace-up corset and biting where his neck and shoulder meets, but on other nights Gon will focus on what Killua wants. He’ll pull him close and kiss his eyelids when they flutter shut, kiss his lips when he restarts his breathing, run his hands up and down his sides when he feels his legs tighten and spasm around his hips, and gently bring Killua into his lap. It’s his favorite position, he’s learned, and he’ll let Gon’s hand sweep down his back and bring them together, and start to lose coherency of where one of them ends and the other begins.
Killua’s silence during sex is second nature to him. Trained and habitual. Like his footsteps, his breathing is silent, and Gon notices how he tilts his head back, lets his eyes shut, and recapitulates his breathing to keep from gasping.
But Gon likes a challenge.
It takes a while, gently coaxing him with praise and kisses, until the first audible gasp leaves Killua’s mouth. He’ll slide his hands down his waist, let his hands rest on the small of his back, and lean down to press a deep, gentle kiss to his lips. He’s eager to reciprocate, letting his hands cradle Gon’s face and pressing close, and lets himself enjoy their benign and placid lovemaking.
Until Gon pulls his hips back, sucks in Killua’s breath, and gives a sharp, deep penetrating thrust; it’s then that the dam that is Killua’s silence springs a leak, and it becomes easier to coax breathy sounds out of his mouth.
Getting him to moan is another challenge in and of itself, one that he’s still figuring out. It’s less about forcing a noise out through abrupt pleasure than it is letting it accumulate through Killua’s own contentment. He first managed it through fumbling, with two fingers inside the other and gently rubbing the inner walls against his prostate. It took some time, but first he was awarded the first good sign– an audible sigh, stretching his arms back behind him, and adjusting his hips on the pillow. He imagines Killua feels the way a cat laying out in the sun looks. Satisfied. Fulfilled. In this state he’s droopy and ragdoll-like. If Gon really wanted to, he could mend Killua in different ways, molding his pliant body like unbaked clay. He wonders if humans could purr.
It takes a minute, a century, a millennium, and finally an eon when the first hum sighs from his throat. His eyes flutter shut and his back arching just the smallest bit. Gon wonders if he can make it bend like a bow, like a bridge, and briefly in those moments he can find a passion for architecture. Killua tilts his head back and takes in a stuttering breath before biting his lip, and Gon’s newfound fascination for building an arching structure out of Killua’s body is taken away. He has a task at hand.
His fingers are persistent and unforgiving, dirty and quick, continuously rubbing against a small bundle of nerves about two knuckles in. Gon’s fingers are short and thick, his palms meaty and large, and when they touch him– he’s sure Killua can feel every callous. He watches in small, smug delight when a heavy breath leaves his lips when he drags the pads of his fingers heavily against his prostate. His cock is drooling onto his stomach, and he makes a notion to ignore it. Killua’s hands squeeze the pillow behind him, and whines.
If Gon were focused on his own pleasure, he’d have come twice by now, refractory period included. He finds himself slightly frustrated at Killua’s endurance, knows it’s not fair to feel that way, that Killua just has a higher tolerance threshold for both pain and pleasure, but Gon is an impatient, selfish creature by nature, and goes against his desire to quicken his pace and snake a hand to Killua’s front to speed up the process. He’s made it his mission to get Killua to moan. To find what combination of tactics and tricks to achieve that.
Killua likes praise, he likes to be praised, he likes to be told he’s so good, so wonderful!– at any task, not just sex. His cheeks will flush and his eyes will grow wide until Gon swears he can count every single shade of blue ever discovered in one iris alone. He’ll fight and sputter, dodge and reflect it back. So Gon will keep going until it sinks in, and Killua will stop arguing and hide his red red face behind slim, sharp fingers and squeezed-shut eyes.
“My Killua is so, so pretty. Killua is so amazing,” he’ll say, and watch with slight mirth as he predictably falters on finding perch in his contention against Gon’s words. He chooses not to voice the noticeable hitch in Killua’s breath.
He recalls once asking if Killua really really liked being praised.
He left the room with a red, itchy sore patch of skin on his forehead.
While he knows Killua’s response to genuine compliments is a nurtured, gut-reaction, one that built up over years of psycological abuse and torture, something to be soothed out to commend Killua and remind him he is worthy of love; a part of him finds genuine happiness and enjoyment out of eliciting such pleasurable reactions out of his partner out of his small words and gestures alone. He’ll coo and kiss along the side of Killua’s face, press down on his chest, and jerk his finger up in a sharp thrust. Right into the spot he’s been acquaintanced with for the past half-hour.
Until finally, finally, Killua gives a small moan. It’s slight, almost inaudible, and Gon has to strain to hear it; but it’s there, and it’s a victory nonetheless. It’s not a mind-blowing experience by any means, but it’s a start of Gon figuring out what strings to pluck in order to play marianette.
Killua always has small tears in his eyes when he reaches climax, quickly wiped away by either himself to hide them, or Gon wanting to take part in some sort of aftercare. This time is no different, and Gon pulls out his fingers so he can wipe the other’s tears away, only to have them smacked to the side light-heartedly.
“Idiot, that’s how you get pink-eye,”
Killua’s voice is thick and airy, high and congested, small and loud, so many opposites balled into one just like he is. It’s full of playfulness for a tone that’s indicative of being post-coital. He wipes his own eyes, gives a small sniff, and reaches for Gon’s other hand. He’ll say, “c’mere,” in a slow and dazed voice, and it’s Gon’s turn to bat away a hand trying to reach down his front. He’ll shake his head, and smile.
“Tonight was about Killua,” He says, and grabs the hand he just shook off, the left one, and kisses the knuckle on his fourth finger, the one that always makes him both freeze and melt, and give a small, giddy smile. Maybe, he thinks, one day. But that day doesn’t have to be anytime soon. They could be old and grey by the time Gon thinks he might be ready to settle down. He could have Killua waiting on his toes for that day forever. His conscience is once again brought into the thought of him being unable to give Killua something he truly, deeply desires. But Killua won’t voice them. Killua won’t say what he wants, and an unspoken promise isn’t really a promise at all, is it?
An unspoken promise isn’t an incentive for a future, in Gon’s mind. After all, it’s just a kind, sweet gesture that he noticed Killua react positively to. It’s not a lie at all.
Killua may not say what he wants, but it’s painted and etched deep into his skin, and drawn on every subtle and not-so-subtle thing he does. It’s cute. It’s annoying. It brings uncomfortable thoughts boiling into his head until his stomach feels like it’s made of lead, hot and flaking with freezer-burn. A contradiction of wants. He wants this but doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want this but wants to.
So for now, he’ll let him have his unvoiced fantasy. Let him daydream and lose himself in the possibility, and kiss his concerns away.
He loves Killua, but doesn’t know what it means to be in love, the way Killua is. But he supposes that’s how their own waltz is danced.