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If someone were to ask Killua what he thought of Gon, he probably wouldn't know what to say.
Who is this child of the universe, who wears green without the slightest hint of envy. Who smells like pine and cinders and something else. Whose sunshine smiles make him miss what he's never had. Killua doesn't know.
What he does know is this:
Gon is his first true friend, for one. (He never really understood what a 'friend' was, but he figured it goes a little something like this.)
He is his first blush. His first tears cried and the last time he was happy about it.
He is the forest in the countryside, where the night hums and the stars flare like millions of suns in the distance. And lying here beside him, it is not night or darkness or the absence of light. It is simply—Gon.
He is his first shoulder to lean on. His first good morning and his favorite heartache. And Gon.
Gon is the salt in his tears and the metallic in his blood and the storm in his eyes. And Killua has never known someone like this. They breathe in harmony, until Killua stops, too much, too much. His lungs burn with every "Gon" and drown with each "Killua" that always, always follows.
Gon's hand is cold, with Killua's in his, but his heart is warm and his lips breathe fire. And sometimes. Sometimes, it's easy to forget who is protecting whom. Gon squeezes his hand, and his fingers tremble, and so Killua just pretends that he isn't unravelling from the inside out.
And then Killua knows: That Gon is home, that he is his place to return to. He is the campfire in the woods, and the sunrise after the night. And even at the bottom of the ocean or the heart of the storm, he is still. He is still home.
But.
One day.
Many days.
The light starts to fade, and Killua is afraid of forgetting. He is afraid of forgetting Gon's smile or Gon's laugh, and where there was an ache, there is only emptiness.
Gon walks on, heavy with lead-like footsteps, and Killua follows a step behind. Always, a step behind.
It echoes.
—Since it means nothing to you.
Nothing?
Gon is the quiet in the night. The stillness of the lake and the ashes from the fire. Nothing? No. Even when he's nothing, he is everything.
Killua runs.
"I'm back," he whispers to the fade before him. Gon lingers unspoken, dies soon, too soon, caught in his throat like swallowing sand.
Welcome home, no one says.
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