A/N: I had some trouble with this chapter, so pardon the late update. Most of your probable questions about the Zoldycks are answered here. Consequently, darkness abounds. (Yaaay.) I also tried to put in a little more action, but most of that will probably be in the next chapter.

Hopefully, this makes for a convincing critique of the world of the fic (and ours in general, why not).

Hope you like it (enough to review).

UNTOUCHABLE

Chapter V. Undercurrents

Killua eyed the man who stood before him with dull, disinterested eyes. Another porcine client in a corporate suit, come to insist upon his worth — and not the worth that mattered in any business transaction, mind you; just the old lie that people of arbitrary influence tell themselves, the old lie that never sells.

"Let me get this straight," Killua intoned, cutting off his client's hysterical babbling like steel cutting through butter. He made a point not to sound like he cared. "You need the police off your scent because they've intercepted one of your mules."

"Correct, and the name of one of my top people has appeared in her interrogation. Further investigations might lead to mine."

"We already made sure all your operations will be overlooked. Who slipped?"

The corporate suit looked uncomfortable. "Yes, well...there was a last-minute change in — in quantity...and, er...the mule was not — well, not exactly informed of what she — er, well, perhaps she had some idea — I don't know , she was just some cash-strapped farm girl — must have had some...vague...idea what she was carrying..."

Killua stood up to leave.

"Hey, hey, hey, listen! I don't think you understand how much is at stake here! I gave that woman one job! One fucking — look, if I can just talk to your father instead of — "

Killua silenced him with a cold, dead stare.

At fourteen, he was ghostly, all silver hair, pale skin, and blue-glass eyes. It always unnerved clients how little they interested him, no matter how much they insisted upon the greatness of their work and the significance of what they were asking him to participate in. They always insisted it was a lesser evil, always claimed they wished they hadn't been pushed so far. But Killua's eyes never changed, simply regarded their corruption and impunity with glassy and tranquil boredom, neither critical nor empathetic.

"Okay, okay. You — you'll take care of it, right?" the man at last stammered. "You'll talk to your people in the police...right? The chief of police, is it true he's your man? He is, right?!" His pitch had risen to breaking point. Probably without his even realizing it, he had risen to unsteady feet, hand outstretched to implore the teenager to give him the comfort of a guarantee.

There were few things uglier than an acclaimed "paragon of virtue" in society trying to cover his own ass.

Killua turned away. "Don't make contact until we do."

The silver-haired heir was used to turning his back on angry, predictable men of power. They always shouted threats but in the end they followed the smallest instructions, terrified of the consequences of slipping or making the wrong move. He had grown up with men like that hovering around his father, begging for their lives, begging for assistance, begging to be kept safe from all the ghosts they had made themselves.

There was never a time when Killua didn't know the world operated on the whims of few rather than the labors of many. Society was structured by the exquisite violence of capital and of political influence, and of an engineered culture of ignorance that made it all possible. Virtue and honor were convenient rhetoric accessible only to those given voice to speak yet demanded only from those who weren't. The courtroom was just a negotiating table, a black market wielding the language of legal codes, operating in the open. Those were the facts and, in light of the way things were and would always be, keeping secrets was the most profitable business there was.

People lived and died, regardless of principle or worth. Things were really far less complex than people thought. It was not such a difficult world to live in.

For as long as he hoped for nothing more.

- x -

Gon could taste the blood in his mouth. He wondered vaguely, through his reeling vision, if some of it was dripping onto his shirt. Aunt Mito, gomen —

A fist slammed into his cheekbone again, hard and unhesitating. His hand moved by instinct to cushion his head as the momentum threw him to the ground. A strange, wet warmth suffused his cuff and he almost laughed.

It is dripping. Fuck it.

Hisoka's shadow completely blocked out the sun as he approached Gon, his right fist only just slackening since he began his attack a few minutes before. "Hmmm? What's this?" The drawl was empty amusement laced with distaste. "I wasn't wrong about you. Why are you boring me?"

Gon's shoulders shook, half in laughter and half in pained effort to push himself up from the ground. Deep in the shadow between the windowless walls of two buildings, Gon turned slowly to face Hisoka, whose red hair burned like fire from the light of the sun behind him. His narrow eyes, golden slits on the pale gray pallor of his shadow-cast face, watched the raven-haired transferee pull himself up to a standing position and calmly wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve, a strange smirk on his ruptured lips.

"So...you're a message from the Zoldycks?" Gon asked, coolly.

Hisoka smiled, his head moving slightly to let a ray of light partially illuminate Gon's stoic features. The dust and blood on his face did nothing to faze his steady gaze, open and unafraid. "Subarashii..." The moan returned to Hisoka's voice, his lust tangible enough to make Gon feel violated. "Tell me, Gon, what makes you think they would bother to send you a message?"

Gon spat out blood. "I'd rather know why you would send their messages for them."

"You think I'm the type to do favors?"

"You're paid then?"

Hisoka blinked, blankly. "Paid," he echoed, hollowly. "Paid..." Gon didn't think Hisoka's smile could grow wider, but it did, and it distorted his face into a leer of utter madness. "But we are alike, Gon, you and I," he drawled. "We are trash, caught in the cogs of this whole boring pageantry." He made the words sound enticing, even as they dripped venom. His eyes locked onto Gon's, his smile never reaching them. "To us, money is just tedious, isn't it?"

Gon's eyes narrowed. I am nothing like you. But he had barely opened his mouth to retort when he found himself suddenly choking on air rushing rapidly out of lungs, the pain in his abdomen and Hisoka's clenched fist barely registering as his vision blotted wildly. On the ground, he gasped for air, only mildly aware of the cloud of dust his crashing body had raised, making breathing all the more difficult.

"Do you know why people fear me, Gon?" Hisoka's voice sounded husky, languorous. Gon listened to it through the swimming, blotting swathes of colors his vision has become. "It's because they do not know and cannot dream to understand who I am. But you — " The languor lilted into an uncontrolled moan, " — you don't fear me. Do you?"

This time, Gon did not miss the implication. Through his fit of coughing, in Gon's head, Kurapika's voice from what seemed like ages ago reechoed: No one knows who you are.

"I...I'm nothing anyone should be afraid of," Gon rasped out. He meant it, but wished he didn't quite sound as pathetic as he did.

Hisoka smirked. "If you still believe that, then you really do not know who Killua is..."

The transferee tamped down a sudden surge of unfamiliar, unexplained rage that began to charge through his body. His fists shook. At the same time though, he felt a flash of irritation that he should feel, if only so slightly, that there was a small degree of truth to Hisoka's assertion.

His mind suddenly recalled the whispers in the hallways that had again begun to follow him in school wherever he went in the past few weeks. They had been growing less and less subtle, and more and more vindictive, no longer buffered by the immunity granted by Killua's constant company and now fueled increasingly by what Gon could only surmise was pent-up envy, confusion, or insecurity caused by one who had, with barely any effort, gained the Zoldyck heir's favor.

Damn you, Killua. You should have at least sent me a message by now...

"You..." Vaguely, Gon felt his face being lifted by the chin, Hisoka's curled finger cold against his skin. "...are dealing with the most corrupt family in the world, boy." The feeling of the upperclassman's breath in Gon's ear revolted him, but his hands were too busy gripping the ground in an effort to stand to push away.

"K — Killua isn't — "

Hisoka thumped him on the head with a fist, almost playfully. "Oh, he is. And it is of utmost importance that he remains that way."

Gon's eyes burned with rage and humiliation, furious at his own lack of proof of Killua's integrity. He had nothing to go by, except the sudden softness Killua every so often betrayed whenever he was with Gon — whenever he was happy, and real, and unguarded.

And Gon would never give Hisoka the benefit of knowing that.

K'so...

Then the golden-eyed upperclassman smirked and moved even closer to Gon, whispering, "I'm doing you a favor, Gon..." Gon thought he felt Hisoka's lips brush his earlobe, but all responses failed him when he felt a fist again connect with his cheekbone, his head hit the ground from the impact, then an explosion of pain behind his eyeballs before everything fell away into darkness.

The rest of Hisoka's sentence registered as a dream.

...you can thank me later.

- x -

Illumi Zoldyck watched his little brother on the screen, a stony, expressionless figure that had not moved for hours. For a few days after their return, their mother had had the Zoldyck heir's chambers locked so that he wouldn't try to escape. Killua's only reprieves were a series of closed-door conferences with his mother, his father, and his grandfather — the contents of which Illumi was secretly hankering to know. But even after his mother, always so easily softened by her favorite son, retracted the inhibition order, Killua refused to move or even talk to anyone. He just stayed in his room in a pure, silent rage.

"Why did you come back, Illumi." Silva Zoldyck's voice held neither suspicion nor malice, just a mild, almost casual curiosity, as he approached his eldest son with the quietest of steps, uncanny for his large size.

Illumi blinked his large, depthless eyes at his father before returning his gaze to the screen. "I heard of what has been happening," he said, simply, tonelessly. "I thought I should...help."

"And what did you hear has been happening."

"That some child has taken it upon himself to befriend my little brother. That my little brother has left home — " he looked at Silva " — to work — " a slight edge entered his eerie monotone " — an honorable job."

Silva smirked. "And in what way did you think you can help in this matter."

Illumi shrugged, a blank doll. "I can kill the boy."

Silva's smirk grew even wider. "And how do you think that will be...profitable for us?"

"It's a business decision."

The Zoldyck family head raised one silver eyebrow. "Then why aren't we the ones making it?"

"I knew no one in this family would do it for free. I, on the other hand, can easily make arrangements. A wasted drunkard with a knife or a police raid of their questionable business then a quiet prison assault. Something unimaginative."

Silva burst into a strange laugh, low and guttural. "The damage Gon Freecss has inflicted has been done. It will not be reversed by killing him."

Illumi sensed the answer had something to do with his private exchange with Killua, and he carefully controlled the rabid desire for more detail that suddenly surged inside him. "Kil told you this, I presume. To protect Gon Freecss."

Silva smiled, not at all taking the bait.

Illumi grimaced internally. "So you intend to do nothing."

Still, Silva did not respond.

On the screen, Killua at last stood up. His eyes flickered briefly up at the camera, for a moment looking straight into the eyes of his father and his brother through the screen. His gaze was immeasurably calm, the way he always looked before mobilizing a kill operation.

"He has grown in...unexpected ways..." Silva murmured. Illumi doubted whether he was meant to hear it or not.

Then Silva broke into a broad smirk.

Illumi blinked. "You can't seriously think there's an opportunity here," he said. "The last thing we want is for Kil to grow a full conscience."

Silva's eyes crinkled in the corners with pleasure as he watched his third child and heir hunch his shoulders, plunge his hands into his pockets, and leave the room, his steps resolute.

"He's leaving," Illumi intoned, pointlessly, his unchanging pitch barely laced with tension.

Silva laughed, knowing Killua had just bid both of them not to try and follow him, and he clapped a hand on Illumi's shoulder. "I was the one you brought you up and taught you everything you know, Illumi," he said. "But you still take too much after your mother."

After Silva left, Illumi faced the screens again, watching his brother appear and disappear in different monitors as he walked placidly past the security cameras. Selecting a different route, he moved quickly through the sprawling maze of the Zoldyck household and made it to the front door before Killua. His brother did not seem surprised to see him waiting. His eyes, however, narrowed ever so slightly, indicating his displeasure at having his tacit warning through the security cameras disregarded.

"I thought I'd see you off," Illumi said, eerily. "You are leaving us again so soon."

"Get out of my way."

Illumi smiled, a slight twitching of lips just barely suggesting a curling at the edges. "Father's right," he murmured, as if musing aloud. "The damage has been done. But you'll see... Integrity and principles are only fun for a while, Kil. When the going gets tough, I'll be the first to welcome you home."

Killua's face did not change. His eyes maintained their well-trained disinterest, even as his heart began to beat uncomfortably inside his chest.

He modulated his voice carefully. "Move."

Illumi shrugged and stood aside. In the most insincere gesture of good will, he opened the door for Killua and flourished a hand. "Well, I thought the easier way was worth a shot. See you."

Inside his pockets, Killua's hands clenched at the thinly veiled threat.

He had always hated his brother, or at least, had never felt anything remotely like love for him. Because there was nothing to love about Illumi Zoldyck. This was precisely the quality that made the family creed — to take nothing personally, ever, not even the family itself — surprisingly easy for him to follow — convenient, even — growing up. But now he could feel himself beginning to hate Illumi with a strangely unfamiliar strength, for fucking giving him the freedom that he had wanted to take by force.

Which means that there will be a war at some point... There has to be a war.

A war I'll have to win.

Illumi's black stare promised blood.

Killua bit back a curse.

Damn you, Illumi. I'll be ready for it. I will.

For Gon.

Steeling his nerves, he moved decisively past his older brother, into the cold of the dark evening.

- x -

Gon woke up to the sound of thunder.

For a moment, he wondered where he was. His face stung. The bandage over his cheek bone felt tight on his face. His head still felt light from the painkillers Aunt Mito had insisted on pumping him with, even when he insisted he could handle it. Or maybe it was the sore lump that had begun to form on the side of his head...

"You still haven't learned. You whisper my name in your sleep."

The voice that broke the quiet was low and hollow, only barely laced with humor. Blearily, Gon looked to where it came from. A flash of lightning revealed the spiky-haired silhouette of Killua Zoldyck perched by his window, one leg pulled up to the sill, a slack arm resting on his knee, back pressed against the frame. Every inch of him was drenched in the torrential rain that continued to pour outside. For a moment, Gon stared, doubting if he was awake. Then the apparition moved, and a weak shaft of moonlight caught in his blue eyes, and Gon knew that Killua had come home.

"K — Killuaaa!" The outcry pealed with loud, unrestrained joy. He threw off his blankets and stumbled out of bed, overbalancing when his head began to spin from the sudden motion. Killua caught him before he fell, tottering precariously.

It had been two weeks since they had last seen each other. Two weeks since Gon had watched Illumi take Killua away. Two weeks since he had begun spending every break going to the highest floor of every building in school to try and catch a glimpse of the silver-haired heir on their rooftop sanctuary. Two weeks of passing by the Zoldyck estate every day after school even if it added some kilometers and half an hour to his travel duration. Two weeks of leaving his bedroom door open so he could maintain a full view of the black jacket still slung over the chair backrest and the green skateboard still propped carelessly against the bed in Killua's room.

Two weeks of waiting.

Two weeks of nothing.

Until now.

"You look like shit," Killua said, distastefully, poking a finger at the bandage on Gon's face, making the transferee flinch. "You could've tried to dodge, you know."

"Speak for yourself!" Gon retorted. "You look like something the cat dragged in. Besides, Hisoka was telling me stuff about your family. I wanted him to keep talking. What are you coming through the window for? We have a front door."

"There's no need for Mito-san to know I'm here."

"Why not?"

"I..." Killua averted his eyes. "I've put you in enough danger."

"What do you mean?"

"Look. Gon... I'm telling you because this is the last time I'm probably seeing you — "

"No, it's not."

It did not escape Killua that Gon did not even ask why, just looked at him with that vehement, unspoken promise. Pained, he angled away from the transferee carefully to control himself.

"Gon... I don't know what Hisoka told you but you might as well hear the story from me — "

"Killua, there's nothing you need to tell me. Everyone has secrets."

Killua shook his head. "You ought to know." He took a deep breath, as if drawing from a cigarette.

It struck Gon then how hard Killua was trying not to be like how he was when they had first met. He wavered between the cold solitariness of his old life and the strange, tentative openness he had only just begun to discover in himself. The result was an entirely visible exhaustion: hope and rage and despair rising and receding in his eyes as he looked at Gon, then away, then back at Gon.

The dark-haired teenager felt his fists clench, as if doing so could kill all the demons that threatened to tear Killua's spirit apart.

The heir began. "I've told you before that my family is in the business of human security. At least, that's what my mother calls it. In the elite circles, my father is known as a maker of kings. Do you know how kings are made, Gon?"

Gon opened his mouth to attempt an answer, but Killua cut him off smoothly to make the point that the question was rhetorical.

"A king does not need a kingdom, only subjects. Subjects are created by instilling in them loyalty, and loyalty, you'd be surprised, can easily be gained or forced, through debt or threat or payment. People still think money is the best currency, but the truth is that information works best." He plunged his hands into his pockets and seemed to withdraw a little further into himself, as if containing all his poison from contaminating Gon. "That's what we do, Gon. My family deals in the expensive secrets of the powerful, in information that can decide whether a person lives in glory or dies in shame — information that can save or kill." His ice blue eyes flickered experimentally to meet Gon's, searching for signs of repulsion. "The client list is pretty long, mostly from the top rungs — people who need skeletons in their closet to go away; people who need to disappear; people who need to clear a path towards some higher position or another; people who need to deal with threats but can't get their hands dirty..."

"People like our classmates' families!" Gon said, his eyes bright, one finger raised, like a lightbulb switching on.

Killua stared at him, dumbfounded.

He had watched Gon sleeping on that bed for more than an hour, unable to reach out and wake him from his apparently Killua-haunted slumber (who knew if it was a dream or a nightmare?), rehearsing how he could say the truth without making Gon hate him. And now it seemed like the effort had been completely unnecessary. The boy was imperturbable! He might as well have been talking about school work missed from playing hooky, or his rehab-warranting addiction to Choco Robots.

"I've done...any and all of those things, Gon. I bear the secrets that allow the most powerful families in the world to stay in power. I've gotten people — innocent people — to give up their lives — their dreams — people like you — I — "

"You have threatened, bribed, blackmailed and killed for corrupt people who abuse their power to keep it or extend it. I get it."

The rest of Killua's self-deprecations caught in his throat.

Gon smiled — an oddly peaceful smile in spite of the torrential rain that battered over the house and the even darker storm that Killua seemed to have become.

"You don't have to worry if I understand, Killua."

Strangely enough, Killua suddenly remembered one of the nights during the first few weeks of his stay at Gon's home, when he had been smoking as he had often done in those days — night after night, cigarette after cigarette, eyes toward Kukuroo mountain — when Gon joined him and suddenly took the lighted stick from between his pale fingers. Gon had attempted then — most pathetically — to breathe in the fumes, only to end up coughing like crazy, and Killua had panicked and pounded on his back to help him expel the fumes. He remembered how he failed to realize he had left the rest of the cigarette to die out, not knowing it was the last he would ever smoke.

The mystery of Gon's confusing character struck him at that moment with a stunning clarity, as he gazed at the smile on Gon's bandaged face and the purple swelling that had begun to form underneath his one eye. Rather than turn away from seeing the depths of his blackened soul as so many had done, Gon willingly crawled into graves Killua tended to dig for himself and made him find his own way out.

Killua shook his head. "Why do you bother with me, Gon." The statement was hardly interrogative, but Gon knew that a crucial question hung there, seeping with a shy, even scared, vulnerability only barely shrouded in cool disinterest.

Gon grinned, sheepishly. "I'll admit I was worried about you for a while," he admitted. "I thought you wouldn't come back to us. Gomen. I shouldn't have doubted you."

"Gon... You don't understand what I am — "

That was when Gon hit him straight across the face.

"What the fuck! You — "

Killua raised his fist to retaliate, but Gon evaded him easily, then buried him in a full embrace.

He was too stunned to respond.

"Okaeri, Killua."

- tbc -

A/N: Thoughts?

The fic is nearing its end (it was never meant to drag on for long) and I would be delighted to know your ideas/feedback/comments before I wrap it up. Besides, reviews always boost writing morale and I could totally use more of that these days :)

P.S. (added 07/18/2015): I noticed a small decrease in the number of story followers recently. I'm not trying to be creepy about this at all and I am not taking it personally. I just wondered if it has to do with how the story is going. Is it getting too...anything? Please, please let me know! Anyway, still hope to get more feedback from you guys before the next chapter. Thanks for sticking around :)