Things to know: Set over the course of the whole series
Free Association
A psychoanalytic technique whereby the subject verbalizes whatever thoughts come to mind, without structuring or censoring their remarks.
Sunset. A signal to return home. The nighttime animals begin to come out of the forest, and their eyes reflect the red of the sky as their hunt begins, the path lit up with their gazes. Wolves and who knows what else stare at him from the shadows as he heads down the path with a basket of fruit for Mito and Grandmother. He hums as he walks, the basket poking at his raw, red hands, the skin shaved off by a nasty fall. It makes the animals eye him a bit more keenly, and he doesn't notice how lucky he is to return home unscratched.
Mito waits for him at the door with a smile and shirt faded from age. Sometimes instead of a smile he's greeted with suppressed anger, the emotion leaking out of the sharper sounds of her concerned reprimand. Later that night it'll all spill out with wine, the scab from the wound Ging left in the house reopened by her anger, his father's memory dyeing everything with pain he does not even remember receiving. However, no matter what the night brings, he will still be given an apple as a snack before dinner and seat at the table while Mito cooks over the heated oven, the room colored red by the
Sunset. A signal to begin work. He stops playing and returns inside, Gotoh's glasses reflecting the red color of the sky as he watches from the thinner shadows of the trees, his coin glinting as he flips it skillfully through the air. Sometimes he thinks he sees a frown on Gotoh's face as he heads into the house, but it's impossible to tell with the sun in his eyes.
There is blood stained under his nails. He's not sure where it came from, whether it was coughed up during dinner along with the poison that still burns through his body or if it's from the man he killed last week. There's no point in cleaning it. It'll just be back the next day. It matches his mother's lipstick, her lips shining keenly through the darkness as she smiles at him from the edge of his bed, stroking his messy hair with a warm hand. She's complimenting him, his chest aching as he listens to those words his craves, and he grins back with his red-stained teeth, knowing it's all for this own good even as his throat burns like it's on
Fire. A feeling of warmth spreads throughout his relaxed limbs. He throws a few more logs on the flames and drowses next to Kon, breathing in the familiar smell of his tangerine fur. The fire should be unnecessary since Kon's skin naturally runs hot in these fall months while his coat begins to grow out, but a chill always persist him around Kon. Memories of death linger, Kon's mother gone in a flash of silver against her matching fur as she falls because of his foolishness. His cheek suddenly stings from leaning against Kon so long, and he finds himself unable to get comfortable again as he shifts position, steadily filling out his application for the Hunter Exam.
He's miles away from Kon now, the Numere Wetlands latcing into his skin as he runs through the fog to Leorio, the wet air stealing the warmth from his lungs and leaving a chill in its place. A magician greets him, hair brilliant orange against the drab backdrop of the foggy wetlands, and a different kind of chill runs up his spine when those eyes are turned towards him. Adrenaline sparks to life in his body, propelling him forward towards that bright dot as heat bursts in his stomach, burning him like
Fire. A feeling of warmth spreads throughout his sore limbs. He almost always sleeps in front of the fireplace now instead of his room, breathing in the smell of burning wood as he watches the flicker of orange flames. Huddled under his blanket, he pretends no one can see him, that the fire is his own personal furnace and burns only for him, strong and reassuring when the nightmares flash behind his closed eyelids. The images have faded to blurry colors and vague feelings like his father said they would in time, and he thinks it doesn't bother him anymore, but one night he wakes up to find his blanket nearly in the bright flames from how close he's sleeping to the source, chills still running up his spine from the nightmares he can't remember, and he needs to run, run, run right now.
He's running, and there's a boy running in front of him wearing clothes ringed with that familiar fire color, clear even in the dark of the tunnel. It attracted his attention even before he tried to pass them, the old man yelling at him for his skateboard, and he's surprised when the boy speaks up in his defense. He meets the other boy's eyes. They're a nice honey-color that probably look even better outside of the dark tunnel. When he begins running beside the boy with nice eyes, he gets a smile that startles him with how bright it is, just like
Sunlight. A pleasing brightness that covers everything. It glints off of Canary's cane as she hits him again, sending him flying back onto the ground for what could be the thousandth time that day. Bruises are all over his body, a sickly yellow color ringing the older marks, more and more appearing on him as he approaches again and again, an endless rain of blows until Canary stops, highlighted in light. Her cane seems like gold in her hands, a staff of glorious protection instead of the blunt instrument it would be in other hands. She's like an unstoppable angel until she falls, a woman with yellow dress appearing from the woods, curses on her lips and abusive protection in her words.
The sun is replaced with a coin, Gotoh flinging the small bundle of sunlight between him and the others, the bright lights of the butlers' quarters making it shine momentarily before the game begins. It's a blur of color even to his sharp eyes, barely there as it shots through the air, but he choices correctly. With near perfect timing a door opens, and the feeling of companionship that washes over him is overwhelming as his friend appears at last (unknowingly covered in matching yellow bruises), and the smile his friend gives him is like
Sunlight. An unbearable brightness that covers everything. It glints off the cars flying by, hitting the yellow of tourist taxis just right to make him go blind. The Testing Gate absorbs the sun into its faded stone, not even letting the light in as he pushes it open, arms barely straining against the tons of weight. His mother is wearing the same hideous yellow dress she had the day he left, and it's last color he sees before he goes to isolation. It sings behind his eyes every time he blinks, the sunny color just like that smile that was with him all throughout the exam. It sits in his gut and tugs him towards the door, towards his "friend," and he can't even comprehend how terrified it makes him to feel such an overwhelming feeling of relief once he sets foot outside again, away from his family towards that bright smile.
Later as they share a chocorobot from his bag, the yellow wrapper discarded haphazardly on the floor, he looks out over the earth from the blimp's window at the shining city. The lights breaking through the darkness makes excitement bloom in his stomach. When the sun rises tomorrow, he finds out the honey of his friend's eyes do look better in the light, beautifully accented by his
Clothes. The only color his friend never wears. He claims all their money is gone, gambled away by the white-haired boy in York New, but doesn't say anything about the pile of clothes stuffed into his friend's bag. It's nice to him out of those dark colors, relaxed in his new clothes and laughing more openly. Sometimes the boy even slings his arm around him while they walk through the city during rare moments of openness, clothes bright and eyes brighter, and he feels his heart clench in his chest to see the former assassin like this.
Greed Island sees the end of the fashion show. Trees and parks and people are traded for endless rock and dirt, not a hint of life in the distance. They must huddle close to each other in the cold night (once they get to stop sleeping with the hanging threat of rocks that is), and he notices his friend never seems to get warm. He beings to take out his spare green jacket and drape it over the other boy, marveling in the faded light how strange the contrast between his jacket and his friend's skin is. He wonders if they look that mismatched walking next to each other, not one part of them complimenting each other, not even their
Clothes. The only color his friend wears. He begins to wonder if the other boy just carries multiple identical outfits in that backpack of his or if it's a culture thing. Personally he's always had a love for clothes ever since he was little, playing dress-up with Alluka in the backyard, careful not to get grass stains on their outfits (Well, until they locked her away). How his friend can wear the same color everyday is another incomprehensible aspect of his. Sometimes, when his friend is jumping around during their training with a wide grin, the boy resembles the frogs Alluka would catch, and it's all he can do not to laugh, to keep from collapsing against his friend and being as close as possible to this important person who is too precious and bright and pure for someone like him. He limits himself to occasional touches to be treasured, letting his fingers skim the green sleeves but keeping a suitable during for the coming months.
But his friend moves farther and farther away from him. He's dark, so very dark, and his greenhorn colors don't suit him anymore. They don't fit quite right on his wider shoulders that tremble more often than not nowadays. He can't figure out how to draw him back, what he's done wrong, why his chest hurts so much and he's jealous of Palm and so sad all the time. Hell, he isn't even sure what they are, if they're even friends or just comrades, existing together in a space for the purpose of their goals, bond easily broken like a leaf ripped from a tree by a gentle wind. He is yelled at (Nothing to do with you nothing to do you are nothing-), his emotions only grow more turbulent, but all these emotions disappear in fear as he speeds to his…his something, arriving just in time to see a man dressed in familiar clothes- he always wears that one color- killing Pitou. Dimly, he notices the ant's blood only accents the man's budging
Veins. A pathway hidden underneath his tan skin. He's never given much thought to his body, to all the nerves and muscles and bones working to keep him together, but he's always been aware of how emotions move through him. The excited beat of his heart when he fights for his life, the clench in his gut when guilt hits. The heat in his stomach when rage hits, sweeping him away in its wake. The prickle of sensation against his skin when his friend touches him—a rarity these days, though he doesn't know which of them is at fault for it. Even his friend's soft, blue eyes don't seem to touch him much now, looking away to the sky or to his own hands. It hurts.
He doesn't know where his is. His mind is spread thin, and he feels sleepy, almost drugged, like when his neighbor offered him that drink out of his strange, blue bottle. He thinks about his friends. Kurapika's tribal outfits that are so pretty in their variance, of his rage that nearly hurt them. Leorio's sharp indigo suit that conflicts with his warm personality. He thinks of his...friend, too: lightening around the other boy so fast it's nearly blue, his wide eyes the most expressive he's ever seen. The image repeats in his mind and leaves a bad taste in its wake, makes him think of all the times those eyes brimmed with the same swimming emotions that the boy never showed, and how he ignored them in his own pain. He thinks of how strong that boy is, and how soft his skin is. How when he looks at his friend's hand too long, stomach trilling at the thought of holding it, it's still possible to see his friend's inter-workings if he looks hard enough, the skin pale enough that he is able to see all the other's
Veins. A pathway unhidden underneath paper-thin skin. He holds his friend's hand and can't stop the disgust from rolling in his stomach. Alluka has to touch that same hand, has to feel the blue map that should never be traced directly, and through the haze of fear and sadness that has been hounding him ever since he carried his friend from NGL he realizes that he can't stay here anymore. He doesn't think about the tears inside that have been slowly drowning him. His damaged, trained brain won't let him. He redirects, looks at Nanika's black eyes and feels the sweet relief of responsibility (of being needed) distract him from the shell of a boy on the bed for a long time. For years…
The sky overhead is a harsh blue, the kind that aggressively suggests the possibility of rain. He watches Alluka play in the lake as he hangs his legs off the side, letting the water nip at his toes. He recalls a lake and a fishing rod and finds that he doesn't feel a suffocating joy, or bitterness, or even the rage that had bloomed a few summers ago along with several profound and very personal re-evaluations. He feels nostalgia. Fondness not for the friendship, but the boy with tanned skin that never showed the vulnerabilities underneath, the boy that had always accepted him for him. He's pretty sure he knows where he'll pick to visit next. He's strong enough—changed enough—he thinks, to visit now. He closes his eyes, lets the breeze wash over him, and lets his legs be tickled by the surrounding
Flowers. A vase keeps them in place. The bright, purple blooms shine in the light the window lets in, sitting like royalty on the dinner table. The color stands out oddly in the homely room, too grand…no, too wild to truly fit into the orderly home with all its jutting leaves and blooms. He laughs softly at himself as he pokes at one of the more unruly blooms sticking out, letting his pencil roll of the table and schoolwork flutter in the breeze. How much more obvious of a metaphor can he make? His strong suit had never been poetry. No, it's never been words in the first place. Too many things he can't find the right words for.
He looks up as Alluka calls for him, asking if he's done yet. Her brother is leaning through the window, grinning, petals in his hair, a smile on his lips that still seems odd a month later. It's open and unguarded and so different from when they were pre-teens, and it takes his breath away to look at his friend sometimes. It's easy to follow him out the window, but it's even easier to run beside him and his sister, feel the warmth radiating off of him, petals tickling his check as they're shaken loose by their light jog, lost behind them in only a second, laughter tearing free as they burst into the purple field of
Flowers. A vase sits unused on the table. Instead he drops them all over his partner's face. They're a dull purple that looks weird on his tanned skin, only making the man look that much more life-like next to their washed out color, but it was all he could find that would survive the long journey back. He would've left them in the vase as a signal for his partner when got home from work, but instead the man had waited up for him, falling asleep in the process, and he really can't help but bend down, conscious of the shallow cut in his side, and press a light kiss on his forehead before retreating to the bedroom to sleep.
It could be seconds or years later when the mattress sinks beside him. His partner lies down next to him, angling towards him but keeping the space between them, letting their breaths mix in the middle. He nearly opens his eyes to look at the man when flower petals are sprinkled on him, but the pull towards sleep is a little too strong, especially with the comforting, steady breathing next to him in time the familiar pulse of his
Heart. They have two matching, multi-colored ones in their home. It was a house-warming gift from Alluka, and it gleams every time one of them returns, the hall light illuminating all the colors, casting them in different combinations each time. They take the hearts with them to every new house, an everlasting symbol of home when home never really sticks to one place, just like them.
Sometimes they live out of each other's pockets, and other times months pass in the blink of an eye without them seeing each other, but they always return, greeted by a shifting rainbow and memories.
When red hits Gon's arm he thinks of sunset, of walking with Killua to get a late dinner after a long day of work.
When orange hits Killua's hand he thinks of fire, of roasting marshmallows out front and fighting Gon for the last of the chocolate.
When yellow hits Gon's ear he thinks of sunlight, of waking up to see Killua glowing in the light beside him after months of separation and a bright, if sleepy, morning greeting.
When green hits Killua's head he thinks of clothes, of dragging Gon down to a store to try and get him in something other than a shirt and shorts.
When blue hits Gon's forehead he thinks of veins, of creaking beds and staining muscles and muffled laughter as he hits his head off the headboard for the third time.
When purple hits Killua's lips he thinks of flowers, of visiting Mito and running through Whale Island, letting Gon sprinkle petals on him as they rest in a field.
And when they see the other, the only thing they think of is home.