A Homeward Bound Dove

4594 words.

Change.

One of the most controversial fuels to disagreement known to man--it's the iciest slippery slope and the adhesive in sticky situations. Moderation is key— like summer leaves tinting orange and leisurely preparing for winter. Or, when faced with a dire circumstance that you feel the absolute need to get out of, to free yourself from no matter the sacrifice: when the yearned change is welcome. But like two sides of a magnet, the negative side will always scream for attention because it's always there. Hiding it meant suppression, and that never works. Ever.

Gon got slapped in the face with the negative portion of change. The overwhelming impact of hardships compiled until it shattered the most positive person on earth because that person is human, and I would almost forget that 'minor' detail when it came to Gon. To me, he just seemed like everything right in the world, ethereal. And with him, it was quite easy to forget how difficult the process of living in actuality is.

As prior mentioned, the collapse of sanity came in stages. Stage one began when Father began drinking, according to Mom. I disagreed.

Stage One began with Gon's self-harm.

'I want to kill myself.'

All hope in me ripped from my heart and resisted nothing as it was pounded into the ground by an ice-cold sentence. And it was that one sentence that sent me into a lifetime of panic. Frantic, but I knew I couldn't let that show in my voice; anger, but that was selfish; sadness, but that would only make Gon feel guilty--the last emotion he needed to be concurrently feeling. So it dawned on me that I am completely helpless-- as useless as a used plastic bag clinging onto a neighboring tree branch and stuck only to serve as a detriment to all surrounding nature. Gon Freecss: the individual I owed everything to for flashing the pain away with his cheerful smile. And me: futile to him when it mattered.

My response was silence.

"Killua?"

"Y-yeah." I cursed at myself for how small my voice sounded.

Resonating through the line, was a broken cry, followed by sobs that anyone would only consider true despair. "I mean nothing to my family." an uptick, "nothing... to anyone."

"Gon-"

"And I try and try and try not to care. Then, BOOM: my father is back in my life followed by my two siblings I had no idea about. Gaito, the kid from camp?" Before I could respond, he interrupted again, his voice speeding up in a panicked accelerando, "That's my twin brother. And my mom ran away from everything only to be replaced by my aunt who sacrifices life itself for religion. The only family I have would abandon me if he found out who I honestly am, and" He cut himself off with echoes of tears, "what if it takes years for me to see the person I love most again?"

My heart stopped when I realized he was speaking of me; that I was the person he loved most. Every ounce of feeling in me both sparked to life and crumbled in anguish. And I now understood that I wasn't the only one who feared time, which gave his former note that much more meaning.

I listened to choking hiccups and deep breaths to regain control, and that's all I did: listened, hoping that he would feel better after ranting, and then I could tell him that there was still hope, maybe speak of the northern lights he had always wanted to gaze upon, possibly play Chopin on the piano, or just anything--some little thing that was worth seeing, worth living.

I found my voice, "I have my entire life planned out, and you better believe you're in it." I added with a smirk, "We should probably start saving to Alaska now before pollution covers the sky."

Gon laughed, sniffles dwindling, "Yeah, will do."

~*~

Summer break came to an end, followed by my sophomore year, and onwards came my second year attending the performing and visual arts high school downtown. I attended this school solely for academic success. The name itself wielded some weird sort of specialty that caused a person's ears to perk when mentioned—I joined because I strived to be one of the 'talented' that got in. But what a joke that was. Whichever direction a student goes, their sense of confidence changes in some sort or another. There are the kids that develop a humongous ego boost, thinking, if I'm the best here, then I'm the best everywhere, and then there are those whose self-esteem peaks at the title of being accepted but crumbles from there.

I was regrettably the latter, but I hoped for change.

I flew up the stairs, threw my bags down in the nearest practice room, and began warming up with contrary motion scales. I wanted to prove to Ms. Krueger, to the others, and myself that I improved over the summer--that I was no longer a burden; that I could be equal in skill. From freshman year of playing Chopin Nocturne in E flat Major No.2 to advancing to the Brahms Rhapsody in g minor, I'm just as good as the others now, right?

Wrong.

Instantaneously, I paused when hearing a Chopin etude, Winter Wind, played by a new freshman. He played it flawlessly, fingers flowing fluidly without any indication of cramps, intensity followed with proper voicing and dynamics. It's okay, it's just one prodigy. There's always one prodigy. I poked out of the practice room. I could compliment him; maybe if we're friends, I wouldn't be a burden, "That's pretty cool."

The boy shrugged, "Thank you, but it wasn't that hard. What're you playing?"

I plopped down to the neighboring grand and began with the development of my rhapsody. Another girl popped out of the nearest practice room, bright-eyed, "I love that piece! I played it in sixth grade." Her hair bounced as she sat on one of the pianos and played the entire thing. Again: flawlessly.

My heart dropped to my stomach, self-esteem shattered into pieces. It's no use, I said to myself, trying to feign indifference and bite my trembling lip. I could try my hardest, and I'll never measure up. For God's sake! I didn't strive to be the best, I wanted--I just wanted to be normal.

How pathetic.

Ms. Krueger crashed into the room, snapping her fingers to get everyone's attention. "We don't have much time, so we're hosting a mini-performance. Each one of you will play a piece you learned over the summer. It isn't for a grade, but rather for everyone to see how you play."

I didn't want to be here anymore. I clutched my sheet music.

"Killua,"

"Huh?"

"You're up first."

Of course. First. They needed to set the standards low. Nodding, I sauntered over to the piano bench, adjusting the seat and wiping my sweaty hands on my pants. Deep breaths, deep breaths; deep breathes. I improved, I attempted the fake 'confidence' optimists always bring up, saying, the outcome will be whatever you believe it to be, though I didn't believe a word of it.

I began, starting too loud, accompaniment drowning the melody, and octaves periodically missed.

Worse than before. Worse than last year. I have to be worth something more than this. That's the reason they accepted me. But that was a mistake. I know I'm decent at some things, so why is it so hard to prove it? Am I just as delusional as everyone else in my family? Why, why, why? It might as well have been a rhetorical question.

Ms. Krueger coughed. I abruptly lifted my hands from the keyboard to stop all sound, "Aren't you participating in the concerto competition this year?" She asked with a cocked eyebrow, unimpressed--immensely unimpressed.

"Yes, the Bach concerto in d minor."

"And I hope that is better than this?"

I winced, "I haven't started."

"As expected," she grumbled, "Next!"

'Next'--a dismissive term that portrayed I was nothing but a waste of time and still a mistake. And the piteous part is I agreed. Never averting my gaze from the carpeted ground, I rushed to my seat, furthest from the others, and listened. I listened. Listened, listened, listened.

Chopin's Fourth Ballade

Chopin's First Ballade

Lizst's Hungarian Rhapsody

Grieg's Concerto in a minor

Chopin's Etude Winter Wind

Chopin's Etude Waterfall

Bach's Italian Concerto

And the last freshman bowed at the grand piano, professionally adjusting his seat, and beginning the Bach concerto in d minor--the piece I failed to learn for Ms. Krueger--playing all thirty pages as perfectly as it could be.

A freshman did it, droplets rolled down my cheeks and spotted on my jeans. A freshman did it, and you couldn't. He played all thirty pages, and you couldn't play one! Night after night, time and time again at the piano, you so blindly thinking you improved, but nothing has changed. Nothing. 'Talented' Yeah right. Ms. Krueger admitted it was a mistake to accept you into this school, and no matter how hard you try, you will forever be a mistake. The only place you serve is a burden.

As soon as the bell rang, I grabbed my bags and bolted out the door, bangs over my eyes to hide the unwelcome tears.

Dad was supposed to pick me up from school, but he never came.

Rain flooded my shoes, harsh droplets blinded me, and damp clothing stuck like glue, revealing every crevice of my torso and becoming transparent by each passing moment. Cars honked their horns, walking pedestrians gave funny looks, and I felt nothing. When I finally reached the entrance of my father's apartment, the door was locked. Screaming to nothing—akin to a desperate wail for some kind of nourishment (despite knowing I would decline if it came my way), I banged my head on the door, "Why-," I choked, "why do I have to be so useless?!" I kicked it, hit it, punched it--no avail. My back slid down the door, backpack soaked and phone: broken. Placing my head in my folded arms, frustrated tears blurred my vision but never fell.

It's okay. It's just one bad day, one out of three hundred and sixty-five. I can still...improve. But maybe I didn't want to try my absolute hardest? Maybe, I was afraid, frightened that even then nothing would change. Maybe my subconsciousness yearned to hold onto a fragment of self-esteem and cling to the unknown. Maybe the unknown is better than knowing; maybe I already knew the answer.

Someone unlocked the door.

I jolted up.

There stood an unfamiliar old man, huge belly, bald-headed, and a mole the size of Jupiter on the center of his forehead, "Who are you?" He asked.

I responded with hesitance, "Killua Zoldyck."

The old man held the door open, "Oh, you're Silva's son! Here, come in." He said it as if I were the guest.

I slumped in, kicked off my ruined shoes, and threw my backpack against the wall, stomping into the living room, and preparing to give my father a yelling of a lifetime.

But he was passed out drunk.

Why? He promised. He promised. He promised to not drink anymore!

I pitifully nudged an empty beer can with the tip of my foot, watching unfazed as it rolled across the room. The silver tin: blinding in the daylight, navy blue, a shimmering metallic, and the dim clank as the cylinder object would bump into an occasional obstacle until it rested near the dusty corner. And how infuriating some abiotic substance could be. It's presence remained, always there, and now it laid in the corner in taunting hypnosis.

Whatever. Who cares anymore?

I just wanted to sleep, call Gon because he understood the frustrations of weakness; forget this day ever happened. But when I opened my bedroom, a horrendous display slapped me directly in the face. Trash littered the floor, shelves cluttered half the room, black pubic hair sticking to the bathroom floor, cherry ice-cream spread on the toilet and mirrors, and behind me stood the old man. "I'm not sure if your father had time to tell you, but I'm going to be living here for a few months, so we had to move some stuff in your father's room into your room." He said in his raspy voice.

I clenched my fists.

Stage Two: The Roommate: Graham

Too many flaws about this man made me extremely uncomfortable. He was obsessed with Tinder and was alarmingly addicted to finding various twenty-year-old girls from Venezuela to marry in exchange for money. Father viewed it as saving a family from a difficult country, but I saw it as an indirect form of prostitution. Graham would come up to me, show me his phone, and say, "Which woman do you think is worth dating?"

And the most disturbing part: the type of girls he liked the most frighteningly resembled Alluka.

~*~

Sleep was not a luxury of that night, or the next, or the next after that. With a broken phone and no privacy, I had no way of telling my Mom the current status. I wanted to warn her, beg her to keep Alluka away from this terror, but no. My uncle, who lives three houses down from my father, decided to carpool me after class each day, and I would wait for Alluka to get off the bus. But every time I opened my bedroom door, I was welcomed with a new disaster that I had the pleasure of cleaning up so it would be somewhat livable for both Alluka and me. The afternoons, I would sit on the black upright piano and practice, and in the mornings, I'd lay on the soft blankets of my bed with a textbook in-hand, Alluka snuffling next to me. It was manageable, good even, but then came change.

With Graham came "The Deal"—the trigger to every following disaster.

Father worked in the oil industry, as many did in the state, and he was an entrepreneur. His goal: to get rich, filthy rich. And I had no such desire. I admired Father for his undeniable academic intelligence, everyone did. With only a Bachelor's degree, he exceeded those with PhDs and worked with successful businessmen. But "The Deal" separated the delusional from the sane, and that separated the entire family.

But who knows what sane is anymore? I didn't.

A notification lit up the home screen of my phone.

Just now

Gon: If pure black is considered to devour reflections of all light, such as black holes, and the color white is the exact opposite, then what's the difference between pure white and a mirror?

Jesus Christ.

Killua: Are you trying to get me to do your physics homework again or something?

Gon: Killuuaaaaaa, pleaseeeee. I need someone smart to get me through this course.

Killua: Pfft, you're the one who goes to an engineering school.

I rolled my eyes when Gon's incoming call interrupted the screen. I swiped to answer, "I already told you, I do physics next year."

"I know!" Gon hummed excitedly, "I just needed an excuse to hear your voice."

"Idiot-!"

"Hey, Killua."

I paused.

I could still envision him rolling my name so easily off his tongue, and how little effort it would take for him to completely snatch me off-guard and dissolve into a rambling, blushing mess. "Ging said I could bring a friend to the Astros game on Saturday. Could you maybe...go with me?" He finished.

"I didn't know you were into sports."

Gon snorted, "I'm not." his tone turned mischievous and somehow alluring, "But there is ice-cream, cotton candy, pizza; do I need to go on?"

I snickered, "It almost seems like you're bribing me to date you." He yelped, and I burst into laughter. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding, but seriously, what if your aunt finds out?"

"Heh, as bad as this sounds, Ging is pretty good at hiding things."

"Uh-huh," I quirked an eyebrow, "and what does that imply?"

"It implies that I'm going to take Killua Zoldyck on another fantastic date even though we both know nothing about sports."

I laughed again. And with Gon, laughter was the easiest thing I've ever done.

~*~

"Brother," Alluka whined, "Gon keeps taking you away from me!"

I halted, a comb stuck in my tangled mess-as-hair. It's true. Ever since that day, I spent all night on the phone with Gon--whether that was lecturing him on getting other people to do his homework, or idle chit-chat--or listening to Gon as he would breakdown and me living in constant fear that one day, he would slit his wrist, and there would be no going back—the fear of losing Gon. But I never made time for Alluka. "I'll spend more time with you from now on."

"Promise?"

I smiled, "promise." fingers gently threading her silky black hair. I checked my phone, anxious, jittery, virtually shaking.

3 minutes ago

Gon: Are we supposed to dress up?

I rolled my eyes.

Killua: To a sports game? Seriously, Gon.

Gon: Hey! How was I supposed to know? You're so hard to impress.

Killua: Well, you seem to enjoy the challenge.

Gon: >:p

I continued texting Gon until I hopped in the passenger's seat of my mother's Lincoln.

"Killua," Mom spoke up, her voice laced with concern, "this is the second time you're meeting Gon at an odd place. Since when were you into sports?"

"Since Gon," Alluka grumbled. I wondered if she was trying to tease me or if she was genuinely jealous. And I also pondered whether to be upset about it or not.

Dismissively waving my hand, "I'm a boy. That crap is normal."

Mom didn't seem convinced, but that thankfully didn't stop her from driving me over to the Astrodome.

The meeting was awkward, to say the least. Gon's dad didn't make that any better. Both my mother and I were caught off-guard with their nearly identical appearances and nearly opposite personalities. Ging was gruff, eyes slightly more pointed than Gon's, hair a darker shade, and far shorter. But his personality: abrasive and aloof. There were some aspects I found similar: they thought alike, and I knew they were likely to approach a troublesome situation in the same way: rush in headlong without a doubt, but Gon was far more optimistic...and simple-minded.

Mother was the exact opposite. Ging was intelligent, that much was patent, but he hid it behind his abrupt language. Mom, though not having much prior education, spoke with formality. She's overprotective—what anyone would consider a helicopter mom, would only show her aggravation through hints (while Ging would flat out say it), and, the most alarming (and the evident) part, according to mother: Ging is gay—though that was based on her assumption alone.

To this day, I'm still surprised she willingly dropped me off without stalking me or hiding behind a bush (or cement pillar since it's the Astrodome).

"So you must be Killua Zoldyck." Said Ging with a mutual scowl.

My eyebrows furrowed, "Yeah..." yet I told myself not to return the hostility to avoid a clash because Gon obviously wanted us to get along or become best friends forever by the way his eyes gleamed with childish delight. And then I remembered the feeling of abandonment Gon felt towards his family, so the last thing I should do is make the matter more complicated.

Ging left us alone the entire night, and I thanked whatever deity out there, though, by any means, we were not alone. The numerous people made the wide halls feel slender, the rattling noise of constant conversation rang in our surroundings, but that was the last thing we cared about.

"Okay, we have Dippin dots, pizza, cinnamon rolls, and slushies." Announced Gon, a whimsical look present in his eyes, and part of me wondered how much of it was because I was there. He stretched like he was about to run a marathon when, in fact, it was quite the contrary: a food race. "Three. Two-"

Defying physics (and Gon), I shoved an entire pizza slice in my mouth, which should've been proportionally impossible, and I even received looks as if I was a buffalo trying to mate with a butterfly.

"Killuaaaa, that's cheating!" Once Gon realized his mistake (that I was not going to ever stop eating all the food), he quickly stopped whining and crushed his face into the nearby cinnamon roll.

I won, obviously.

Bellies full, mouths sticky from various sweets, and droopy eyes. We sat just like that for a solid ten minutes. And then, "Hey, Killua."

"Hmm?"

"Follow me."

I moaned in distraught, "why? I like it here."

He chortled, "The Killua Zoldyck shot down because of eating too much dessert. Tell me if I should be surprised or not."

"My family has immunity to cancers, heart attacks, and abusing their bodies through substances, so honestly, eating too much chocolate is the only way I expect to see myself dying."

We both laughed at that, but when he grabbed my hand so easily, so confidently like it was the most common or natural action on the face of the planet, I could only stare incredulously. And as Gon ran, I found it admittedly hard to keep up. He not only grew taller but faster as well. "Gon, where are you taking me?!" I yelled between breaths.

"It's a surprise!"

Of course. What isn't? A small smile grace my lips.

I mumbled apologies as we shoved our way through the crowd until Gon abruptly stopped, causing me to crash face-first into his solid torso. "Gon, what the h-"

"Here we are!" Gon announced majestically, arms open as if he was an over-enthused businessman hosting a grand opening. But instead of cutting a silky red ribbon with luxurious, slender scissors, he slammed open the patio door, smashing a stranger's foot into the brick wall.

"Kid, what the hell?!"

Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

Gon endlessly spurted apologies until the man up and left, grumbling with a hardly audible hoarse, gravelly voice, leaving nothing left but the soft rumble of cheering inside and crickets singing the song of midnight nature.

"So," I intervened, ambling towards Gon with a playful grin and hands behind my back, "Is there some metaphor behind this place?"

Smiling in turn, "Nope" he replied, popping the 'p'.

"Then what makes this place so special?" I watched with wide, curious eyes as Gon leaned over the metal railing of the balcony, overhead lights caressing the edges of his face, and the darkness of night shadowing every perfect detail in his face. I continued to watch as the miniature curve in his lip curled to a heart-stopping smirk. He let out a bellowing sigh, "Why is it special you ask? Because of the goddamn peace and quiet."

I laughed quite hard at that. We both did.

He stared back off into the distance while I found myself hanging my arms over the edge in a swinging motion, hypnotized as they swayed right, left, then right again.

"These are the moments I miss most."

My heart throbbed, but I didn't bother facing him when I responded, "You know, you could always apply for my school. You're great with the piano, and I'm sure you'd get in."

I couldn't help but recollect all those early mornings in Summer Camp where Gon would play the piano, and it always left me with a loss of breath. But the thing that surprised me the most: he never played cheerful songs to accommodate his always-optimistic personality, but they were never lonely like mine. His left and right hand would always have an individual sound akin to a duet that anyone could lose themself in. I felt a distant connection to it like the concept of understanding was close enough to brush my fingers with, but would always slip away before I could grasp it—like we were on the same path, but he always stood a few steps ahead. And I never understood why.

At least, not until later.

He frowned. I already knew he didn't want to attend my school, but it was nonetheless disappointing.

"Sorry, Killua. If I attended that school, I know I would end up hating the instrument."

"Why's that?"

"Hmm...many reasons, I guess. The biggest reason: I would never indulge in something I love with something I hate. Piano, for me, is like expressing my feelings. Receiving criticism for my playing would destroy all meaning in it for me."

I didn't say anything in response—mostly because I disagreed. Perhaps not with Gon's opinion, but the logic behind it. We have the freedom of choosing our path, such as deciding a major in college, but everything has some semblance of suffering involved. There's always going to be something you hate following something you love even if it's just a barely visible shadow. And that was one thing I knew for sure our mentalities conflicted with.

I lived life solely for the purpose of others. To me, my life didn't matter; it only served as a machine to assist others. It's what my family had drilled into me through countless years of childhood. Why go to school? To prevent suffering for your family. Why endure every day of doing something you absolutely despise? Because the here-and-now moment is meaningless for success. Always be a few steps ahead.

But little did I know, that was the reason Gon surpassed me. He understood years before I ever did, and if only I realized the detriments of a self-destructive personality, so many events could've been avoided instead of awaiting a ticking time bomb.

Suddenly, music sounded from a nearby speaker attached to the ceiling. A guitar leading an introduction—not electric, but it sounded slightly different from an acoustic. But the first thing I noticed: the melancholy tone of dread...and regret.

A faced upwards palm appeared in front of my face, the same hand that I grabbed that began everything. "You want to dance?"

"I can't dance."

Gon chuckled, "you can't go wrong with Hotel California. Here, I'll guide you."

Heat rushed to my face when sturdy hands gripped my waist, my eyes locking his. And that one moment lasted an eternity of just searching, searching for every intention and feeling drowning in swirling irises. All my senses peaked when Gon's breath fanned my face. "Yeah," I whispered, "guide me."

He directed me to spin as I laughed airily until the dance morphed into a gentle sway. With a burst of confidence, I buried my head into his chest, cheek pressed up against him, and ears ringing as his heartbeat would sound with a rhythmic pulse. None of us spoke, and it was better that way.

Yeah, this is fine. I'm okay being confined, it's okay to be weak, and change is fine as long as there would be those few days that I could hold onto Gon like this; as long as I could remember the feeling of security and encase in his addicting scent that would always make my mouth water; as long as his innocent heartbeat remains beating. Everything will be okay as long as I have Gon to guide me.

So I directed my attention to the music.

"Last thing I remember, I was running towards the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. 'Relax', said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive.

You can check out any time you like. But you can never leave.'"