Chapter 1: It's Only Time

"My name is Killua Zoldyck." I already began to notice hostility. A small audience awaited patiently, seated in a circular formation. "And my father is a substance abuser, but that's far from the only thing he abuses." You can be open, I told myself. Someone needs to know the whole story. Someone else. "It began with the loss of a heartbeat."

That's when the drama began, but my life started much sooner: summer camp freshman year.

It was a boarding camp made to fulfill kids' dreams, but for me, it was slavery, shackles and chains dragging behind my every step. It was a camp that gives opportunities. Opportunities for the future, so childhood meant waiting--waiting for adulthood, and adulthood meant waiting for retirement. I envied those who enjoyed the moment, not a care in the world, just living amongst the flow of life. Grandpa told me those who look ahead are smart. If so, intelligence is a prison.

Another year of summer camp. Another Bore.

I remember so vividly the smell of the forest: wet, clammy. Each leaf clung to my shoes, mud dampened the soles, and my backpack stuck to my skin. Bugs buzzed, some disgusting, some not, and stationary wind kept the weather stagnant. I followed the crowd like livestock, but I never blended in enough.

Each assigned cabin had four beds. The faculty miscalculated when assigning my short-term home, which campers called Base. There were four students and an extra assigned to cabin eight. The extra slept on the couch.

"Only losers are sleeping there, and I'm not a loser." A teen with ruffled brown hair had said.

The others agreed. Everyone simultaneously turned to me, eyes filled with pity, demise, disgust, or annoyance. From that point on, I spent as little time at "base" as possible. Mornings, I explored. Noon, I waited for night, and at night, I bathed under the twinkling night sky alone with my thoughts.

As for socialization, I listened from a distance. It was always the same egotistical talk of young boys: interrupting each other by boasting. That's when I noticed another boy my age. Spiky black hair, eyes a myriad of browns, and happy, a smile always plastered on his face. Counselors loved him, kids admired him, and animals would rub against his sun-kissed legs. I started gravitating towards him like a moth would with light. He always caught my attention as I watched from afar, but getting any closer risked me catching flame.

Not once did I hear his name.

It happened one night when the sun said its goodbyes for the day. I patted along the river's edge in a straight line, heels touching toes and toes touching heels as a small child would do when coming across a sidewalk curb. The wind gusted for night exclusively, sheering the surface of the water, and tugging the short hairs away. I came across the bridge. Campers aren't allowed across the bridge due to the danger of falling from such height, especially with kids jumping off thinking of the water as a cushion. To me, the bridge was the structure between freedom and captivity; life and death. I always paused at the cement line. Sometimes I would place a foot over, testing the waters, but I would retract immediately.

Until the day I had enough. I took off, running against the cement until reaching the peak of the arch. Nothing happened that day, and that's what bothered me. Nothing to look forward to in this dreadful, waiting-on-time life, nothing to go back to, nothing worth the suffering. Nothing. My mind was blank as I slid a leg over the railing. I wanted to jump, end everything on the bridge signifying life and death because neither side was any different for me.

The next leg over the railing.

I wasn't thinking. For the first time, my mind was blank. I gripped both hands behind me, looking down below: darkness like falling into an endless void.

"Don't do it." A familiar voice, timider than usual.

I whipped my head around to find the spiky-haired, brown-eyed boy. He had his hand out, and I never focused on a palm so intently in my entire life. His were scathed, fingers thick, and one tattering scar on his wrist.

"Go away!" I stammered. No, stay. Help me.

He didn't falter, scrunching his eyebrows and focusing his shimmering amber gaze on me. If it were any other situation, I would've blushed. He spoke slowly, "It's not a good idea."

"What do you know!" He knew enough, I told myself. The scar was too close to his vital point to be an accident.

He didn't say anything, just pushed his open palm towards me, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth. It's like he was telling me: I'll show you the reason to live. I'll show you that you're important. I'll show you.

So I complied, shakily entwining my fingers with his, skin so warm. And when my feet once again touched the safe ground, I was crushed into a furnace of a chest, his arms wrapping around me, not careful like I might break, not scared as though I would hurt him, but firmly, securely, and for once, I felt safe. "Thank you," I mumbled against his shoulder.

All too soon, he let go. A small smile graced his perfect lips. "See you tomorrow, Killua," before leaving with a wave.

I stood there, gaping like a fish. I wanted to know his name with a gnawing curiosity; the flustered part of me wanted to know how he knew mine. But that would wait until tomorrow.

I didn't get any sleep that night, but not due to fear of what might come through that door next, or because I was afraid to live with whatever life will slap in my face next, but excitement. I was banging my head with a pillow and watching the moon inch painfully slow across the pitch-black sky. Sounds I was usually immune to, crickets, owls, and branches swaying precariously echoed off the wooden walls. It was driving me mad, so I decided to get up. Who needs sleep anyway?

The clubhouse was open twenty-four seven for needs like bathrooms facilities, midnight snacks for starving teenagers, and it was the center of socialization. During hours of dawn, it became a place for me to feel safe and secure on my own. Often in early mornings, I would find myself leaving Base and sauntering on the clubhouse's rocky pathway.

A lone upright Yamaha stationed near the big rectangular windows that would only show the online of forest in the moonlight. I always gravitated towards the piano, though I never understood why. Grandpa would always declare: The Zoldyck Family has a legacy of good ears for music, which I believed, but only half of us enjoyed it. I liked it with zero correlations to the family, and I despised playing for anyone but myself.

It seemed like Grandpa had twice the expectations of me to make up for the failure of my father's generation. Each member graduated with PhDs, many of them either became professors or attended Harvard. And then Grandpa married my grandmother; later came my father when they were eighteen. You would think Darwinism would take some effect, but alas, Dad twisted all sense of logic.

An alcoholic. And later to morph into a twisted drug addict with greed possessing all, but I didn't know that at the time. What I knew is that my dad had a minor problem with his addictive personality, and the good outweighed all. Mom always emphasized the importance of education. She said it was necessary for independence, but until later, I had no idea how important that was.

So I lifted the lid of the piano gingerly, and I played to my heart's content. Chopin, to me, was the language of loneliness, and I understood it fluently from the light press of the sustain pedal to the resonating melody accompanied by the sub-voices of harmony. To this day, I still ponder how I didn't hear the footsteps behind me or the door swaying open in the forceful breeze. But there stood the tawny-eyed boy, leaning against the music rack, so close that all I could smell was the fresh mint of his toothpaste.

"That's beautiful." Even his voice became my new favorite sound.

I was at a loss of words, and it remained that way until he spoke again.

"You should play for others more often. I bet the campers would love it."

I shook my head. But I'll play for you.

"Is your hair naturally white?"

"Pretty much," I picked at my bangs.

"It's really pretty."

It was only the second confrontation, and I already labeled him as the most embarrassing person on the planet Earth and possibly beyond. Small conversation continued from there. Or rather, Gon did all the talking by asking questions, and I responded in short, abrupt ways. It was just a habit. When raised by a family where even one sentence is hard to get across, stretched communication becomes a struggle. Then I asked the one question that burned at the back of my mind, "What's your name?"

The boy showed off a toothy grin, "Gon. Gon Freecss!"

~*~

Gon Freecss: optimistic, honest, good-natured, outgoing, and every other label I couldn't begin to comprehend. We became fast friends, both of us sneaking out after dusk and returning to Base at dawn. And I'm glad, so very thankful I took Gon's hand. Maybe it wasn't the bridge that separated life and death, but rather Gon.

The lighthearted campfire games (most of them involved marshmallows) to jumping in the river and splashing each other until one of us nearly passed out. Our relationship was nothing serious, even though deep down, we had many serious things to talk about. But with each other, we enjoyed the carefree nature of freedom, living. I pushed down any feeling that had the potential to destroy it. And for the first time, days passed too quickly, and so many good memories, one after another, caused me to wonder why I haven't died from a chainsaw and awoke to find it was all a dream.

I wanted to cry on the last night of camp. Gon and I set up a campfire near the rippling lake. The stars were as bright as the fluorescent lights seen in professional buildings, as beautiful as a diamond reflecting like mirrors. And Gon. His tan skin accentuated by moonlight, hair as dark as the night sky. We didn't speak much at all that night, and we didn't need to. We were mere children, nothing much to control in our lives, so we learn to enjoy the moment, which is something I discovered alongside Gon.

It was the first night what they discussed was serious.

"I have a parent who's a strict Jahova Witness." A silence. "I'm not allowed to have friends, but I have one guardian who sneaks around those rules. Maybe...?"

"We can't." I hated to shut down his possibility like I didn't care because I did. God, I cared like my life depended on it.

I saw Gon wince, "I figured," he let out a pained laugh. After a moment passed, he held out a pinky finger, looking at me with those eyes I often got lost in, "Promise you won't forget me?"

"As if I could ever forget you, moron." I playfully nudged him in the side.

I'll never forget you as long as I live.

I immediately snapped back into the present when feeling those familiar thick fingers caress the hairline near the back of my neck. Gon was close, very close. My eyes widened to the size of the moon, but I didn't move away. I never wanted to move away. My gaze locked with his, never averting as I watched him slowly close the distance, eyelids falling halfway, minty breath now closer than ever.

I melted when our lips touched. And God, to be able to feel Gon's smile, I tried desperately not to make a high pitched noise that would cause separation because I didn't want to ever separate. I wanted, needed to pull closer. Close enough until I could feel his heartbeat on my chest, close enough so Gon's hair would tickle at sensitive places behind my ear; close enough so I wouldn't ever have to let go of Gon.

It took a good minute before a non-awkward rhythm took place. Gon began moving his chapped lips as I responded fervently, my hands leaving my side and allowing them to crawl up brawny arms to his compact shoulders, and finally, reaching his neck where my arms fit so perfectly like the last puzzle piece.

I shuddered, and that ripped a groan out of the other. This was escalating too quickly. If we went any further, I don't think I could live with separating from Gon, the pain too excruciating. I wanted to block out my thoughts, especially when a slippery wet tongue pried the seems of my lips.

I pulled away.

The night went like every other would, both acting as though nothing happened, but both him and I, knowing that we had the same feelings. Neither of us talked about what would happen in only a few hours, although I'm sure it underlined his every thought just as it did for me. And when morning came, buses parked near the bridge, we both waited side-by-side when backpacks in hand. My heart stopped as my assigned bus arrived, I wanted to turn to Gon, hug him, kiss him, anything! But I only stared instead.

He slid a piece of paper into my grasp, and there when I saw pain flicker in the pools of his eyes. "Remember that we will always be friends," I'll never be alone. "Know that someday, we'll meet again." That 'someday' when we escape.

To this day, I kept the crumpled piece of paper by my nightstand, rereading it every night, the memory of his voice that I always drifted off to, fading by each moment. It contained a phone number and in sloppy handwriting, the words: it could be months, years, decades even, but it's only time.

Whenever life seemed unbearable: Mom stressed out to death, Father with unpredictable emotions, grandparents doing nothing, me parenting my sister; me a victim to everything. I remembered those words. 'It's only time.' Meaning, our friendship, our feelings, will never dwindle, and that served as a foundation for everything.

But even still, it wasn't only time that stood in the way. I was only a hair away from exceeding rock bottom, and I was naive to it. Often I wished that I could go back in time and warn myself, but then I would think: warning or not, no one can adjust, and no one can adapt. It could happen every day of my life, and my feelings wouldn't become any easier.

"It began with the loss of a heartbeat."