*killua's face heats up as gon's fingers trace over his body with the utmost gentility, as if it really were something delicate and beautiful instead of hollowed out and honed for murder. he may no longer have the scars, but how he was raised still shows in every sharp angle that gon somehow sees past. he forces himself to meet his soft brown eyes as he waxes poetic, even though he feels like all his nerves are igniting, the words searing him to his core. looking back down at the messy site where their bodies meet, icy-pale against warm-tan, he murmurs,*

well, the moon gets its light from the sun.