To be honest, Gon doesn't hold with a lot of that "premeditated thinking" stuff. He's never needed to. Calculating leaves room for mistakes, and there's no point in humoring it when there's a perfectly trustworthy agreement between the body and spirit and nature. When Gon needs power, he waits for the world to grant it to him. When Gon needs an answer, he simply asks a question. If that doesn't work, Gon turns to Killua—in many ways, as the earth grows up around them, Gon finds himself turning to Killua.

Gon likes having steadfastness in his life; maybe it's a byproduct of his father's abandonment. The forest should be tall, his aunt should be happy, everything should be exciting, and Killua should remain with Gon. This is the natural. This is what he tells his bones.

When they are thirteen, Gon feels his heart freeze in his chest, and recognizes the familiar sensation as pain, and he doesn't think. He tangles his fingers in Killua's sleeve and says, "Don't go."

When they are fourteen, Gon sometimes wakes up at night and watches Killua's restless sleep. No matter how much nen training they have, nothing will cure boys of kicking out in their dreams. The blankets are tangled between them. Their faces are far too close—the bed isn't so big anymore.

When they are fifteen, Gon realizes he loves Killua so entirely that he can't fathom it. So he doesn't try.

When they are sixteen, they take a boat to an island and spend a month camping. No hunter business, no searching for Ging, not even a single fight happens that isn't between the two of them (and involves more wrestling than beating). Gon thinks he's never been happier, and has everything he needs. Killua steals the fish they cook and paints on his cheeks whenever they play games. They chase each other in circles.

When they are seventeen, Gon finds his father. He spends most of the meeting, admittedly, with his fingers clenching Killua's. Not because he's nervous—but to tell his father exactly where it all stands, here at their feet, the two of them with no room for anything else.

When they are eighteen, Gon is looking up at Killua's disgruntled expression as he stays an entire wall from falling down on them—and for what? It's not like they can't handle it. Killua is so old-fashioned. He thinks that, and he laughs, and he kisses Killua because this is the essential of living and nothing can go wrong. This is the natural. This is what he tells his bones. This is what sings in his blood, when Killua drops the whole thing—the whole thing!—and pulls Gon flush against him as though ensnaring them in some trap. Killua kisses like he fights, fiercely, and the world isn't so much steadfast as spinning.

When they are nineteen—

Gon figures that part's a secret. But now, when he listens to the wind rustle through the leaves, he likes to be leaning on Killua's shoulder. That's the only difference. Somehow, he believes, this has been coming all along.