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Pariston was delighted to see Ging at the party, of course. Ging was never in town, never around, didn’t give his phone number to people and even when he made exceptions, he’d change the number within the year. Ging liked it when people came and went. There was something tragically exciting about never seeing someone again, even after you’d spent months together in close quarters, knew their parents’ names.
Ging had to see Pariston again, though, had to see him over and over, through the tail ends of years when he’d absolutely have to go back to the office, the one he never used, the one with the dust on the desk and the chair and everything else. Pariston would knock on his door after a Zodiac meeting and slink around and run a finger over the dust and lean on doorframes just slightly enough that Ging would either make him leave or make him suck him off. It was kind of funny, kind of obvious, the sort of thing Ging knew that Cheadle suspected and disliked immensely, and that made it even more funny. Not that he cared much what Cheadle thought. This city was just so boring.
“You look bored,” said Pariston, flute of champagne grasped delicately between his fingers, hair impeccably tucked behind his ear, wearing one of those suits Ging could tell he had spent too much time pressing, folding, whatever.
Ging paused and looked at him for a moment. “You trying to impress someone?”
He resumed strolling between other office workers, other Zodiacs. They were at Pariston’s penthouse downtown, a slick, marble-countertop type of place that made Ging wrinkle his nose a bit. Most of the walls were high windows overlooking the skyline, all the furniture minimal and sharp, fabric pulled tight over odd shapes, rug looking like something out of a catalog, it was so clean.
Pariston laughed heartily, following him with the air of someone who thought he was secretly doing the leading. “Why do you think so?”
Ging frowned at him and then at his champagne glass. “Well, you threw this party, didn’t you? And you’re wearing that.”
“Oh, this old thing?” Pariston was batting his lashes.
Ging rolled his eyes. “Yeah. That old thing.”
Pariston smiled and seemed to settle a bit more, one hand on the kitchen counter behind Ging, leaning in a bit, a telling sign. Ging smiled back a little, amused.
Pariston gestured with his glass at him- there was a bit of champagne left. “Want the rest?” he hummed.
“I can get my own,” said Ging, unperturbed, watching him tip his head back to get the last of it, all the movements calculated and graceful, like he’d practiced. He half expected Pariston to tilt himself even closer and kiss him, right then, but Mizaistom was walking over with Cheadle.
“Always a treat to see you two,” said Ging tiredly.
“I’m sure,” replied Cheadle. “Just wanted to check in with you two about the new exam law proposal, actually. I’m-“
“Aw,” said Pariston, elongating the word into about four different sounds, “no professional stuff for one night, can’t we do that?”
Mizaistom looked at him with a slow force. “You were completely unwilling to talk about it seriously this afternoon, so we’ve been forced to come to your apartment-“
Ging stopped listening then. He felt an awful lot like he was at the popular table in middle school, humoring the two nerds who had come to ask to sit with them and it was making him uncomfortable.
“And this one isn’t even gracing us with his attention,” said Cheadle, waving at him exasperatedly.
Ging blinked at her. “I already gave my input earlier today. Leave me alone. That shit’s gone from my brain by this point.”
Mizaistom seemed to consider him for a moment. “Strange of you to come to an office party.”
“It’s not an office party,” added Pariston cheerfully. “It’s at my place.”
Ging ignored him. “There was a small chance this would be interesting. I mean, it’s definitely not, but you’re not helping.”
Cheadle huffed. “In our defense, we didn’t come here to-“
“Cheadle, Cheadle,” beamed Pariston, attempting to pat her shoulder but failing as she sidestepped it immediately. “Enjoy yourself. Eat my food. Use my bathroom. I got it remodeled.”
“I don’t want to use your bathroom,” Cheadle said.
“I actually do,” said Mizaistom, walking away. The three of them watched him do it.
“Let me get you a drink, Ging,” said Pariston lowly, after a few moments, Ging sliding him a narrow glance as he parted, not answering.
Cheadle eyed this interaction exhaustedly. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Probably not,” said Ging, still absentmindedly observing Pariston loudly greet people as he made his way across the room.
Cheadle noticed, sighing and rubbing her face with her hands. “It’s a good thing dogs aren’t manipulative because I would immediately use this against you.”
“I admire your commitment to your character,” said Ging, suddenly curious, now, about the rest of Pariston’s apartment, what sort of things he kept in his room.
He started to leave and looked back at Cheadle for a second. “Take care of yourself,” he said, not waiting for an answer, moving down the hallway, where only a few people were standing, their private conversations a low murmur below the waves of sound coming from the living room.
Ging tried some of the doors until he found a bedroom. He guessed it was the one Pariston used; it was hard to tell, as none of the rooms seemed to have any sort of personality, no posters on the walls, no little trinkets other than the obvious, like someone had made a list of things normal people liked and bought them online without a second glance. No pictures of family anywhere. No evidence of time spent on vacation, traveling. No clutter. Ging had the suddenly roaringly loud urge to go through all of Pariston’s drawers.
“So forward of you,” Pariston murmured, closing the door behind him, handing him a glass. Ging could feel his nen, a buzz beneath everything else, could feel Pariston getting excited like he usually did when Ging would tell him to get on his knees and grab his hair and let him wrap his tongue around the ends of his fingers. Ging didn’t want to do what they usually did. The fact that they had a usual was disconcerting.
“Never said you had to come in here,” said Ging, deciding to start with Pariston’s bedside table first, rummaging through a few notebooks and pens and a cough drop wrapper.
Pariston watched curiously. “Trying to figure out my secrets?”
Ging looked up as Pariston sat on the bed, one leg crossed over the other. “It’s like you’re pretending to be a person.”
Pariston tilted his head at him, eyelids falling lower, not saying anything. Ging could tell he liked this comment though he didn’t understand why, an exciting prospect. He went over to peruse Pariston’s closet.
“I expected it to be big,” said Ging flatly, “but. Okay.”
Pariston chortled. “Pick out an outfit for me, won’t you?”
“I’m not doing that,” said Ging, pausing to look at velvet suits, cashmere, corduroy. “Oh, look, something that isn’t a suit.” A row of dress shirts, button-ups, a few tasteful tees.
“You always see me in my professional wear,” sighed Pariston airily. “Wish I could show you something else.”
Ging whirled around to guffaw. “Uh huh.”
Pariston pouted from his expensive, giant bed. Ging laughed at him some more.
“Come and look through that one,” said Pariston, gesturing to a drawer near a desk with nothing really on it.
“Let me guess, there’s a dildo in there or something,” said Ging, unhurriedly opening a dresser next to him to reveal socks, all matched and folded with incredible precision.
Pariston laughed, almost strained. “No, it’s just so funny watching you snoop around.”
Ging stood in the doorway of the closet to look at him, the lights of the city too much to look at on top of the bright floor lamps of the bedroom. Pariston met his eyes, one nail tapping on his glass, just once, like he couldn’t stop himself.
Ging smiled at him. “You want me to fuck you that bad?”
Pariston blinked slowly. “Well.”
Ging made his way over to the bed, settling next to Pariston, who watched all of it with a heavy gaze. “You’re gonna have to beg for it,” Ging murmured, his satisfaction leaking out of his voice only a little. His breath slid against Pariston’s neck, searing, he knew.
Pariston seemed to drift toward it. His exhales were too perfect, too well-timed. “Mhm,” was all he said, a small whine.
Ging decided to lean in farther, his hand ghosting up Pariston’s thigh, Pariston humming, pleased. Ging finally pressed his lips against Pariston’s neck, but only for a moment, then sucking on the skin, biting. Pariston arched into it. “Don’t tease me,” he whispered, opening his eyes to sulk at Ging. “You know I’ll do it.” He pulled Ging toward him, mean. Ging let out a guttural laugh, letting him, but Pariston was palming him through his jeans. “Come on,” Pariston said, in his lilting voice, the one he used when he was excited to take someone apart. “I want it.”
Ging liked the way the light hit Pariston’s face then, his eyes thrust into shadow, the way a strand of hair had escaped from behind his ear, always otherwise perfectly placed. Liked the way Pariston brought out his edges, just for him. “Yeah, you do.” His mouth was against Pariston’s ear, his fingers toying with the waist of his trousers. “Going to have to prove it to me, though.”
“I can,” said Pariston, almost desperately, gladly, eyes blown wide open, his grip tightening on Ging through his shirt.
“Yeah,” said Ging. “I know.”
He left for the hallway. He knew it was more fun that way, that Pariston thought so, too, would circle around him in complex ways for the rest of the night, and he did, actually, saying cheers with strangers and clinking glasses and eyeing him from across the room, mask falling for a fragment of a second, smile gone, Ging feeling it every time like ivy clawing its way up the brick of his neck.
“Why, Ging,” said Pariston, later, catching him by the shoulder with a sly twist of his hand as he passed by, Ging hadn’t even noticed, startling because of it, “I was wondering. Do you think about me, when you’re gone?”
“Gone,” said Ging, tasting the word in his mouth and not quite sure he liked the flavor. “Not really.”
“Aw.” Pariston looked like he wanted to drag Ging somewhere by the hand, eat him alive. “I think about you all the time.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Ging placidly.
Pariston laughed back, all bells and delightful timbre and it was all fake, all of it, Ging rolling his eyes because he knew, he knew, most people did too and they couldn’t do anything about it, but Ging could, because Pariston let him see, let him do whatever he wanted. “Oh, look,” he said, glittering, turning it on as he always did, “it’s Gel, didn’t even see her come in. Why don’t we say hi?”
“I’m good,” said Ging, turning away to raid the refreshments table, as Pariston referred to it. Pariston himself was gone in his peripherals.
“Why are you still here?” Ging was annoyed, now, because he’d gotten to the dessert area and Mizaistom had been there too.
Mizaistom sighed tiredly. “We can have a bit of fun, okay?”
“Sure,” frowned Ging, dipping a strawberry into a tiny chocolate fountain. He continued with his mouth full. “We all know fun involves Cheadle over there talking to those doctors about the new law she’s trying to pass or whatever.”
“You’re always so rude,” said Mizaistom irritably. “You know, I’ve heard you’re not this standoffish to people outside of the Zodiacs.”
“That’s true,” said Ging, nodding. He’d moved on to a fudge-covered cherry and was almost ready to spit out the pit. “Yeah, I hate you guys. You’re too up your own asses.”
Mizaistom was emanating waves of distaste. “You’re honest.”
“Pride myself on it, yeah.” Ging shot the pit out of his mouth onto the hardwood floor.
“Um,” said Mizaistom, looking at it.
“He’ll hate that,” said Ging in lieu of explanation.
“You’re insane.” Mizaistom seemed to have given up, was sipping his drink. Seltzer water or something, probably. “Him, I always knew. You- well, I knew that too, actually.”
“We all have our quirks.” Ging tranquilly took out his phone to check the time. “If he asks, I’m outside.”
“Tell him yourself,” said Mizaistom, but Ging was already heading to the door, waving at a nice couple he’d met earlier that night, two sea hunters who apparently lived on a boat. They seemed happy, cute. Ging wasn’t sure when he’d stopped wanting that sort of thing.
The elevator took Ging down, down. The walls were glass and he could look out at the city, alive and taunting. He remembered the first time, Pariston’s gleeful smile, his bratty remarks, Ging shoving him against the desk so he’d be quiet.
“Does this come off?” Pariston had said, pulling at the collar of Ging’s shirt.
“Do you ever shut up?” Ging had growled in return.
Pariston leaned in to kiss him, hungry, loud in his hunger. “I hate you.”
“I know,” said Ging. “You’re fucking weird.” He let Pariston sit with him on the desk and lift up his shirt to lap at his nipple. Ging frowned down at him, feeling good but unsure whether this was a beneficial turn of events.
“Am I not exciting enough for you or something,” murmured Pariston. “Should I be playing hard to get?”
“You wouldn’t be asking if you were actually going to do it.” Ging wouldn’t admit it, but it was something intriguing, wasn’t it, that Pariston obviously despised him, wanted to beat him always and forever, but paraded around like he did, was so willing to give him everything.
Pariston hummed in response. “I know you don’t get around much, Ging.”
“Keeping track of my sexual escapades?” Ging carded his fingers through Pariston’s hair and pulled, hard. Pariston looked up at him, face full of surprise and appreciation. He licked his lips.
“Well, yes,” Pariston said, fingers not quite scratching over the planes of Ging’s stomach. “Just curious about your,” he smiled, “celibacy.”
“Fuck you,” said Ging, amused. “You should be flattered.”
“You seem to hold yourself in high regards.” Pariston had climbed halfway into his lap. “Maybe I’m just the only one who wants you.”
“No, I’m a catch.” Ging laughed, shoving his mouth against his, sloppy, wet. Pariston was desperate in his kisses, following Ging when he’d pull away, hands all over him and violent in this quiet, subdued way, like he wanted to grab Ging with a lot of force but instead was only managing to brush his hands slowly across the fabric of his pants.
“When I first met you,” said Pariston, after a minute, “I knew, I knew.”
Ging grabbed him by the tie, exhilarated. “Yeah?”
“Please,” Pariston had said, and Ging had told him to suck his dick.
Ging now sat on the bench outside of Pariston’s apartment building, the cool night air giggling its way through the alleyways. It was late now, late enough that the people out were going to clubs or leaving clubs or going somewhere else to fuck. Ging stretched his arms above his head, patient.
He heard footsteps, clipped, like the person was wearing heeled boots. He smiled. “What did you know?”
“Hm?” Pariston stopped next to the bench. Ging mockingly patted the spot next to him. Pariston wrinkled his nose. “It’s a bit dirty.”
“When you first met me.” Ging turned to him, meeting his eyes, swearing he could see Pariston’s pupils going wide. “You said you knew.”
“Not sure what you’re referring to.” Pariston bared his perfect, blinding teeth. “Are you staying in a hotel?”
“You know I have an apartment here.” Ging stretched again, grunting and exhaling. He got up at once. “Let’s go.”
Pariston’s breath hitched imperceptibly. Ging smirked at him. Pariston brought his hand up to toy with Ging’s shirt, not matching his gaze, looking down. “Ging,” he said quietly, laughing. “Are you sure?” He was making fun of him, of course.
“Oh, quit it,” said Ging, shoving him away and waving for a taxi.
Pariston grimaced. “I have a chauffeur, you know.”
“Who, Beans?” Ging howled when Pariston didn’t answer, pursing his lips. “Oh, god. Really? No. That’s not the energy I want right now.”
“Fine.” Pariston crossed his arms. “Call your little taxi.”
—
Ging’s place was very much not-lived-in. Ging had a lot of apartments scattered across the country, just to have a place to crash if he had no other option. Most of them had bare walls and sparse, cookie-cutter furniture and sometimes he’d forget to take out the trash before leaving for months, returning to a putrid smell that would require open windows for days. They weren’t ugly apartments, per-se, but Pariston obviously hated this one, blinking slowly, confusedly.
“A studio,” said Pariston, after a while.
Ging went to get a glass of water. “Yep.”
Pariston walked over to examine his mail, a stack of random letters that Ging had grabbed from his stuffed mailbox on the way up the stairs. His place was a walkup, no elevator. Pariston held up an envelope like a winning card. “From our dearest Cheadle.” He pouted dramatically. “Love letters?”
Ging rolled his eyes. “Probably an invitation to a charity event or something.”
“Oh, charity,” said Pariston airily, ending it there.
Ging snorted. “Do you want some water?” He knew Pariston had a filter, had a fridge that crushed the ice for you.
Pariston gave him a look. “No, I’m fine.”
“Uh huh.” Ging put his glass down. “So?”
“Yes?”
“Want it on the bed?”
Pariston’s demeanor shifted a tiny, tiny bit, something going darker in someplace Ging couldn’t quite see. “You’re really not romantic at all.”
“Well,” said Ging. “What did you want, Mr. Hill?”
Pariston’s eyelashes fluttered, even with Ging’s voice pitched higher, teasing as he said it. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, subtly posing against the dining table behind him. “Maybe you’d have me against the counter. Push me against the front door. Kiss my neck and call me pretty.”
“You’re pretty,” deadpanned Ging, going to him and pushing him against the wall.
Pariston hissed, melting around Ging’s hands, gripping him by the shoulder, by the arm, by the hips. Ging pushed Pariston’s thighs apart with his own leg, rubbing against him, Pariston whining and rocking against it, letting out a breathy yes.
Pariston riled Ging up like no one else. This is why he’d gone to the party. This is why he’d come back a few times more than he’d absolutely needed to. This is why his mouth was hot against Pariston’s, now, why his heart was a heady, angry thing of desire. Ging moved with Pariston, listening to him let out a tiny ah as Ging pressed his mouth against the shell of his ear, sucking at skin wherever he could.
Pariston was chasing his jaw with his tongue. It hadn’t been long but he was frantic, now, hands reaching underneath Ging’s shirt, pulling at it like he needed something to hold onto. “Please- please-“ Pariston was saying, panting as Ging’s stubble caught on his neck.
“Good,” muttered Ging, catching Pariston’s wrists and pinning them against the wall behind him.
It was a bit awkward, with their height difference, and Pariston laughed lightly, almost sweetly beneath him. “You’re so- short.”
“Asshole,” growled Ging, pleased somehow, movements faster, chasing something he didn’t have yet, sensation his priority. Pariston mewled under him, almost giggling.
And then Ging stopped, looking at Pariston trapped under him, chest rising and falling, delighted.
Ging tightened his grip around his wrists just a little. Pariston smiled. “Ging,” he said, and it was calm, but his eyes were narrowed, horrible, terrifying. Ging studied them for a second.
“Turn around,” he said lowly. He felt Pariston’s cock twitch under his knee, watched his tongue run across his lower lip. Pariston smelled so, so clean, like men’s perfume and bleached laundry, but somewhere else was a bit of sweat and lust, and Ging was pressing his mouth against the crook of his neck, where he’d found it.
“Yes,” said Pariston. Ging let him move around a bit under his hands - not a lot, not enough - and pressed his face into his shoulders again, pressed Pariston flat against the wall. Pariston rocked his ass against Ging, making Ging grunt, and then he was surprised at himself for doing it.
“Fuck,” said Ging, suddenly aware of it all, of his arousal. Pariston let out a simple, silvery moan. Ging reached a hand to the front of him and palmed him through his trousers. There was a damp spot there, Pariston bucking into his grip gracefully, smooth and syrupy like all the looks he’d given Ging earlier over champagne and other people’s jokes.
“No,” said Ging, stilling him with a hand. “Don’t move.” Pariston closed his eyes - he’d been watching his hand, below - and made a satisfied sound. Ging used those fingers to unbutton Pariston’s trousers, pull the zipper down, reaching in and squeezing the base of him, spreading precum all over his tip, his slit. Pariston shuddered. Ging was rubbing himself against Pariston’s ass, through the clothing, and it was so little that it was just enough to drive him insane.
“Fuck,” said Ging again, grinning. “Feels good.”
“Ging,” Pariston slurred, hand clumsily reaching for Ging’s face, Ging catching a finger in between his teeth and biting playfully. Pariston leaned his face down, hid his expression in his hair, shivering all over. “Please,” he said again, whispered, heated.
“Hm,” said Ging, fist in his hair, pulling him back up to speak in his ear. “There’s something you want?”
“Mhm,” moaned Pariston immediately, hips grinding into Ging and his hand in turn.
Ging groaned, stroking Pariston slow, slow, closing his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Like that.”
He kissed Pariston from the side. He was struck by the recognition of it, abruptly, searingly- this he knew, he was familiar with this kiss, wanting, perfect, the shadow’s on Pariston’s face, the frantic way he’d slot his mouth on his, and Ging’s own rash heartbeat as his tongue pressed farther in. Both their breaths jumped, then, like they were both thrilled by it, like it was a surprise, and wasn’t that funny, because the kiss was like an old friend, or maybe more a victory over an old rival, one remembered fondly.
Pariston keened. “Fuck me,” he mumbled, and Ging gave him one last stroke before letting up.
“Gotta get the lube,” he said.
Pariston practically vibrated. “Please.”
Ging chuckled into his hair. “You’re going to have to stay still.”
“I will,” said Pariston.
Ging fumbled with the drawer, with the bottle of lube, with the condoms he kept in this apartment specifically, no reason, closing the dresser near his bed with an almost-slam, Pariston letting out a breathy laugh from across the room. “Excited, are we?” But when Ging reached him, he was still in the same spot, still leaning against the wall.
Ging looked at him for a second. Pariston looked back. “Take off your jacket,” said Ging. Pariston did, placing it on the table nearby, eyes dark. He got in front of Ging again, pressed his ass against him. “Want it,” he murmured, “badly.”
Ging groaned, pressing him close, lube-slicked fingers sliding down into Pariston’s trousers to his hole, spreading him open, and Pariston soon was gasping around him, high, contented sounds. Ging was so hard, could feel himself leaking.
When Ging finally unbuttoned his pants, Pariston just watched over his shoulder, donning a mostly blank expression with something dangerous below it. Ging nudged Pariston’s trousers down, too. There was a pause, then, as Ging breathed and had one hand around the base of his cock with the condom on, until Pariston moved back a bit, pushing himself against him, lube smeared around the insides of his upper thighs.
Ging liked to think he generally had things under control. But he didn’t, now, was losing himself in the heat of it, Pariston moaning as he pushed him up against the wall, Ging pressing him there, keeping him in place.
“Fuck,” Ging stuttered out, everything heavy, “fuck, you’re- you feel- you feel so good-“
“I’m close,” whimpered Pariston, and Ging had stopped holding him down, his touch retreating to Pariston’s chest, the buttons of his shirt.
“Yeah-” said Ging. He felt delirious. “That’s right, feels good, don’t you want to-“ Pariston’s answering yes, yes, then- “you can cum, go ahead-“
Pariston tightened around his cock, gasping around him. He was so loud. Ging should’ve known this, but it pushed him over the edge, anyway, just thinking about it, just listening to the sound of it. Ging came with his hands in Pariston’s mouth. Pariston, after riding the aftershocks, breaths a little quieter, had his teeth around Ging’s finger, biting down. Ging gave one last groan as his unshaved cheek grazed across Pariston’s neck.
Pariston sucked on his fingers, almost overdramatic in the candied haze afterward, eyeing Ging from the side. “We should go again,” he said, and his smile was cruel.
Ging wanted to deny him. “If I feel like it,” he replied, feeling a bead of sweat dance around his neck. The low light of his apartment was laughing at him; it knew that he wasn’t going to make Pariston leave, not tonight.
“Oh, sure,” said Pariston, turning around to toy with his hair. Pariston’s own hair was a bit out of place- Ging made sure to study it.
Ging let him do that for a minute, not exactly charmed but not exactly disgusted either. “Next time you want to fuck, don’t throw a party to ask for it.”
Pariston shuddered slightly, like he still had something left in him from earlier. “You’re being so presumptuous.”
“I know,” said Ging. “I get you.”
Pariston looked up then, meeting his eyes. Ging felt his own narrow with interest, honing in on the flat, severe emotion simmering there. “Yes,” said Pariston. “I think you do.”