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The Annual Zodiac Twelve Alignment and Synergy Retreat was shaping up to be the most memorable corporate event ever put on by the Hunter Association. It being the only corporate event ever put on by the Hunter Association was neither here nor there. After all, you always remember your first.

Pariston had proposed the retreat a few months back. It was intended to combat the participation issues plaguing the newly formed council. Council members made meager showings at their regular meetings – Cheadle, Mizaistom, Botobai, and Gel the only Zodiacs to boast perfect attendance records.

“Our engagement is low,” Pariston had said, sweeping his hand across the table to draw attention to the seven empty chairs. “It’s impossible to show a united front to the Hunter Association when over half of our members would rather play hooky than bear the responsibility of their position.”

“We’re here to advise Chairman Netero in emergency situations,” Botobai said, looming in that self-righteous way of his, a judge moments away from issuing a verdict. “There is no reason to expect all of us to be at every meeting in times of peace.”

“Oh pish. How can our absent friends be trusted to come together in times of strife if they can’t be bothered to show up during harmony? Think of how this looks to even the lowliest temp hunters. We cannot risk appearing weak.”

In the end, even Cheadle had voted in favor of the retreat.

It is for this reason that Pariston stands drinking an aperol spritz out of a plastic cup in the middle of an upscale hotel ballroom on a Friday evening. Ten other members of the Zodiac mingle around him. A bumper attendance, much better than anticipated, remarked on by all of his peers. But there’s a tedium he can’t shake. A listlessness that rots between his teeth, blackens his gums.

“So sorry to bother you, vice chairman. But there’s a… matter with which I need your assistance.”

Pariston glances down to where Beans stands before him, wringing his gloved hands. He smiles, slick and whetted, teeth glimmering like fish hooks on a line. “I asked you not to interrupt the welcome mixer. The first activity sets the tone for the rest of the retreat. It’s delicate.”

“I know but… this is time sensitive. It has to do with Ging Freecss.”

Pariston’s gums ache. There’s a pang in his teeth that he imagines feels like a cavity, has nothing to compare it to because he was blessed with teeth so healthy and straight they pass for veneers. For a moment, he considers pulling out his teeth one by one to get the pain to stop, or to make it worse, or just to coat his tongue with the taste of his own blood, fill his belly with it.

“Ging didn’t bother to reply to my invitation,” Pariston says, taking great pains to keep his voice bubbly and pleasant. Ging’s name scrapes against his soft palate on its way out. Goads his uvula. Leaves dirty footprints on his tongue. “I’m sure he can wait until I’m back in Swardani City.”

Beans looks even more uncomfortable, a few beads of sweat shimmering on the top of his head. “He’s here.”

He sighs, beleaguered, and sets down his drink. He doesn’t need to fake exuberance when he says, “Alright. Take me to him.”

Pariston feels him before he sees him, the electric static of his nen pulsing through the hotel, tingling in Pariston’s molars and the spaces between his bones. It almost hurts, stinging in a pleasant way like squeezing sore muscles or the relief that follows ripping out a hangnail.

Ging leans one elbow on the reception desk, waiting for them. He looks older. A dusting of a beard along his jaw and his upper lip, and the whisper of frown lines forming between his eyebrows. His hair might be shorter, but it’s hard to tell under the scarf wrapped haphazardly around his head. He doesn’t smile when he sees them. Instead, looks somehow both amused and put off.

“Why, Mr. Freecss,” Pariston says, making sure to use the tone of voice that rings out as clear and bright as a bell, “it’s been a while. We didn’t think you were coming.”

He wonders if Ging feels different. Older or stronger or wilder. Maybe familiar, too, if he still has calluses in the same places. The same scars. Wonders if touching Ging will give him a shock, send bolts of nen careening from his palm to his elbows. He reaches out to shake Ging’s hand.

Ging smirks then, a quick upturn of his lips. Looks at Pariston like he caught him with his fly unzipped, lip syncing in the mirror, watching porn. He doesn’t take Pariston’s hand.

“I changed my mind about coming. I didn’t want to miss out on the,” Ging looks up at the banner hanging behind the reception desk, “alignment and synergy.”

“I’m delighted you decided to join us at our little shindig. It wouldn’t have been the same without our boar.”

Beans clears his throat. “I hate to be a bother, but I wonder if we should discuss the matter at hand.”

“Is there a problem?” says Pariston.

Ging shrugs and looks at Beans who pulls out his phone and taps away on the screen. He’s always so thorough, Pariston thinks, and wants to do a good job. Beans is earnest and reliable and one of the most boring people Pariston knows personally.

“Ging never RSVP'd for the retreat,” Beans says, a hesitancy in his voice that makes Pariston think of walking on a frozen lake, each word stepping gingerly on the ice to see if it will hold its weight. “While we can add him to the planned activities without issue, I’m afraid the hotel is fully booked.”

Pariston frowns in the way he knows makes him look truly concerned and a little pretty. It’s in his rotation of five best frowns and has a eighty-three percent success rate of conveying sympathetic distress. “How is that possible? There are nearly two hundred rooms in the hotel. I chose the venue myself.”

A flicker of exhaustion crosses Beans’ face before he says, “There’s… uh, a convention for temp hunters this same weekend.”

Pariston makes a tsk sound and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Of course! How silly of me.” He flashes Ging an apologetic smile. “I require that any hunters who choose to temp with my agency must complete a certain number of continuing education credits each year. Even though I send out ample reminders, they always seem to leave it until the last minute. I should have remembered that this is their last opportunity to earn credits before the end of our fiscal year.”

“There are twelve Zodiacs,” Ging says, hands in his pockets. “Why didn’t you reserve twelve rooms?”

Pariston rolls out his second favorite frown this time. The one that makes him look as though he’s clinging to politeness despite being deeply offended. “Well, I don’t know what to say, Mr. Freecss. You chose not to respond to my invitation. It isn’t my job to predict your whims and make plans accordingly. Everything doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Doesn’t it?”

The skin on the tip of Ging’s nose is pink and peeling. Sunburn. Pariston studies it, counting the flakes of dead skin that are lifting at the corners and curling in on themselves. His top lip is burned, too, the thin skin chapped and red. It would feel terrible to kiss him, Pariston thinks, with the beard and the skin flakes. He has the urge to bite down on the edge of Ging’s burned skin and peel it back until he bleeds.

“There’s a motel about a half-mile down the road…” Beans is saying.

“No, no,” Pariston interrupts. “The purpose of this retreat is to bond as a team. It will be impossible to foster emotional closeness without being physically close. In order to participate, you’ll have to stay here.”

Ging says, “I can camp out in the lobby. I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Absolutely not,” Pariston says. “Surely, we can come up with a solution that doesn’t make you look like a vagabond. Let’s put our heads together.”

He makes a show of considering their options, tapping his chin with a perfectly manicured finger, clear polish flashing in the light of the chandelier. Ging yawns. A gobbet of drool leaks from the corner of his mouth. Pariston watches as it rolls over Ging’s dry lips and starts to travel down his chin. Ging catches Pariston’s eye, rubs his mouth with the back of his hand, and brushes it clean on the leg of his pants. Pariston licks his lips, a dull pang of disgust quivering in the back of his throat.

“Where’s Netero?” Ging asks. “Maybe he’ll have a suggestion.”

“Oh, we shouldn’t trouble the chairman with menial issues like this. Besides, Netero isn’t here.”

“Why not?”

“Ah, in order to promote trust and get rid of the pesky issue of a power imbalance, this retreat is for Zodiacs only.”

“And you think it’s fine you’re here, despite being the vice chairman?”

Pariston parts his lips a smidgen, widens his eyes, makes his best approximation of the expression you might see on the molded face of a baby doll. Hopes he looks a little tearful, as though any stray, inconsiderate remark could trigger a deluge. He presses a hand to his chest. Blinks a few times. Beans, standing next to him, shifts his weight from foot to foot. Ging looks bored.

“I’m a member of the Zodiacs.” Pariston’s voice is melodic and solemn, a tone that exudes passionate responsibility, makes it clear that this is his vocation. “I don’t see myself as above any of you. If anything, my role as vice chairman makes me a servant to the Zodiacs.”

“Is that so?” Ging says. His eyes glow with a wild sort of hunger. Pariston has seen this look in Ging’s eyes before – on an archeological dig, listening to Netero’s stories about the Dark Continent, taking in the view of Pariston kneeling between his legs. Pariston wants to blow on the embers of desire until they become a blaze. Wants to burn both of them alive. “But Beans is here, and he isn’t on the council.”

“Oh,” says Beans, “I–”

“Beans is only helping out as the event coordinator today,” Pariston says. “I’m sending him home as soon as the retreat is underway. You’re lucky you showed up when you did. Beans is about to leave.”

“I really need to go,” Beans says. “If I miss this airship, the next one isn’t until–”

“I’ve got it!” Pariston says, clapping his hands in triumph. “We’ll find you a roommate.”

“A roommate.”

Ging says “a roommate” in the same way he might humor a child. But Ging doesn’t spend much time humoring children, so it comes out a little cold around the edges, sounds a little bit like he’s calling Pariston a name.

“Sure,” Pariston says in a candied voice. He’s really selling the idea, holding it up in front of Ging as though it’s the last one in stock, as though there’s a discount, as though he’d be a fool to let this opportunity pass him by. “What better way to get to know your fellow council members than share a room? It will be just like a sleepover. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Not sure. I never had sleepovers.”

“It’s kismet! Beans, let me see the guest roster.”

Beans fidgets, glancing at the door, but he taps on his phone a few times before holding it up for Pariston to see. Pariston doesn’t look at it before rattling off names of attendees.

“Cluck won’t go for it. Gel, either. Mizaistom would probably agree, but he’s such a stick in the mud. I wouldn’t subject you to two nights listening to him drone on about his plans for reform and conspiracy theories about the missing hunters. Hmmm… I’m not sure who would be best. I can’t force you upon anyone. That wouldn’t be in the spirit of synergy.”

He smiles then. It’s his favorite smile, the one he keeps packed away in a velvet-lined case, burnished and slick with oils. The one that oozes across his face like mayonnaise squirting from a bottle. White. Sticky. Quick to fester.

“I’d be happy to let you share my room. It’s not as nice as some of the other folks have, I made sure they had their first pick of suites. Does that sound amenable to you?”

“Oh, I think it sounds more than amenable,” Ging says. It’s apparent he’s humoring him now. The popular boy turning down a promposal, dressing up his rejection in insincere compliments and sure to laugh about this later with his friends. It makes Pariston feel crazy, sends an army of ants marching up his veins. Feels them crawling with each beat of his heart.

“I must warn you, my room is a single. We’ll have to share a bed.”

A flash of that glow in Ging’s eyes again, as though he flicked a lighter open and closed. “I’ll manage,” is all he says.

“Splendid!” Pariston beams, beatific. To Beans, he says, “What are you still doing here? You have an airship to catch!”

Beans looks disgruntled, does his best to hide it, and scurries out the doors. Pariston is alone with Ging for the first time in… well, who’s counting? Long enough that he’s felt the atrophy. Long enough that he can’t quite remember what Ging tastes like. Long enough for boredom to spread like a stain across his days, haunt the corner of every room, linger at the edge of every conversation.

When they first met, introduced by Netero, Ging had examined him like he was some kind of creature, squeezed his hand too hard in greeting, laughed when Pariston made suggestions but never at his jokes. He had pulled Pariston into the bathroom afterwards, got in his face, told him he could see through Pariston’s act. He’d gripped Pariston’s wrist while he said this, nen emanating from him in waves. Pariston had only smiled and reassured Ging he had no idea what he was talking about. They were all on the same side, weren’t they? But he was flattered Ging had taken such an interest in an average hunter like himself.

He still thought about the way Ging looked at him that day, like he didn’t even see the mask. Like Pariston was splayed out on a table and he pressed a scalpel to the soft meat of his stomach. Pariston had been aching for that first cut ever since. Begging for dissection.

“Shall we join the others? We’re having a little party.”

Ging hoists a tattered rucksack over his shoulder and says, “Nah, I want to go to the room and settle in.”

“Oh,” Pariston says, face so apologetic you could put it on a greeting card, “I’m afraid that I’m expected to rejoin the soirée, and we only have one key to our room.”

“You couldn’t ask for another key?”

Pariston tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, the strand that he lets occasionally fall out of place for this express purpose, and laughs in an airy, embarrassed way. “Beans already went home. I have no one to ask. Come on, make an appearance at the party and then we’ll head to bed. You might have a little fun.”

The party is in full swing, meaning that ten people who know each other in a professional context are standing in pairs and threesomes sipping drinks from plastic cups and making polite small talk. The ballroom is far too big for their needs, high ceilings and plush carpeted floor swallowing up the conversations so Pariston can’t actually hear anyone talking until he and Ging are more than halfway across the room. Pariston smiles and waves at the Zodiacs as they approach. Saiyu is the only one who smiles back. Pyon pointedly looks down at her phone and pretends to listen to Saccho.

“Can I interest you in an aperol spritz?” Pariston heads over to the refreshments table without waiting for Ging to answer. He picks up two glasses and holds one out to Ging. Their fingers brush when Ging takes it, and the ants in Pariston’s veins turn to a swarm of rats. They claw at the inside of his arteries, start forming a nest in his left ventricle, froth his blood with their bald tails. He keeps his face flat, positive, welcoming. Ging raises an eyebrow like he knows but doesn’t say anything.

“Here,” Pariston says, clapping his hand on Ging’s shoulder and steering him toward the crowd. He does feel stronger than the last time they were together, body hard and warm even through the layers of clothing he wears. “I know you can be a little shy. I’ll help you get warmed up.”

Cheadle and Mizaistom stand nearest to the refreshments. They lock eyes with Pariston, sealing their fate. He gives them a little wave and ambles over to them. Ging allows himself to be shepherded.

“Mizaistom,” Pariston says, clinking his glass against the other man’s. Mizaistom is drinking something clear, probably water. “I was just talking about you! How are you enjoying the retreat so far? Feeling synergized?”

He laughs here, throwing his head back and enunciating “ha ha ha” like he’s some kind of television presenter. Cheadle smiles politely. Mizaistom waits for Pariston to be quiet. Ging gulps down half his cocktail.

“I’m having a nice time, thank you,” says Mizaistom. “Cheadle and I have been discussing our proposals for the next Hunter Exam. The organization would benefit from reform. We are considering–”

“Now, now,” says Pariston, pressing a hand to Mizaistom’s elbow. The man glances down at it, brows furrowed in confusion as though he didn’t realize Pariston could touch him until this moment. “This is a party. Let’s save the business talk for later. Ging, may I introduce you to our intrepid doctor, Cheadle?”

“We’ve met,” Cheadle says with a slight sniff. To Ging, she says, “Good to see you again. I heard you weren’t planning to come.”

“I wasn’t.”

She looks from Ging to Pariston. “What changed your mind?”

He shrugs. It dislodges Pariston’s hand from his shoulder. “Dunno, thought it might be fun.”

“That’s optimistic of you,” Cheadle says, as cordial as always but with the aftertaste of a bite. A little edge. She might have made a better tiger, thinks Pariston. Or even a snake.

He says, “I have to go make the rounds. Network a little. Mingle. A host’s work is never done.”

Pariston makes it a point to be the last person to leave the mixer. He gives each member of the Zodiacs ample facetime, doling out compliments and guffawing loudly at their party anecdotes. Like any good host, he keeps the drinks flowing and always turns the conversations back to his guests. He’s trying to get to know them. That’s the point of the retreat. Won’t they have another cocktail and tell him another story about their childhood, their last relationship, their greatest achievement. Most play along, yapping away while he nods, smiles, does everything someone is supposed to do when conveying interest. His mannerisms are perfect, practiced, stolen from late night hosts and television therapists.

Kanzai is the last to leave, stumbling out the doors after too many cocktails and too few hors d'oeuvres. Pariston had apologized for the lack of food all night. He’d only planned for eleven. Next year, he’d be sure to over-order. But there was plenty to drink, could he get them another?

Ging waits for him by the doors. Pariston tidies up the refreshments table, swiping crumbs into the trash can and gathering the empty cups. Ging crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall. Pariston gathers the leftover napkins and paper plates, tucking them into a box labeled “Party Supplies.” Ging lets his eyes drift closed. Pariston makes sure to do a final lap of the room, checking and double checking that they didn’t forget anything. By the time he’s done, it’s been a half hour since Kanzai left.

“Ready to go?” Pariston asks.

Ging opens his eyes, presses his hands against his lower back, stretches. His back makes an audible pop. “I’m beat.”

“We have a big day tomorrow,” says Pariston. “And I need my beauty sleep.”

“What time is our first team bonding activity tomorrow?” Ging asks, following Pariston into the hallway.

“Nine.”

“Yeah, that’s not enough time. I see the crows' feet around your eyes.”

Pariston says, “I’m flattered you’ve taken such an interest in my face.”

Ging rolls his eyes. “Not much else to look at here.”

The room is cozy in an overly stylized way. It has artificially worn hardwood floors, a real wood fireplace, and an overstuffed, green plaid armchair in the corner. The bed takes up most of the room. It’s a king with several white pillows and a plush, white comforter. There’s a red and black tartan blanket spread diagonally across the foot of the bed at the perfect angle. It’s clear the intention is that the colorful blanket will make the room look less sterile, but it only draws attention to it. Makes it clear that this space isn’t lived in, it’s only for folks passing through, a facsimile of a home. It reminds Pariston of his place.

Ging carries his bag over to the wardrobe. It’s already lined with a curated assortment of Pariston’s suits. He lets out a low whistle.

“Jeez, Paris. you know we’re only going to be here for two days, right?”

“Ha ha,” Pariston says, sitting on the edge of the bed. He crosses his legs and begins to unlace his shiny, brown oxford. “I could ask you the same question. How many changes of clothes do you have in that bindle of yours?”

“Just some clean underwear.”

Pariston wrinkles his nose. “Just underwear?”

“I travel light.”

Pariston slips off his shoe and makes a soft sound of pleasure as his foot escapes from its leather cage. He rubs the place where the arch meets the heel, digs his fingers into the soft flesh there. Lets out a low hum. Ging circles the room, looking everywhere except at him.

“You’re kidding me,” Ging says, opening Pariston’s monogrammed dresser box. Inside are a dozen ties in various colors and patterns.

“You never know where a day might take you. It’s best to be prepared for a breakfast meeting, a gala, and anything in between.”

He shifts his leg a little higher on his knee so the leg of his trouser rides up and exposes the edge of his red, wool sock. It’s the same shade as his tie. The devil is in the details. He pays to have his socks dyed to match his tie collection, buys white ones in bulk from the local department store. He likes the ritual of it, choosing a tie and its partner every morning.

Pariston slips his fingers under the edge of his sock and slowly rolls it down his ankle. His skin is pale and smooth, a testament to his time spent at a desk job and his strict moisturization routine.

There’s a mirror over the dresser. He spots Ging’s eyes on him as the other man opens and closes each drawer. Takes his time sliding his sock over his heel, revealing the curve of his arch. Lets it linger on the ball of his foot for a moment so he can switch his grip to the toe. Pulls it so the sock stretches toward the ceiling, something coquettish in his movements. Removes it with a flourish.

When Pariston starts on his other shoe, Ging turns to look at him. As he undoes the laces, Ging unwraps his head covering. He watches as Ging unwinds the fabric with an absent-minded grace, more hair becoming visible with each twist like grass poking through the earth after a long winter. Pariston folds his socks and places them on his nightstand. Ging tosses his head wrap over the back of the armchair.

Pariston reaches for his tie next, the knot of it suddenly too tight against his throat. The only sound in the room is the rustle of fabric as he pulls the knot side to side to loosen it. Holds Ging’s gaze as he slips it over his head. Ging mirrors him, undoing the loops of his scarf until his neck is bare. Pariston can see his Adam’s apple protruding from his throat. Wants to squeeze it, pop it like a blister. Wonders if he could even get his hands around Ging’s neck before Ging pinned him to the ground, knee against his throat, pinning his wrists.

“If you came here looking for sex,” Pariston says, padding over to the wardrobe to hang up his jacket, “you’ll be disappointed. I know we’ve enjoyed our dalliances in the past, but I don’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

“Just with me or is celibacy a requirement of your role?” Ging plops down in the armchair and throws a leg over one of the armrests. He’s still wearing his boots, and a clump of dirt falls off the sole and onto the carpet.

“Fraternization with any of the Zodiacs would be unseemly. I know you frequently indulge your base urges, but I’ll have to abstain.”

Ging moves his foot in lazy circles like a cat twitching its tail. A small pile of dirt is forming on the floor beneath it. “Sounds boring, but you do you.”

It’s already after midnight. Pariston walks toward the dresser to grab his pajamas, passes right in front of Ging. He makes sure to choose a set from the lowest drawer, bends over at the waist rather than squatting down. Takes time deliberating between the navy with white stripes or the silver silk. Chooses the silk. When he turns around, Ging is examining his nail beds.

“I’m going to change,” Pariston announces.

Ging looks up then. “Don’t be shy. You don’t have anything I haven’t already seen.”

“Mr. Freecss, I just told you that we won’t be having sex tonight. You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to see me in the buff.”

“Are you going to call me ‘Mr. Freecss’ the entire weekend? We’re sharing a room.”

“I only do so to remind you that this is a business trip.”

Ging grins up at him, toothy and put on. “Whatever you say, Mr. Hill.”

When Pariston comes out of the bathroom, teeth brushed and face freshly washed, Ging is already in bed. He’s chosen the side closest to the window and balanced his rucksack precariously on his nightstand. He’s shirtless, arms and collarbone darker than the skin on his chest. Though he’s loath to admit it, Pariston thinks it makes him look rugged. Masculine, even, highlighting the planes and curves of muscles built over years of manual labor and physical training.

Ging might also be bottomless. It’s difficult to tell with the covers pulled up to his waist. The thought of it makes Pariston’s tongue feel fuzzy, makes his teeth ache, brings his bloodlust bubbling to the surface like magma pushing against the Earth’s crust. He breathes deeply, filling his nose with the smell of the rose water lotion he wears on his face.

Ging doesn’t look up when Pariston approaches. He’s reading a book on archeology. It’s in a language Pariston isn’t very familiar with. He can only recognize the words “tomb” and “lost” in the title.

When Pariston peels back the covers, he sneaks a peek at Ging. He is wearing boxers, off-white in a way that suggests they were white at one point but have been tainted by long years of service.

“Have you been wearing those all day?” Pariston asks, unable to keep his voice completely free from disdain.

Ging looks at him then. Studies his face like he’s searching for something, like he saw a familiar face in a crowd. Says, “I’m flattered that you’ve taken such an interest in my underwear, Paris. And yeah, sure are. I normally sleep in the nude, but I wanted to protect your modesty.”

“Surprisingly chivalrous of you,” Pariston says, taking his spot next to Ging. The bedding is so cool that he shivers.

“It’s a business trip. I’m on my best behavior.”

Later, when the lights are off, Pariston lies awake. He can feel heat radiating off of Ging’s body. Hears the soft snores and low grunts Ging makes in his sleep. Breathes in Ging’s scent of sunshine, soil, and sweat. He’s hard, cock throbbing uncomfortably in his silk pajamas.

Ging snorts and rolls over in his sleep so he’s facing Pariston. His breath is hot, tickling Pariston’s cheek and ear. He hasn’t brushed his teeth, mouth smelling faintly of citrus and alcohol. Pariston’s stomach turns. His dick pulses with need. He clenches his fist in the sheets.

Slowly so he doesn’t make any noise, Pariston licks his hand and slides it down his pants. He palms himself and bites back a desperate groan of relief. Ging’s face is illuminated in a sliver of moonlight that breaks through the crack in the curtains. He looks peaceful, blissfully ignorant of Pariston’s depravity.

Pariston strokes his cock, breath shuddering at the delicious pressure of his hand. He imagines calluses and rough fingers. Grips himself tighter. Meaner. Feels a kind of adolescent arousal, uncontrollable and almost giddy. Like he needs to come in the next five minutes or he’ll die. Like he’s being burned from the inside.

As he often does while masturbating, Pariston conjures up memories of the first time he fucked Ging. They’d been at a Hunter Association party celebrating its anniversary or a new discovery or something of the sort. Pariston can’t remember that part. But he remembers how Ging had prattled on about the game he made with his friends, how he often interrupted Pariston’s stories, how he watched Pariston all night with a mixture of contempt and genuine curiosity.

He’d followed Pariston to his cab afterwards, forced his way in and demanded that the driver take them to his apartment. Clambered all over Pariston as soon as they drove off with no regard for decency. Jerked him off in the backseat while whispering things in his ear like yeah, I knew you’d be a slut for me and I hate you so much and you’re pretty when you’re begging for it.

Pariston is close. Precum leaks from the tip of his cock as he bucks against his hand, doing his best not to shake the bed. He covers his mouth with his fist to muffle his grunts and groans as he fondles himself.

He can remember the way the shitty carpeting in Ging’s apartment scratched against his knees. Remembers the way his throat stretched when he sucked Ging off. How Ging had bent him over the back of the couch and took him so fast and so hard that Pariston bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Ging had made them both tea afterwards, loaded up with milk and sugar. He’d looked at Pariston’s bloody lip and smirked, told him he looked nice in red.

He pumps himself and imagines what Ging would do if he woke up. Imagines his eyes full of disgust. Imagines the horrible things he would say. Maybe he would spit on him. Or choke him. Or hold him down and fuck him until they’re both empty, until Pariston is too sore to move.

Pariston bites the back of his hand when he comes, smothering his moan while he spills over his knuckles. He wipes himself off on his pants after. Chastises himself for choosing the silk. The cotton, striped pajamas are easier to clean.

Pariston is the first one awake. He putters around the room, checking his email, choosing his clothes for the day, making himself a pot of hotel room coffee. Ging sleeps through all of it.

At ten after eight he decides to take a shower. If Ging isn’t awake when he comes out, he’ll wake him up. They need to be down in the lobby for the breakfast meeting by nine. Pariston has a 249-slide powerpoint prepared on the science of relationship building.

The shower is nice, almost as nice as the one he has at home, with good pressure and a fully tiled surround. The hotel offers upscale bath products, too, but Pariston prefers to use his own. He leaves his pajamas folded neatly on top of the towel rack and steps into the spray, sighing as the hot water hits his skin.

“Mornin’.”

Pariston whips his head around as Ging walks into the bathroom. His hair is mussed and his eyes have sleep crust in the corners. He flashes Pariston a grin and lifts up the toilet seat.

“Ging,” Pariston says, making no move to cover himself, “the bathroom is occupied.”

“I needed to piss,” Ging says, holding his dick in one hand, unhurried and unbothered. He leers at Pariston through the clear shower doors as he empties his bladder. “I see the desk job is getting to you. You’re a little paunchier than the last time we saw each other.”

Pariston continues his shower routine, applying conditioner and trying not to look at Ging’s cock. He fails, but only because he can’t help but see it out of the corner of his eye. Damn his peripheral vision.

“And I see you still haven’t taken my advice about the sunscreen. You’re already getting wrinkles. I could give you the number of my cosmetic dermatologist if you’d like. She can’t work miracles, but she does extraordinary things with filler.”

“I’m glad you have someone in your life who can regularly fill you,” says Ging, “but I’m not interested in anti-aging bullshit. I don’t want to look so plastic people think we’re related.”

Pariston laughs, a gurgling frog of a thing. “I only ask that you remember this conversation when you’re looking your age at sixty and I still look the same.”

“So, she uses formaldehyde?” Ging flushes the toilet. The shower water is suddenly scalding. Pariston bites back a gasp, doesn’t want to give Ging the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him, of hurting him without even having to touch him.

“Hurry up in there,” Ging says, wandering out of the bathroom. “I don’t want to be late.”

He leaves the door open.

Pariston exits the bathroom fifteen minutes later with his hair styled, his teeth brushed, and wearing a subtle, tinted moisturizer to cover up the dark circles that hang under his eyes after his restless night. He clutches a towel around his waist.

Ging is sitting on his side of the bed, fully dressed in his clothes from the day before, flipping through his archeological book. He glances up when Pariston walks in, letting his eyes skim Pariston’s chest and shoulders. There’s a sting in his look, pouring rubbing alcohol on a scraped knee. Pariston ignores him.

“You know,” Ging says as Pariston heads to the armchair where he’s laid out the suit for the day, light gray with a pink shirt, “I heard something strange last night.”

Something hot and sticky rolls down Pariston’s spine and pools at his feet, hot tar or boiled molasses. It’s shame, maybe, or something like it. Indignation, perhaps.

“We’re on a full floor. There are many other guests about.”

“I considered that.” Ging has moved off the bed to stand directly behind Pariston. If he were a little taller, Pariston would call what he’s doing “looming.” “Encroaching” might work here, the way Ging stands just off to the side, so close all he has to do is stand on his toes to bite down on the side of Pariston’s neck. “The funny thing is, the noise sounded like you.”

“Ah,” Pariston smooths out the lapel of his suit, refusing to look at Ging, “I’ve been known to grind my teeth in unfamiliar environments. I’ll send out for a pair of earplugs if it bothers you.”

He gasps when Ging grabs his bicep, fingers strong and rough against his freshly clean skin. Ging turns Pariston so they’re facing each other, so the backs of Pariston’s knees press against the edge of the seat cushion. He moved so quickly that Pariston didn’t sense him, didn’t even have a chance to activate his ten. Power beyond measure. Pariston trembles with excitement and a bit of fear.

“I’m a light sleeper,” Ging says, looking up at Pariston as though he wants to peel back his skin and section his flesh like an orange. “I know what you did.”

Pariston doesn’t say anything. Instead, he rolls his hips forward so the towel brushes against Ging’s stomach. Ging reaches out and grabs the edge of the fabric, rubs it between his fingers.

“Were you thinking about me?” He asks.

Pariston says, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Ging pulls the towel off Pariston like a magician removing the cloth from a fully set table. He tosses it onto the bed. Pariston opens his mouth to remind Ging about mildew but his comments are swallowed up when Ging wraps a hand around his cock. He lets out a whimper when Ging squeezes, dick growing hard in the other man’s palm.

“Why play coy?” Ging runs a thumb along the underside of his shaft. “We both know what you want.”

“And what’s-” Pariston lets out a shaky breath as Ging moves his hand across the head of his cock, “-that?”

“What you’ve wanted since the day we met. For me to destroy you.”

Ging grabs the back of Pariston’s neck and yanks him down for a kiss. It’s biting and wet and achingly familiar. Pariston opens for him like a starving man, eager for any crumb tossed into his bowl. Ging slips his tongue into Pariston’s mouth, explores the parts of him that spoil and ache. He wonders if Ging can taste the boredom that rots between his teeth. The listlessness that stains his gums. He imagines Ging lapping it up, swallowing it down, leaving Pariston clean.

Ging pushes his thigh between Pariston’s legs, and Pariston whines into his mouth. He grinds against him, cock tingling and raw as it rubs against Ging’s clothes.

“What happened to no fraternization?” Ging asks, shoving Pariston back so he sits heavily in the armchair.

“Don’t tell anyone about this.”

“I don’t intend to.”

Ging reaches between his legs, squeezing Pariston’s cock again. Pariston keens and bucks against him, bats his eyelashes, licks his lips. Ging moves his hand down to cup Pariston’s balls, watches in amusement as Pariston whimpers and moans.

“I forgot how loud you are,” he says.

Pariston lets out another whine, a few breathy gasps. He wants Ging to kiss him again, to touch his chest, to tangle his fingers in his hair. But Ging keeps his distance, pumping his dick and watching him squirm and thrust into his hand.

Pleasure grows in Pariston like a tumor, first pressing on the nerves around his lower spine, then branching out into his thighs and his stomach. Every stroke of Ging’s palm against the sensitive skin of his dick spreads disease. Metastasizes. Pariston chases his release, desperate for the clean burst of his orgasm.

“Open your mouth,” Ging says, and Pariston does what he’s told without complaint. He watches Ging’s eyes darken at his obedience, sees his own arousal mirrored between Ging’s legs.

Ging slips two fingers inside Pariston’s mouth. He hooks them into his cheek, stretching Pariston’s lips into a cruel approximation of a smile. Drool leaks out of the corners of Pariston’s mouth, down his chin.

“You’re a mess,” Ging says. Pariston whines in agreement.

Ging prods around inside of him a bit more, enjoying the way it makes Pariston teary and spit-covered. “There you are,” he says. “The real, awful you. The you that’s filthy and begging to be used. I missed you. Tell me, do you let anyone else see you like this?”

“Only you,” Pariston chokes around Ging’s fingers.

Ging hums, “Suck.”

Pariston closes his lips around Ging and sucks, lapping at his fingers like a hungry dog. Bobs his head to take them deeper. Gets them nice and slick. He can feel Ging’s nen leaking out of him, exerting pressure over the entire room. He lets his go, feels it crackle and crash as it meets Ging’s.

Satisfied, Ging pulls his fingers out of Pariston’s mouth with a pop. “Spread your legs,” he says.

Pariston opens his legs as far as he can, shifting back in his chair to give Ging access to his hole. Ging appraises him with a judgemental eye, lets his gaze linger on the inside of his thighs, the pink skin under his balls.

“So desperate,” he says, mostly to himself.

“Please,” Pariston says, putting on a voice he knows Ging hates, cloying and soft. “I want you.”

Ging laughs as he pulls Pariston forward. Pariston lets out yelp as Ging hoists one of his legs up so his ankle rests on Ging’s shoulder. He clamps down on Pariston’s ankle so hard he might leave a bruise. Pariston squirms with embarrassment at his ass being splayed open for Ging to use.

And use he does. Ging presses a spit-slicked finger inside him up to the knuckle. Pariston hisses at the sudden sting of it, the ache. Ging works him in small circles, opening him up.

“I forgot how tight you are,” Ging says, voice thick with desire. “It’s going to take me a while to prep you.”

“Just,” Pariston pants, “do it. We can’t be late.”

“Whatever you say, Vice Chairman.”

Ging plunges the second finger inside and Pariston arches his back, gripping the armrests so tightly that they creak. His nen swirls around them like thunder clouds, rancid and dense with lust. Ging curls his fingers, and Pariston feels himself ripping apart. The scalpel is against his skin. He needs Ging to slice him, to catalog his organs, to empty him of his blood.

Just as Pariston feels the orgasm knocking at his door, begging to be let in, Ging removes his fingers.

“Fuck,” Pariston breathes out, rolling his hips, “please. I– ah, I…”

“Wait. I have something for you,” Ging says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a sleek, black butt plug. He brings it to his lips, runs his tongue over it, gets it ready.

Pariston watches every movement of his tongue. Feels his ass clench and release, desperate to be filled. Says, “Why do you have that?”

Ging presses the tip of the plug against Pariston’s opening and says, “I thought the retreat might be boring.” Then guides it in.

Pariston lets out a moan as the toy stretches him open. His thighs shake with pleasure and exertion. Ging doesn’t stop, keeps pressing it forward until it’s completely lodged inside Pariston.

“How do you feel, Paris?” He says, voice softer than Pariston has heard it in months.

“Full.”

“Good.”

And Ging is backing away now, setting Pariston’s leg back on the ground. Pariston pushes himself up, arms gummy and exhausted from gripping the chair. His dick is so hard it almost burns, cockhead pink and slick with precum.

“Come on,” Ging says, glancing at the clock. “We have to be down to breakfast in ten minutes.”

Pariston reaches for the base of the plug, but Ging says, “No, leave it in.”

“You aren’t serious.”

“I made you ready for me,” says Ging, “and I want you to stay ready for whenever I want to fuck you. It could be an hour from now, it could be tonight when we’re back in this room, but I expect you to be slick and stretched for me.”

Heat rises to Pariston’s cheeks. “Honestly, Ging, this is depraved. I didn’t sign up for this kind of debauchery.”

“You planned an entire event just to get me to share a hotel room with you.” Ging’s voice is taunting, a schoolyard bully making fun of the other children. “You wanted my attention, and now you have it.”

“I wanted you to have sex with me,” Pariston says, “not send me into a lion’s den of public embarrassment.”

Ging shrugs. “So take it out. I’m not going to force you. I just thought you might want to have a little fun.”

He walks out of the room, hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly. Pariston watches him leave. Waits until the door snaps shut behind him. Then he stands, dabs his cock clean with the towel, and dresses in his suit. It’s slightly rumpled, but still presentable.

Pariston doesn’t eat anything at breakfast. He’s already stuffed.

Pariston spends the next several hours sitting gingerly on the edges of chairs and crossing his legs to hide his half-hard dick. His presentation goes as well as expected, though he has to hold a folder strategically in front of his crotch the entire time. Cheadle is the only one who looks uncomfortable, as though she sniffed out the sick game Ging invited him to play. Ging falls asleep after the tenth slide and doesn’t wake up again until the first trust building exercise.

After lunch, Pariston leads the guests back into the ballroom. Inside, there are five tables set up in a circle with two chairs to a table.

“Who here has done speed dating?” Pariston asks, giving the crowd a cheerful smile. The butt plug rubs against him as he moves, making his dick twitch. He grits his teeth to keep from letting out a small moan.

Ginta and Kanzai raise their hands.

“Perfect! I knew we had a few desperate singles in our midst. You can show the rest of the crew the ropes, because we’re doing speed friending!”

“We all know each other,” says Pyon, not looking up from her phone. “What’s the point?”

“The point is that we take our relationships for granted,” says Pariston. “During this exercise, you’ll spend fifteen minutes of uninterrupted bonding time with each of your colleagues. Unfortunately, I’ll be monitoring the clock and won’t be able to participate, which gives us an odd number. Is anyone willing to sit out the first round?”

Ging raises his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Freecss! I appreciate your willingness to be a team player. Everyone else, please take your seats.”

Once everyone has settled in, Pariston takes the opportunity to disappear to the bathroom. He needs a few moments alone to collect himself. It’s been excruciating having the plug inside him all day, humiliating to be used by Ging in this way. Arousal is pent up inside him, threatening to explode any time he crosses his legs or sits back too far on his ass. He plans to jerk off before heading back out, get some of the sweet release he’s craved since this morning.

The men’s first floor bathroom is the kind of swanky facility that has a lounge attached. A circular, gray couch sits in the middle of the entry room. Mirrors line the opposite walls above rows of spotless sinks.

“You ran off pretty quick.”

Ging followed him into the bathroom. He sits down on the couch and crosses his legs. Pariston doesn’t know how Ging manages to look like he owns the place seconds after he gets there, hates the way Ging acts like the world was created for him.

“Thought I’d take a few moments to myself,” Pariston says. “Speed friending will take a lot out of me.”

“Mmm,” says Ging. “Good idea. How about you take your pants off.”

Pariston freezes.

“Here? Right now?”

“Why not? Everyone else is busy. We have a little time.”

“We only have fifteen minutes.”

Ging shoots him a wolfish grin and crosses his arms behind his head. “Sounds like you don’t have any time to waste.”

Pariston’s cheeks burn as he unbuttons his trousers and pushes them to the floor. His traitorous cock bounces in front of him, as hard and wet as its been all day. Ging licks his lips.

“Now touch yourself. I didn’t get to watch you do it last night. Make it up to me.”

Pariston shudders when he takes his cock in hand. He pumps it slowly, already feeling tingly and almost too stimulated. His ass clenches around the plug, sending shocks of pleasure ricocheting up his back. Ging rubs himself through his pants in time with Pariston’s strokes, his erection growing more visible with every touch.

There’s the sound of footsteps outside the door, and Pariston’s eyes dart to it. He runs his finger over his slit and groans. No one comes in.

“You want someone to walk in on us, don’t you?” Ging asks, standing up.

“Yes,” Pariston says, too worked up to deny it.

Ging says, “Do you remember when we first met?”

“Of course.”

“You were the worst person I’d ever met in my life. I wanted to punch you, and I wanted to fuck you right there in that bathroom.” He’s walking toward Pariston, boxing him in against the counter. Pariston stumbles, catches himself on the lip, sets off one of the automatic faucets.

“And now?”

“It’s all still true,” Ging says.

Pariston turns so he’s facing the counter and bends over at the waist. The counter is damp, and water soaks into the elbows of his suit where he holds himself up. He sets off another of the automatic faucets.

“Then, fuck me.”

Pariston watches in the mirror as Ging unzips his pants and pulls out his dick. It’s thick with veins running down the sides. He shudders, shaking his ass back and forth a little like an animal in heat. Ging spits in his hand and strokes the length of his cock a few times, getting it ready. He whines as Ging slips his cock in the cleft of his ass, rubbing himself while Pariston drips and begs.

“Please,” Pariston says, so desperate he barely recognizes his own voice.

“Maybe I’ll just take you like this,” Ging says, grinding against him, “save the rest of you for a midnight snack.”

Pariston arches against him, whimpers a little. Ging laughs, a cold sound that echoes against the tiled walls.

“Fine, since you’ve been so good, I’ll give you what you’ve been asking for.”

He pulls the plug out of Pariston like he’s uncorking a bottle of champagne. Pariston cries out, overwhelmed by the loss of sensation and the raw pleasure of the toy scraping against the walls of his ass. Before he can get used to the sudden emptiness, Ging pushes inside.

“You feel amazing,” he says, voice rough with need. “I love being able to slide right inside.”

Pariston chokes out a string of nonsensical noises, letting his forehead rest against the back of his hands. Despite being prepared all day, Ging still stretches him out. He breathes through the slight sting, focuses on remembering the way Ging fills him up, savors it.

Ging grabs a fistful of his hair and lifts Pariston’s head so he’s looking in the mirror. “I want you to see what you look like when I fuck you. Keep your eyes up.”

Pariston only nods, unable to form words. Ging smiles at him in the reflection. It makes him look boyish, frown lines melted away by the desire in his eyes. No one is pretending anymore.

Ging sets a relentless pace, holding his hip with one hand and his head with the other. Each thrust sends sparks flying across Pariston’s vision, threatening to white out. But Pariston does what he’s told, keeps his eyes on the mirror. But it’s not his face he’s watching, it’s Ging’s.

“Fuck, baby,” Ging breathes out, “wanted you so badly.”

“I think about it all the time,” Pariston moans as Ging pushes into him. He watches the way Ging’s face lights up when he says that, feels the way Ging grips his hips a little tighter. He squeezes his ass around Ging. Angles himself so Ging can fuck him even deeper. “Haven’t felt this good since last time.”

Ging is breathing harder, gulping in air like he does right before he comes. He sounds horrible when he does it, like he’s dying of pneumonia or something. Pariston wishes he could record the sound, play it back when he wants to come quickly. It’s one of his favorite sounds in the world.

“Ging,” Pariston sighs, slipping a hand between his legs to stroke himself in time with Ging’s thrusts. “I’m close.”

“Paris,” Ging says. “Paris. Ah, Paris.”

That’s all it takes to push Pariston over the edge. His orgasm hits like a cyclone, sending spiraling jolts of pleasure throughout his body. He screams when he comes, emptying himself on the bathroom floor, eyes rolling back in his head and mouth falling open like he had a great shock.

Ging is right behind him, letting out a guttural moan as he cums inside him. Pariston likes the sudden rush of warmth and the way Ging goes all gooey afterwards, pressing a kiss in between his shoulder blades. When he pulls out, Pariston can feel cum dripping out of him. It’s already starting to cool.

“Three minutes to spare,” says Ging, checking his phone. “Not bad.”

The butt plug is sitting on the counter next to Pariston. He picks it up, runs it under the tap, then reaches behind him. He looks at Ging in the mirror as he coats the plug in Ging’s cum to lubricate it before slipping it back inside.

“Jeez,” Ging says, obviously impressed. “Are you sure?”

“We have two more days at the retreat,” says Pariston, blinking at him sweetly. “I thought you wanted me to stay ready for you.”