Chapter Text
Pariston was smaller then. Not just in stature; he had a gift for blending in with the background, as if asking onlookers to not dwell too deeply on things they were better off not knowing. He was the only child of an unnamed town (or rather, a town whose name was not worth knowing) carved ungracefully from the shore of an unremarkable beach. There were shops, but no patrons. Cars but never any traffic. The lighthouse had never been lit up even once.
Pariston was sitting alone on the end of a long dock, dangling his stockinged feet over the waves. His black flats were positioned neatly to his side, safe from the salty spray. there was an unspoken agreement that this was his pier. Had there been a fishing or tourism industry in the town, people would have avoided mooring their ships around him.
He liked to come here not just because he could sit undisturbed, but because it was easier to ignore the town’s whispers. Yet it was strange, for he also lapped up the attention rumors entailed. Indeed, even then he knew that one day all eyes in the world would be on him. One day he would remove this town from whatever maps contained it. The problem with the whispering wasn’t whatever horrible, wonderful little tales those brainless people were spreading, it was just that they weren’t using the right name.
He had plans, but they were far away. They were blurry, underdeveloped. He would need patience. For now, he would be satisfied watching the endless churning of the waves on the dock of a town that needed erasing. The hard part was over; he could wait now.
The other boy was more filled in, a more solid presence in one’s mind. To call him bold would oversimplify it; Pariston was bold. But the newcomer—for he was always the newcomer, always exploring and soaking up everything new he could get his hands on—moved as if he knew the entire cosmos would shift in his favor.
What they had in common was that they were arrogant. Young and arrogant, and a little punchdrunk. From their perspectives, they had conquered the most difficult things the great Earth had to offer, and now awaited with hungry, all-devouring eyes for what would come next.
More importantly, they were also both 12 years old.
“Do you like the grape flavor?” A popsicle had been thrust in front of him, unnaturally purple and smattered with minuscule ice crystals. It was still halfway sheathed in its white plastic, with a broad, tan hand gripping it at the base. Pariston peered past it into two brown eyes. They were nearly black, like his own, but somehow… brighter. A toothy grin stretched across his features. He was missing an incisor. It was a face meant for smiling.
There were two possibilities: this boy was an idiot, or he was insane. Pariston gave him a long, blank look.
“It’s my least favorite. It was from one of those random packs, y’know, and I thought it was cherry,” he continued, his smile unchanging despite Pariston’s lack of response. The more he talked, the more clear his accent became. His ‘o’ sound was more drawn out while the ‘a’ was flatter. He cocked his head at Pariston, waving his free hand in front of the other’s face. “Helloooooo?”
Pariston jolted away from his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, voice stilted. He didn’t have much experience around people his age. Adults were simple; they appreciated formality. This stranger, who had popsicle juice dripping onto his bare knees, didn’t seem to be the type who would. “Thank you.”
Pariston paused just a second longer before reaching out towards the ice pop, his slender fingers unfurling from a tight fist only just before grasping the plastic-covered stick. The other boy followed the gesture with mirthful eyes, fixing Pariston with a strange lopsided expression, then plopped down on the wooden planks. He was too close. He had a few freckles across flushed cheeks.
“You move like a mouse.” Pariston didn’t know what to say to that.
The boy was looking down at his flip-flopped feet while kicking them back and forth restlessly over the water. Pariston gave the tip of the popsicle a small sniff then a brief lick. It was sweeter than he had expected—sweeter than he thought food could be. When he glanced over to the strange boy again, he was surprised to see his expression had dulled.
Before Pariston could comment, he whipped his head towards him, simultaneously slamming his hands against the wood with a solid thud. “My name’s Ging Freecss and you better remember it. I’m going to be the greatest Ruins Hunter of all time.” Once again, his eyes were as bright as the sun, like nothing had happened. “What’s your name?”
Pariston lowered the popsicle. Freecss, Ging. He liked the ring of it. It seemed like a name that could fulfill Ging’s grand promises.
“You want to be a Hunter?” he asked.
“I am a Hunter.” Ging didn’t even attempt to hide his pride, puffing out his chest as he said it. Pariston had to admit he was impressed.
“Oh?”
He reached into his pocket and tossed the license (rather carelessly) to Pariston. It was the size of a credit card but twice the weight in Pariston’s hand. Ging had attached a short chain to it with a small carabiner. A piece of plastic, that’s all it was. Pariston wondered how Ging would react if he had missed and dropped it into the water below.
“Told you,” Ging hummed, taking back his license. He put his pointer finger through one of the links and spun around the license. Pariston swore he had never seen anyone more fidgety. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
“My name? Hill.” Pariston looked down at his hands, noting that the popsicle had melted over his clasped fingers. The juice had mixed with the sweat on his palms, the saccharine, salty mixture dripping steadily into the water below. Gross…he wished he could wash his hands... but Pariston was just distracting himself. Hadn’t he promised that day that he wouldn’t hesitate anymore? “...Pariston Hill.”
Ging burst out into laughter, simultaneously catching the spinning license with a broad palm. “That’s a funny name for a girl,” he snorted, cocking his head towards Pariston with a smile. It was an expected reaction. Pariston remained stoic, keeping his dark eyes fixed onto the popsicle. He could see the other end of the stick now, stained purple from the food dye.
But Ging was continuing, “It’s cool, though. You sorta said it like James Bond”—he deepened his voice comically—”The name is Hill, Pariston Hill.” When Pariston didn’t laugh, Ging scrunched his nose at him. “You’re a tough crowd.”
Something in that line pushed a gear in Pariston’s mind in place. He was acting like… an idiot. He knew how to pick apart people. He knew what made people tremble, what made them cry, what made the faint glimmer of hope in their eyes twinkle once more before crushing it definitively. He knew how to charm in-laws, when to bow, what dress best fit the occasion. He could plait hair into pretty braids and top it off with an inane bow. He certainly knew when to laugh at jokes. What was any different here? Was a kid with dreams bigger than his boots and a mouth quicker than his mind too much for the Hills’ dark horse?
Pariston tore his eyes up towards the horizon, letting the sun bore into his peripherals for a few seconds. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth until it spread into a gentle grin. He then jerked to look Ging dead in the eye. “I have never seen James Bond… and I have never had a popsicle before,” he proclaimed, as if those facts were any sort of accomplishment.
Ging was staring at him now, mouth rounded into a surprised ‘o.’ All his unwieldy energy had evidently been brought to a halt. Pariston pushed back a wind-tousled lock of hair behind his ear with the cleaner of his sticky hands. He was playing defensive now—springing from apathy to passion would have thrown most people off. But Ging seemed the type who liked oddities. Using his wrist, Pariston smoothed down the hem of his skirt. It wasn’t that he wanted Ging’s attention per se, it was just that Ging would probably be the only interesting person he encountered for the next two weeks. It would be… fun.
Perhaps Beyond would take a liking to him.
These thoughts ran through Pariston’s head in the five seconds between the smile and the loud clap of Ging slapping him on the shoulder. Paristson tensed immediately, fingers curled into an instinctive fist. “Why…” Ging fumed, fixing him a fiery glare, “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Wh—?”
“You shouldn’t have a grape popsicle as your first… I would have bought you a fudge pop! Or strawberry shortcake, you seem like you’d like that.” Ging was pouting. Pariston relaxed, then, before he could think it through, started to laugh.
“Why? Because it’s pink? And I’m a girl?” Pariston teased, attempting to swallow his amusement. Ging was flushed now in embarrassment.
“N-No!” he stammered, then paused, “Well… maybe. But my cousin’s favorite was strawberry shortcake and I…”
“Is she a girl?”
“Shut up! Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten you anything.” Ging harrumphed dramatically and drew his knees up to hide his face.
“Now who needs to loosen up,” Pariston trilled, leaning back and planting both hands on the pier. The sun would set soon. Already, the waves reflected bright orange and pink light in contrast to the darkening sky. It was a cloudless night and perhaps there would be stars soon. In Pariston’s mind, stars were too abstract a concept. The Manor had been in the city, with smog and clouds offering an almost constant covering. Not that he had been allowed outside after nightfall anyway.
When he casted a lazy glance to his right, he realized Ging was still curled up. But he had looked up to gaze past the horizon. It was a strange look that Pariston didn’t think could be accomplished by anyone else, as if to observe what lay beyond what lay beyond.
“Ging.” The boy turned, his intense focus now pointed towards Pariston. He felt pinned under a laser pointer but infinitely more… feral. An old feeling bubbled up from within his heart—the pleasure of a scientist finding a new phenomenon to poke and prod at. He hadn’t felt this way since he had first started working for his parents. A slough of questions crossed his thoughts. What was Ging capable of? Why had he ignored all the warning signs and walked right up to Pariston? What was he looking for? How far would he go to find it? Would that smile ever fade?
Of course, Pariston voiced none of this. Instead, he showed Ging his purple palms. “I only had a few licks of the popsicle before it melted, so it doesn’t really count as my first, wouldn’t you agree?”
Ging looked up, another impossibly bright smile splitting his features. Pariston didn’t even think his smile could get any larger. In a flash, Ging was up on his feet, jumping from foot to foot with newfound vigor.
“You’re right! Let’s get one now!” Ging exclaimed, reaching out to help Pariston to his feet.
“Right now?” Pariston frowned at the outstretched band and jerked a thumb towards the sun. “It’s practically dark. Aren’t you cold?”
“It’s never too cold for ice cream. I’ve eaten popsicles in a blizzard.”
“You’re strange,” Pariston laughed. “The stand will be closed until morning. How long are you in town?”
The question made Ging pause, hand dropping back to his side. “I don’t really have any plans so…” He finished with a vague shrug.
“I’m moving in two weeks. I suppose you’re more fun than lessons... I can buy us popsicles tomorrow.”
“Okay! Except… well, I should buy them, shouldn’t I? Gentlemanly thing to do.”
As if Ging had behaved remotely like a gentleman before. Pariston waved his hand dismissively, “Don’t worry about it. You can pay for lunch.”
“Alright! Cool! See ya tomorrow, then!” Ging laughed, then ran off with an energetic wave. Pariston watched his features fade into the darkness then gathered the plastic and wooden stick from the popsicle.
Apparently Ging had forgotten social etiquette once more, for he didn’t offer to walk Pariston home. Not that he cared; it avoided a tedious conversation with Beyond. Actually, the offer would have been more amusing than anything else.
He stood, slipping into his flats and dropping the waste into a garbage bin. He started to make his way down the boardwalk, surprised by how quickly the sun had set. An older woman locked eyes with him as he passed, stopped to lower her head politely, then all but bolted once Pariston passed. It was too dark to make her out at that point, but he could hear the click click click of her heels as she moved. At some point, he ought to tell Ging he wasn’t actually a girl. Telling the other boy his name had been… impulsive. A move Curly would call ‘a little unwise.’ But Pariston didn’t do things by halves. If Ging knew his name, he would know the full story, consequences be damned.
But somehow, when he pictured Ging’s open smile, Pariston couldn’t help but feel it would work out fine. What a fool that boy was.
