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“We can work out the details tomorrow,” Ging tells Pariston right before they enter their hotel rooms, two of them side by side—this place is pitifully small and most of the rooms only have single beds. “Right now I just want to sleep.”
Pariston gives Ging a sparkly grin. “Are you sure you don’t want to discuss—”
“No,” Ging interrupts, because if he talks to Pariston now they’ll be up all night. “Tomorrow, Pariston.”
Pariston holds his keycard over the sensor to unlock the door, and laughs. “Suit yourself. But you know, you can come to my room any time.” He says it slyly as he pushes open his door, and Ging’s mouth twists into a frown. Flirting is an ugly look on Pariston.
Ging opens his own door instead.
The room smells weird—that’s the first thing that Ging notices. It’s dark, the curtains drawn. There’s a shadow on the bed that looks like a person, splayed out over the blankets.
Ging flicks on the lights, takes one look on what’s on the bed, and turns on his heel.
“I’m sorry Mr. Freecss, but there are no more rooms available. Is there a reason you need another room? Was something not to your liking?”
“Yeah. There’s a dead body in there.”
“A what?”
“A dead body.”
“No—no, I heard you the first time, but—”
Pariston opens the door when Ging knocks. His smile is sharp, and Ging wonders vaguely if he knew this would happen. Figures.
“Hey,” Ging says, his eyebrow twitching, “change of plans. There’s a corpse in my room.”
“Oh?” Pariston’s eyes are dark, shadowed by his bangs.
“Yeah.” He pushes past Pariston, using one hand to shove him out of the doorway. Pariston doesn’t put up any resistance. “And like I said before, I’m fucking exhausted. There’s no free beds, so I’m taking yours.”
“What about the corpse?” Pariston follows Ging into the room, hands behind his back and smile stuck to his face. “Aren’t the authorities coming?”
“I’m pretty sure we’re the authorities.” Ging sighs, rubbing his temples. “And my authority says I need to sleep before dealing with this shit. If the hotel calls someone else, they can bite my ass, because I’m not dealing with this until tomorrow.”
“Now now, that’s not very responsible,” Pariston says. His voice lilts teasingly.
“I’m taking your bed,” Ging repeats, flopping onto it. The bed’s weight shifts as Pariston sits next to him. Ging smirks at him, nudging him with his knee. “You can sleep on the floor.”
Pariston’s smile doesn’t change even with the taunt. “And what if I said we could share it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Pariston’s face is suddenly close to Ging’s, enough to make Ging’s heart twist—the way Pariston makes Ging feel against his will. If he had a choice, he would save himself the shame and cut that feeling out of himself, this attraction that makes him want to keep toying with Pariston and Pariston alone.
Love is like a knife to the back. Ging wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it is with Pariston.
“You’re the one inviting yourself into my bed, Ging,” Pariston says. “Isn’t it only fair that we share? You can’t possibly have any reason to object. I mean,” Pariston leans even closer, until their lips are barely apart, “you’re the one who decided on his own to come here, when you could very well have gone somewhere else to sleep.”
Pariston is right. Ging could’ve slept outside. They could’ve done this some other day, a day without a dead body getting in the way. Ging could properly bother Pariston into giving up his personal space, and Ging would revel in the power and game before he inevitably, like he does with everything, gets bored.
It’s a testament to Pariston’s annoyances that he hasn’t bored Ging yet. And this—the closeness, the way Pariston’s stare challenges him, the danger and tang of blood—this is why.
Ging mashes his lips against Pariston’s hard enough to sting. Humiliating. He pulls back, looking up at Pariston’s face, fingers in the blond hair on Pariston’s neck where he’d anchored himself. They stare at each other for a long moment, like they’re waiting for bruises to form on their lips. “Shut up,” Ging hisses belatedly.
“You know I never will,” Pariston says, breathing shallowly and letting his tongue poke through his lips. “You’ll have to shut me up yourself—”
“So annoying,” Ging says, even though he knows it’s what Pariston wants. Everything Pariston does, the push and pull of their games, it’s so that Ging will react. Pariston just wants him to stay in his bed and play around with his head, and Ging usually refuses to even consider it. Usually.
Pariston finally touches Ging back, his long fingers trailing along his jawline. “That’s something we share.”
Ging puts a hand over Pariston’s mouth to shut him up properly. “Just because I know what you’re thinking doesn’t mean we’re annoying in the same way.”
Pariston smiles under Ging’s palm.
Ging is sick of this game already. He wishes he could get out of this without giving Pariston the satisfaction—but of course, he also gets his own satisfaction from watching Pariston, unable to stop Ging from taking what he wants from their relationship. Ging is practically kicking him out of the bed because Pariston has never been what he wants—it’s always been about what kind of use Pariston has, keeping a hand on his pulse before he ruins the world. Ging will ruin Pariston back a hundred times before he even considers giving Pariston the show he wants.
Ging releases Pariston, clicking his tongue. “I know you killed the guy. Who were they?”
“Hmm? I never killed anyone, Ging. I had no idea this would happen.”
“Bullshit.” Ging hates the way Pariston seems so happy with this situation. “You should learn to be less obvious. If you want to join the upper ranks of the Hunter Association you’ll need to stop leaving a trail.”
“Who said anything about a trail?” Pariston leans close to Ging’s face again. His voice is low near his ear. “I bet you won‘t find anything about me and whoever died tomorrow, because this has nothing to do with me. It never has. If I wanted to get you into my bed, there would be easier ways.”
Ging shudders. “Gross. Just let me sleep.”
“You kissed me first.”
“It was a mistake,” Ging huffs. “It won’t happen again.”
Pariston smiles. His smile is dark, a grin that reminds Ging that there was a body that was left for Ging like a cat leaving prey out for his owner. “Goodnight, Ging. But I don’t think it was a mistake at all.”
Ging looks at Pariston silently, glaring. Pariston knows him too well—it curls in his gut, a wound to his pride.
“I want to make more mistakes with you.” Pariston laughs softly. Ging thinks of kissing him again, just to shut him up—maybe Ging deciding he hates this and never wants to kiss Pariston again is what Pariston really wants.
They’re going in circles, the two of them.
“As long as you're entertaining,” Ging says. “If you're boring, then there's no reason for me to do this.”
“Do what, exactly?”
A lot of things that Ging won’t say. Be in this room together, on this mission together, even breathing the same air. Ging goes after everything he doesn't have, and Pariston trails behind him, setting traps for a future they’re both hurtling towards. There's no reason for Ging to humor him other than Pariston’s entertainment value. “Let you stay with me.”
“Oh? Then I'll make it worthwhile.” Pariston’s voice is quiet.
Ging scoffs in reply and rolls over so he won’t have to see Pariston’s face.
There’s a long silence, a beat of time where Pariston shifts, and then he stands up and walks away. Whatever Pariston is doing, Ging will wait for it—a minute later, Pariston slides into bed beside Ging.
His arm presses lightly against Ging’s, thin fabric against thin fabric. He’s wearing something lighter, no longer in his suit—so that’s what he was doing, Ging thinks, closing his eyes and trying to ignore Pariston’s presence. Pariston’s foot reaches out, socked toes resting against the back of Ging’s calf.
It feels too intimate. It’s so close to something nice that it puts Ging on edge.
“You didn’t brush your teeth,” Pariston says loudly. There’s the kicker—if Pariston and Ging share a room, Pariston will make sure to make the experience miserable for Ging.
“Shut up. I’m sleeping.”
Pariston laughs. Ging wonders if it’s too late to kick his ass until he gets out of bed—or if it’s worth the effort. Pariston will have too much fun if he goes that far; he always does.