Work Text:
This time it was Ging who came to him.
He opened the door, late enough in the morning that he was already through one cup of coffee, early enough that the sun was not halfway through the sky. From the doorstep, Pariston stared at him. As soon as his fingers had touched the doorknob, the smile had burned itself onto his face, a force of habit already. He tried to ignore the way it ached in his cheeks now.
“Merry Christmas,” Ging muttered, flat as the plains.
“You’re late,” he found himself saying, “that was last week.” Of course it was.
He saw the thought in Ging’s eyes too. “Of course it was.” The winter felt unreasonably warm this year. “Can I come in?”
Before the words could unscramble in his mind, Pariston found himself moving to the side. His smile was as wide as ever. “Absolutely.”
Ging began walking in. Paritson watched him go, watched the way his legs moved like they carried the weight of a thousand years, the weight of a million stories, watched as his arms brushed his hips, watched as the fabric rubbed across his skin. Without a thought to it, just to drive him crazy, Pariston called, “I haven’t had time to clean yet today, so pardon the mess.”
Not a cushion was out of place. Ging knew this. He’d come over many times, seen these few cushions in their few arrangements every time, knew the places each pillow was meant to occupy. Still, though, Pariston could sense he knew which ones needed fluffing, could still feel the imperfections in Pariston’s obsessiveness. He rubbed his forefingers against his cuffs.
Ging didn’t ask to sit, just stood there in the center of the living room, but his eyes roamed like they were looking for a seat. Pariston watched it, watched his pupils flitter from spot to spot, pondered the thoughts floating through his head. He was sure that he could almost understand them. Surely one day he would understand them. Pariston took note of which spaces they lingered on for the longest.
Ging didn’t sit down though. He just turned around, in a stiff, awkward half circle pace. He stood in front of Pariston, bulky and small and nervous with his arms behind his back, awkward and terrifying in only the way that Ging could be and Pariston swore it looked like a painting. Before he could ask to snap a photo, Ging spoke again. “I brought you something.”
Pariston looked into his eyes. Rich and dark as ever. “Did you? Hm, I wasn’t aware we were doing a gift exchange this year. I must send Beans to fetch Cheadle a gift soon, you know how she can be, all focused on–”
“Shut up,” Ging interjected. “God, shut up. I got this for you.” His eyes had not left Pariston’s for minutes now and it was starting to hurt, even for a man as well trained as him. “Fuck the work stuff.”
Parustin watched Ging unfold his arms, take the gift out from behind his back. He watched his hands move together like a crane, about to dump manure right on Pariston’s living room rug. He watched them cling together, tried not to notice the veins in Ging’s forearms as his wrists pushed strong against one another. His curiosity was peaked.
“How kind,” he remarked absentmindedly, still trained on the fingers crushing each other, carefully leaving a hollow circle in their center. “I do wonder what this surprise could be.”
Ging smirked as he unfolded his fingers. Pariston only noticed the smile as he watched for a millisecond, entranced by the brilliance of the untrained, beautiful joy across from him. Then, as his eyes darted back down, he sucked in a gasp. A mouse squeaked in Ging’s palms.
It was stark black, from its glossy fur to its scaly feel to its glazed eyes. It twitched silently in Ging’s hands, seemingly content to run its whiskers over the creases of his palms, sniffing every single mile he’d ever walked across his skin. Pariston stared down at it, bewitched though he’d never say, hoping his face was appropriately schooled into the bemused disgust he was sure he was meant to feel. The rodent turned its head.
“How fascinating,” he uttered, still captured by the small being. “What a thoughtful present. I always said my rug would look lovely with rodent poop.”
“His name is Pomon,” Ging responded. He too was looking at the rodent in his hands. “I’m sure you’ll recognize it.”
Recognize it he did. Pariston knew the name, remembered it from youthful nights alone, from books he learned too young. The picture of Pomon, princess of a far away land, as she dangled helplessly from her window, beating off suitors with her broken flats, lived forever in Pariston’s head. The scene that inspired the abstract piece by a lovely trader in Metostopla hanging above his fireplace. Pariston could see the flash of her eyes when the rodent twitched its face again.
“Ging, I must say, I am quite surprised,” he found himself saying. “I never imagined you could entertain such adequate company! Where on earth did you procure such royalty?” Pomon was nibbling now on Ging’s weather stained thumbnail.
“That’s the cool part,” Ging began. He looked up at Pariston with a smirk. Suddenly, the blond felt compelled to meet his eyes, to give himself over to the fire burning inside of them, to feel the scorch and the warmth and the inexplicable shiver that a live flame always gave him. “He was sitting on your doorstep when I got here.”
Pariston saw it in his eyes. This was the truth. Of course it was. Of course Ging would come out here, drive the millions of miles across the planet to his doorstep, and find a metaphor for his whole being right outside. Life never failed to make beautiful pathways for its most traveled hikers. Pariston held his gaze for a minute longer before he looked back down at the rat.
“Well, then it was meant to be. Welcome home, dearest Pomon.”
Pariston brought forward his hands, and slowly he touched Ging’s. He felt the years of sun, of rain, of sleet on his skin, the dirt from different continents, as many continents as humans would ever see fit to discover. He felt the weight of a thousand years, a million stories. And then he felt the soft fur of a rodent. Pomon crawled into Pariston’s hands easily, sniffing every wrinkle, every surface he’d ever touched, ever mistake he’d ever made, every spec of life living on the skin of his palm.
Ging stood with his arms still outstretched, frozen with his fingers just lightly resting against the blond’s, like he hadn’t even known he could move. Gently, he began to wiggle his hands, tapping a rhythm in the spaces where their skin met. Pariston looked up at him. Ging was looking down at the mouse.
Pariston watched Pomon wander through his left palm as he lifted his right hand and grabbed Ging’s wrist. Tightly. He wrapped his fingers as far around the thick limb as he could and he held hard, feeling the skin rub underneath his fingers, letting it pinch between where his thumb and his middle finger couldn’t meet. His nails sunk into the brunet’s arm. Ging stared quietly at the contact.
“Is this some sort of love bite?”
Pariston hummed quietly, enjoying the feeling of the flesh soft under his hand. He was enjoying the stillness of it all, the subtle pressure. He liked the contrast of his white knuckles against the tanned skin below him. “I’ve been considering getting a manicure lately. Men’s hygiene is all the rage. You could get one with me.”
Ging’s face tightened even as he continued staring at the hands. “Why the hell would I want that?”
“I don’t know,” Pariston conceded. “I suppose we could match. Tell me, Ging, what’s your favorite color?”
Finally, gently, Ging raised his other hand, placing it on top of Pariston’s. He didn’t squeeze, just wrapped his fingers around the flesh loosely, letting the weight of his arm slowly bear down. Pariston loved it. He almost dropped Pomon to grab this wrist.
“I don’t know. Maybe blue.” Pomon was crawling up Pariston’s arm now. He twisted it a bit to bring her back down. “That wouldn’t work with your aesthetic though, would it?”
Pariston hummed, watching Pomon slide down into his palm. He brought his left hand to the stack they had been building, placing it face up on top. Pomon sniffed around the edges, confused by the tower of skin she sat upon, before climbing eagerly over the sides and exploring the new terrain.
“It’s no big issue,” he said, finally meeting Ging’s eyes. He could feel the other man’s breath. Pariston smiled brightly. “It’s really all about how you wear it.”