Archive of Our Own ^beta

The newest issue of the Pariston Fan Club newsletter had come out the prior day, and Cheadle finds herself glancing over Cluck’s shoulder as she thumbs through it with disinterest. While the existence of a fan club devoted to the Vice-Chairman is common knowledge, this is the first time she’s heard that they published a printed newsletter. Some of the Hunters hold celebrity status in their respective fields—she thinks of Cluck’s celebrated opera career as a good example—or Ging’s achievements in archaeology, but she’d always considered Pariston’s popularity to be more manufactured than earned, and his supporters to be less of a distinction and more of an embarrassment.

“Sometimes,” Cluck says, “I think it’s so unfair that someone that good-looking happens to have the personality of a wet dishrag.”

After a prolonged pause, Cheadle’s only addition is, “Lucifer was good-looking, too.”

Cluck snorts, and flips another page. “I just don’t understand how they get these photographs! This was right after an executive meeting! Who else but the Zodiacs could have known the times?”

Pariston’s photo stands in glossy, full-color magnificence, staring back at the camera with a winsome grin. He’s wearing a lavender suit, partnered with a forest green tie. She remembers that day. At first it’s more than a little worrisome that she can match his outfits that well in her memory; then, maybe not, when she considers that her colleagues tend to wear the same styles every day.

“Ugh.” Because she sits next to him at the table, many of the photographs have her in them as well. In fact, on closer observation, most of them seem to have been taken with that exact angle in mind.

A vein bulges on her forehead as she looks at the next page, which shows the two of them standing together in the front lobby of the Association building, captioned with the phrase ’A Secret Romance?’ followed by a brief article detailing the supposed evidence exposing their alleged relationship.

She makes a few spluttering noises, stabbing at the picture with one gloved finger.

“Oh yeah, it’s pretty juicy.” Cluck seems unperturbed by Cheadle’s reaction, and flips to the next page, detailing several of Pariston’s outfits over the last month and offering style tips for anyone wishing to copy his look. “You feature in quite a few of these. I’m surprised you’ve never read them before.”

Cheadle is fairly sure her ears are emitting steam. “This is libel!”

“It’s a more entertaining read during the months that Ging’s around,” Cluck continues. “The contributors have conflicting opinions on the two of you, you know.”

“Who are they?” She reaches to snatch the magazine out of Cluck’s hands; Cluck pulls it back at the last second, flipping to another page.

“Cutie Beauty produces it,” she says, “but the rest of the contributors are kept confidential. Are you sure you’ve never heard of this before? Cutie published an interview with you in the last one.”

Cheadle pauses. “She did invite me to tea last month. And all she did was ask me questions about Pariston!”

“Your least favorite subject,” Cluck notes. Another lazy flip of the page.

“He’s just so irritating! Always smiling like he knows your every secret. Somehow getting glitter on your clothes! Never shutting up about his pet proposals and asking the most inane questions about everyone else’s legislation—"

Cluck tilts the magazine up and down. Holographic glitter in the article’s headline—Create a Cutiful Association!—changes color from sparkling gold to an eye-searingly vibrant blue-green combination.

“—And you can smell him a mile away. He never even skips out on meetings! He’s always there. His attendance record is better than mine!”

“I just ignore him,” Cluck says, flipping the page and flicking specks of glitter from her fingertips. “Works for me.”

More pictures of Pariston, this time outside his apartment. She shudders. How creepy. The thought of someone following her around with a camera at all times is highly unsettling, not flattering as Pariston seems to think from the broad smiles on his face in every shot. Although she supposes his fan club would hardly want to publish any imperfect photographs. Or maybe, she considers dully, his face just never looks worse than this. She’s known him for years, and can’t remember ever even seeing him with a single hair out of place.

"That Rat.”

Cluck closes the magazine and offers it to Cheadle. “Want to read it?”

She scoffs, turning her nose up. “I get enough of him during our meetings. I don’t want to spend any more time staring at his face than I have to.”

Cluck gives her a grin. “No one said anything about staring.”

She makes an inarticulate strangled noise. “Rooster-!”

The stack of files she carries is so tall that it almost makes it socially acceptable to ignore the person walking beside her. Cheadle certainly couldn’t see Cutie from over the papers, but she has no problem hearing her—Cutie had launched into conversation as soon as the elevator doors opened and Cheadle stepped in beside her, like they were old friends, like they’d had more than one conversation in their lives—but she schools her features into something impassive and nods every so often. It isn’t far to Netero’s office, but it feels like a mile.

“Isn’t it nice to have a chat like this? Girl to girl.” Cutie pitches her voice high, giggling. “You know, at first I didn’t approve, but I think you’ll be good for him.”

Cheadle blinks. “Who?”

“Your Mr. Hill!”

Of course it would come back to this. She answers flatly, “Oh, is he?”

At the doors to Netero’s suite of offices, Cutie folds her hands behind her back and swivels her feet, swishing her fuchsia skirt in a wide arc. “Go ahead, I’ll wait for you! We have a lot to talk about. I need details, girl!”

Cheadle rushes inside, dropping off the files to one of Netero’s aides and, without a moment of hesitation, leaves through the side exit. As Cutie stands in the direct path of the elevator, Cheadle takes the stairs a few levels down, emerging onto a floor used more for storage than office or meeting space. Closed doors line the spartan hallway, a few dotted with plaques detailing which particular department retains ownership over the space.

She’s walking a bit faster than she normally would, and looking over her shoulder instead of in front of her when she bumps into someone in the middle of the hallway. Hands grasp her shoulders to steady her, and when looks up it’s to a geometric, glittering tie and a wide smile.

“You should watch where you’re going,” Pariston says, “Cheadle.”

It sounds like something she would say, and she scowls at him, shoving his hands aside. “And you should take your own advice. Rat.”

He glances down the hallway behind her before turning back and dipping his head in apology. It doesn’t escape her notice that he remains firmly planted in the exact middle of the hallway. “Are you avoiding someone?”

Suddenly, she hears a voice calling down from around the corner, where the elevator is. “Cheadle?”

Cheadle’s eyes widen, and she grabs at Pariston’s arms, trying to push him out of the way. “It’s Cutie Beauty! Move!”

His face adopts a similarly serious expression, and he nods, his eyes darting back towards the sound of the voice, growing louder. “I’ve been having some trouble evading her too.”

She surveys him—the over-applied cologne, the glitter dripping from his tie and cufflinks, the fulgent quality to his aura—and lifts an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine.”

“Cheadle? Are you down there?”

She can hear the footsteps, even at that distance, making their way towards them with leaden constancy. “In here!”

Pushing open a door at random, she shoves Pariston inside and closes it behind her. He doesn’t move, and when she tries to step around him she realizes why.

They’re standing in a closet. One of his elbows hits her arm and she lashes back on instinct, unable to see in the sudden darkness. His legs are too close to hers. She stumbles, stepping on his foot.

When they both lurch backwards, she bumps into the door and his back hits a shelf. Something falls, and Cheadle cringes at the sudden noise.

“Shh! Do you want to be found? Rat!” she hisses.

“While I agree it wouldn’t be good to be seen together,” he whispers, his voice coming out in puffs against her ear, “there must be a better way than this.”

She tries to shush him again, but one of his hands clap against her mouth, the other moving up to wrap around her body to keep her still. The reason becomes clear when they hear the footsteps stop right outside the closet door, and a voice shouting Cheadle’s name.

“—I could have sworn I heard her voice…”

Cheadle shifts her weight from foot to foot, trying not to move or breathe for fear of giving them away but remaining acutely aware of every single motion and tactile sensation taking place inside the closet. Pariston’s hand lowers from her mouth, but the other remains light against her arm. His uneven breathing reminds her just how close they’re standing—her eyes, adjusting to the lack of light, can make out the thick pinstripes running down his shoulder, only inches away. If she lifts her eyes, she can see the line of his jaw, and the way the edges of his mouth curve up when he notices her watching.

Her ears twitch as, outside, Cutie takes another few steps down the hallway, and a minute later Cheadle cannot hear the footsteps at all.

She lets out a breath, her relief palpable. She almost lets her head fall against Pariston’s shoulder before remembering that all this is his fault, really, and he seems to have forgotten this from the slight hint of a laugh against her ear and the way his thumb rubs absentminded circles at the top of her arm.

It is almost like an embrace, and that in itself is enough to make her push him away, harder than she intends. She regrets the instinct immediately, fingers flexing as if to reach to steady him. If he should fall back against the shelf, they could be discovered.

He takes only a single step back, leaning to put more distance between them. It does not feel like much.

“Well,” Cheadle says, after a pause, “I think I’ve had about enough of this.”

She reaches for the doorknob. It refuses to turn. She tries again, using a considerable amount of her natural strength—Nen would be too conspicuous—and at the first metallic groan she stops.

“These doors were not designed to be opened from this side,” Pariston says.

“Helpful as always.” She can break them down, but it will be difficult to explain. Difficult, but not impossible. She lifts her hand again.

“Let me try!” Pariston’s voice is too-loud in such a confined space, and his misplaced cheer is so irritating to Cheadle that when he beats her to the doorknob she angles her elbow to stab him right in the ribs.

She’s not sure if he can see her smile; his slides right off his face. “Oops, my mistake.”

“I didn’t think you made mistakes, Cheadle.” His shoulder bumps against hers as he shifts to face her.

“Well, you would be far more knowledgeable in such areas, right?” She stamps down on his foot. “Rat.”

He stumbles, off-balance. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“I thought I’d said it outright,” Cheadle says, ducking the elbow aimed for her throat and winding one hand around his tie. She yanks, growling, and suddenly his face entirely fills her limited field of vision. “Considering you are to blame for all of this.”

“Me? I seem to recall you dragging us into this closet. And I can hardly control what other people say about me. Such nasty rumors, wouldn’t you say?”

This close, the smell of his cologne assaults her nose. Beneath a layer of righteous indignation, she almost feels offended. Was that an insult?

She scowls, and releases her grip on his tie to jab a finger into the center of his chest. “I agree completely! I can’t believe anyone would ever insult me in such a way.”

Suddenly, they both freeze, scrabbling in the dark—she tries to shush him before one of his hands covers her mouth again—she shoves it off, glaring at him and listening as intently as she can to a sound she hoped she wouldn’t be hearing again anytime soon.

Lazy, shuffling footsteps, punctuated by sighs and grumbling from their owner, emerge from just around the corner. Everything about them is distressingly familiar, and Cheadle feels her stomach sink even lower as she places their identity.

“Saiyuu,” she whispers.

Of all the people in the building, it would have to be another member of the Zodiac Twelve walking past their impromptu and poorly-thought-out hiding spot. He’s dragging his feet, which makes it easy to hear him, and Cheadle’s ears twitch as he complains about the errand someone’s sent him on.

And he stops, right in front of the door. Bends down. He’s…tying his shoe?

Cheadle’s heartbeat is already rocketing skyward, and to her ears it might as well be the loudest sound in the world. A moment later, he’s continuing on his way, and a few minutes after she can no longer hear him she turns to the door and draws back her fist.

“I can’t take this anymore!”

“Wait!” Pariston’s hand alights on her wrist, the motion so delicate and deliberate that she stops the punch. “It may not come to that. Do you have your Hunter License?”

What kind of dumb question was that? “Of course I have it.” With her free hand, she fishes around in her pocket before pulling the license out.

“Slide it down the lock, between the door and the doorframe,” he instructs.

She does, and the door clicks open. “Done this before, have you? Rat.”

“It is a useful skill—”

“—And one you should have implemented a long time ago—”

He laughs softly, holding the door open so she has to duck under his arm to leave. “And one I’m glad to have taught you. I hope you put it to good use.”

Flustered by the expression on his face—the prudent smile and the way he leans towards her, his eyes still dilated from the darkness—and even though they’re both out in the hallway he’s still standing as close to her as he had inside. “Like I’d ever need to break into someplace!”

“Oh, my dear Cheadle,” he says, folding his arms behind him as he begins to walk towards the elevator. “No one said anything about breaking in.”

She has no choice but to follow him towards the elevator, fighting the urge to tear her hair out and pretending that with each step she is once more trodding on his feet. She doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve him.

Omake:

“You were right, they were on that floor. I got pictures of them, leaving.” Saiyuu hands them over, the glossy photographs enclosed in an unmarked white envelope.

“A supply closet, how scandalous.” Cutie Beauty accepts them, flipping through the half-dozen photos and pausing on one that showed a close-up angle of Pariston’s face as he gazed down at Cheadle—that small, frightening smile that he reserves for her and her alone. “This will make an excellent feature for the next issue.”