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Pariston wasn’t usually one for routine of any kind. He liked to keep himself and others on their toes, never wanting to settle into anything too comfortable. Being comfortable meant letting his guard down, and as someone who relied on being unpredictable and mysterious, he just couldn’t afford to slip.
That being said, he never protested when Mizai brought him late-night coffee, exactly the way he liked it.
The two of them, funnily enough, were probably the hardest workers out of all the Zodiacs. While Pariston always made plenty of time to play, he was the Vice Chairman, which left him with a lot to do (not that he or anyone else necessarily knew what he was spending all that time on). Mizai, on the other hand, was just a workaholic. In the end, though, it didn’t matter. The result was the same; the two of them were nearly always the last ones to leave the office.
Over time, they’d learned a lot about each other’s habits. Even despite his calculated unpredictability, Pariston always drank the same coffee. French vanilla latte, double shot, extra vanilla, with almond milk. He recited it like a nursery rhyme, enough times that Mizai could hear his singsong voice in his head every time he placed the order.
Sometimes, though, Mizai would lose track of the time. He’d had an especially long day today, with Cheadle and Ging picking fights with one another, a mess of documents filed improperly that he’d had to clean up after, and gloomy weather that had everyone on edge.
He’d been staring at the same file for … fifteen minutes? Thirty? An hour? He honestly didn’t know anymore.
And then came a knock on his office door, sharp and cheerful. He blinked.
“It’s open.”
In came Pariston, holding two steaming cups. He set one down on Mizai’s desk. “Flat white, 2% milk,” he explained. Strong enough to keep him awake, but softened a bit by the presence of the milk. 2%, which wouldn’t add as much sweetness as whole fat.
He’d gotten good at knowing exactly what Mizai needed. He sat down in a chair across from Mizai, on the other side of his desk, and took a sip of his own coffee. “Long day, hmm?” he said with a smile. “Cheadle is so funny when she gets all worked up like that.”
“It stresses me out,” Mizai mumbled as he picked up his cup.
“Oh, I know.” Pariston seemed amused by his exhaustion. “You always let everything get to you,” he teased. “You should try caring less.”
Mizai almost smiled. It was such a ridiculous notion. Caring less, that was impossible, it wasn’t even on the table. Pariston knew that perfectly well. But he never let the impossible stop him. That was something Mizai sometimes admired about him. The rest of the time, it was just irritating.
“I’m finished for the night,” Pariston continued, causing Mizai to raise an eyebrow and glance down at the latte in his hand, as if to ask, then why the hell are you drinking coffee?
Pariston followed Mizai’s gaze, smiling sheepishly. “I thought maybe you could use a hand. Better for both of us to go home at two than one of us at one and one at three, I say.”
Mizai wasn’t sure if he agreed, but there was no talking Pariston out of something once he’d set his mind to it.
That, and he seemed different today. He’d been pensive all day, quiet even during the Zodiacs’ meeting. Like his mind was somewhere else altogether.
Mizai wanted to ask him what he was thinking about. He didn’t.
Instead, he slid a small stack of papers across the desk, and Pariston plucked a pen out of a cup on the desk before gracefully crossing his legs and leaning in to take a closer look.
Mizai turned back to his own work, but he felt like the words were falling out of his head as soon as he read them. In one eye and out the other, hmm? He could almost hear Pariston’s teasing voice, prompting him to look up again, just to make sure he really had imagined it.
Pariston, chin rested daintily in his hand and elbow propped on the desk in an effortlessly graceful pose, hadn’t said a word.
He felt Mizai’s eyes on him, though, so he looked up, offering a smile Mizai could swear was flirtatious in nature. “Do I have something on my face?” He feigned embarrassment. “You’re giving me such an intense look.”
Mizai gave an awkward cough and averted his eyes. “No,” he said, putting pen to paper even though he had no intention of writing anything. Maybe if he just started the action, it would complete itself without his input.
Instead, ink bled over the paper, an oozing wound. Pariston hummed thoughtfully as he watched it, then dropped the pen he’d been using back into its cup. “Let’s call it a night,” he suggested. “I’m sick of paperwork, aren’t you?”
“We can’t just leave this unfinished,” Mizai said, but Pariston was already standing up.
“Let’s take a walk and we’ll see how we feel afterward.”
Mizai knew that if he agreed to this, he wouldn’t be setting foot in his office again tonight. There was a long pause, and then he sighed, and Pariston knew he’d won (again). He always got his way, though sometimes it required subtlety. Not so much with Mizai. Just the gentlest cajoling got him caving in. It was almost cute. Not very exciting, or challenging, but endearing nonetheless.
After he’d tidied up all the papers spread over his desk and dropped them in his inbox for tomorrow, Mizai joined a smiling Pariston by the door.
“It’s nice outside,” Pariston assured Mizai as they headed for the elevator. “Just like last night. A bit of a breeze, not too cold.”
Mizai nodded, letting Pariston’s voice fill the silence on its own. He didn’t really need another person to have a conversation, and Mizai didn’t really need to do any talking to socialize with him.
“Oh, that reminds me of a little something Piyon let me in on earlier—”
“Let’s not talk about work,” Mizai said bluntly.
A flicker of surprise crossed Pariston’s face, and then he was smiling wider than ever. “Sure,” he agreed. “No work talk. In that case, what do you want to talk about?”
Mizai hesitated, then sighed, resigned. He couldn’t believe he was about to do this. “Actually, I’d like to ask for your advice on something of a personal matter.”
“Oh?” Pariston’s delight was palpable. “Ask away, my friend! I’ll do everything I can to help.”
“It’s … about Cheadle.”
“Cheadle? I thought you said this wasn’t about work,” Pariston joked. He could see where this was going, but he let Mizai say his piece. He was desperate to know whether he’d even be able to spit the words out in the first place.
“Obviously you know how to get under her skin,” Mizai continued, ignoring his little comment. “I don’t condone such behavior, obviously. However … I’ve found myself wondering how I might … get her attention.” He certainly was taking his time to say what he meant. Endearing and annoying. Not unusual from Mizai, either.
Pariston gave him a pointed look. “You’re interested in her. A coworker. How shockingly unethical of you!”
Mizai averted his eyes and cleared his throat. “Well, it’s not as if I’ve … I haven’t acted on these feelings that I may or may not have,” he clarified, unnecessarily. Pariston had eyes everywhere. If Mizai had made a move on Cheadle, he’d know about it.
“Anyway,” he went on, “I just thought … you’re, well … bolder than I am.”
To say the very least, Pariston thought, smiling to himself. “So you want my help,” he said aloud. “How flattering!” He stopped walking and turned to face Mizai. “Here’s my advice,” he said cheerily. "Don’t.”
Mizai’s eyes went a bit wide. Out of all the ridiculous things Pariston could have said … he didn’t expect that. “Don’t?” he repeated, dumbfounded.
“Don’t.” Pariston nodded sagely, then kept walking. After a moment of stunned silence, Mizai hurried to catch up with him.
“Cheadle has her eye on someone else. Very hot and cold, the two of them.” Pariston stated this with so much confidence that Mizai didn’t even think to doubt him. “You’re a smart man. I’m sure you can figure it out.”
There was silence, and then a sharp breath, the sound of an epiphany.
“Ging,” Mizai said, and Pariston smiled, the mischievous glint gone from his eyes.
“The very same.”
Mizai turned that revelation over and over in his head. It made sense. The two of them were always at each other’s throats, but in such an intimate way. They knew how to cut each other to the quick, rile each other up, hit each other where it hurt the most. That took knowledge that someone who was just a coworker wouldn’t have.
He felt stupid for not having seen it sooner.
He blinked, and suddenly they were standing in front of the door to the high-rise that held Pariston’s penthouse apartment. When did that happen? He had to stop getting so lost in his thoughts.
Pariston turned to look at him, drinking in his bewildered expression. “Aw,” he said. “I didn’t mean to spoil your little crush. My apologies, Mizaistom.”
Mizai sputtered, then tried to cover it up with a hearty throat-clearing. “It’s—you didn’t—I mean, it isn’t—”
Pariston smiled and stepped closer to him, reaching up to grip his coat and pull him in.
“You know,” he said, his warm vanilla breaths easily crossing the mere two- or three-inch gap between them to tickle Mizai’s skin. “You don’t need her.”
Look at what’s in front of you, instead.
“What’s the point in getting hung up on the one person you can’t have?”
Why isn’t it me? What do I have to do to make you look at me like that?
“There must be someone else who you could shift your attention to. Someone else you’re close to, someone you know well … someone you care about, whether you’d like to admit it or not.”
Me. Me. Me.
Mizai stared into his fathomless brown eyes. He felt like he was getting drunk on the sweet smell of vanilla and almond milk. He was drowning in bitter espresso, drowning in Pariston’s piercing gaze.
He thought of all the nights they’d sat in each other’s offices, talking and not talking, sipping coffee and working until the sun came up. The way Pariston smiled (softly, fondly, differently) at him at 3 a.m, when it felt like all of Swardani was asleep besides the two of them. The little secrets they let slip, never to be brought up again. Who else knew him like Pariston did? Who else’s gaze lingered on him, who else took the time to watch him, to read his moods, and who else knew exactly what kind of pick-me-up he needed at the end of a difficult day?
“There is,” he said, his voice hoarse, strained. “There … there is. Someone else.”
“Oh?” A smile tugged at Pariston’s lips. Finally. “Care to fill me in?”
It didn’t matter if it was a mistake. It didn’t matter if Pariston held this over his head for the rest of their days as Zodiacs, or even beyond that. None of it mattered, because Mizai’s head was swimming and he couldn’t think straight. All of his senses were filled with Pariston, Pariston, Pariston, and when he closed the last of the gap between them in a messy, impassioned kiss—which Pariston, of course, returned with enthusiasm—he felt like he was being sliced open, exposed to the cool night air. Pariston’s arms went around his neck, trapping him in a tiny little eternity all their own.
It felt like an hour (but was probably more like five seconds) before they stopped to breathe, panting in sync with one another.
“Pariston,” Mizai said, breathless. But Pariston drew back, smiling coyly as he started up the stairs to his building’s front door. Like some kind of attention vampire, his thirst had finally been slaked. “Goodnight, Mizaistom,” he said. “Go get some sleep.”
The door shut behind him with a soft click, and Mizai stood under the streetlamp alone, staring at the towering apartment complex as if he could see Pariston taking the elevator up to his floor, could watch as he let himself in and changed out of his obnoxiously-patterned suit into the luxurious silk pajamas he surely owned.
Mizai cracked the very slightest smile, shaking his head at himself. It was a silly little fantasy. Maybe one day, if the fates willed it, he’d be part of it, too.