#paricheadle

This Year Of Mine

It's early in the morning, rain misting over listless gray clouds, the weather unusually tepid. What traffic fills the streets of Swaldani City is sluggish as if to match. Meetings have been called for all of the members of the Zodiac Twelve to appear, and those that are early congregate in the halls with cups of coffee or stale donuts left over from the previous day.

For once, they don't have to chase down Ging Freecs. The boar of the Zodiac is seated in his chair, head bowed, likely in the middle of a nap. The others do not bother him, but from the doorway Cheadle regards him with an uncharacteristically doleful expression. The energy in the Hunter Association headquarters is an odd combination of elements—some lifeless, some peculiarly energetic. It's almost enough for everyone to forget that it is actually something of a holiday. Not all of them celebrate the occasion, and not all in the same way—but for each of the Zodiacs, when it is their turn, it is customary to allow them to indulge in some personal way. Piyon, more than any of them, takes the opportunity to fill the space with conversation.

“I have lots of weekend plans,” she is saying to the others around her. “I'm going to a concert, and I have dinner reservations at this new place opening downtown by some of the embassies. Lots of Gourmet Hunters are going, and I got an invite through them.”

“Some of us like to eat, too.” Saiyuu looks up from his phone for the few seconds it takes to speak, then cants his neck back down to keep scrolling. He's leaning, his posture horribly slumped, against the wall outside the main conference room. “You shouldn't say things like that if you're not going to invite everyone.”

“—And I was thinking about catching a movie. The weather's dreadful for being outside,” Piyon continues, undeterred. “What about you?”

Beside her, Cluck balances a stack of folders under one arm, the other clutching a paper plate rimmed with overdrawn flowers against a blue plaid backdrop. The donut she selected is square and plain-looking, the top folded in a style popular from the countries to the north.

“Several years ago, I attended some cultural festivals held around this time. I remember it was fun,” Cluck says. “I might go again. I haven't decided.”

She takes a large bite. Saiyuu's face creases, as if remembering something unpleasant.

“That's right,” he says, more to himself than the others. “I threw a lunch, when it was my year.” The corners of his mouth pull down even further. “Didn't I get in trouble for that?”

“You expensed a lunch,” Piyon reminds him cheerfully. “From that awful Eastern Yorubian place you like so much.”

“I put the leftovers in the fridge.” He scratches at his chin. “I ate well for a week.”

“The communal fridge,” Piyon adds, with a far more sour tone. “When it's my turn, I think I'll do something different. But I do like the idea of a party.”

Cluck takes a few more smaller bite of her donut before coming to a consensus.

“I hate the jelly kind,” she says to Piyon, who has a sugar-encrusted donut stuffed in a napkin to keep from getting powder on her fingers or clothes. “It's too sweet. I'm really not feeling it today, either.”

From the doorway, Cheadle's ears twitch.

“Did Ging do anything last year to celebrate the Lunar New Year?” Piyon asks. “I can't remember.”

“No.” Saiyuu coughs into one elbow, then clears his throat. Cluck wrinkles her nose.

“Ging's boring,” she agrees. “He doesn't celebrate anything. Birthdays, holidays. It's a miracle he's here at all, really. I expected we'd have to drag him in by that unwashed scarf of his.”

“It was an ordinary day,” Saiyuu says, exhaling loudly. “There are so many of those.”

Cheadle's ears twitch again. She adjusts her posture to let Botobai and Geru pass by as they enter the conference room.

“There's an expectation you do something,” Cluck continues. “It's your animal, after all.”

“He doesn't dress up. He hasn't changed his face. It's no surprise he wouldn't celebrate the year of the boar.” Piyon shrugs before taking delicate bites of her donut.

“I remember—this was before you were a member, Piyon—when it was Botobai's turn, he threw a massive party at his family's compound, outside Swaldani. It was a picnic—even his great-grandchildren were there! We all spent the time eating together and having fun. There was no talk of business, or meetings, or boring politics. And don't give me that look, Saiyuu! All politics are boring! And at least I put up some decorations, my year. It's been awhile since we've had something truly memorable, is all. I know we've been holding our breath waiting to see what the Rat will do, but I think we deserve a little celebrating, once in a while. We work so hard.”

Cluck ends her speech by folding her arms across her chest and looking satisfied. A bit of crumbs fall off of her jostled plate and onto the floor.

Piyon suddenly tilts her head, the ears on her headband swinging. “Speaking of,” she says. “Has anyone seen Pariston?”

“Uhh...”

“I wasn't looking.” Saiyuu clears his throat again and shrugs.

Cluck dusts more crumbs from the bands that cover her forearms. “We can't start without him, as much as we'd like to.”

“I'll go looking for him.” Cheadle's voice calls out, but before she can take a step Ging is there, his hand at her elbow.

“Let me.” He adopts an easy smile, but his eyes are hard as he glances at each of them in turn. He's never been one for gossip, they know, and while he doesn't care to judge them for it, it becomes very clear he had been listening to every word.

“I'll find our Vice-Chairman,” he says, and begins to amble down the hallway. “It's not like him to be late to anything.”

The path to Pariston Hill's office—the obvious first place to start—takes him up several floors and down another long hallway. Here, the walls and doors are covered with extensive layers of molding, painted white, and the carpeting is patterned and bordered like that of an ostentatious area rug. He comes to a set of double doors, thrown wide open. Inside, a figure stands facing the windows, bedecked in extravagant layers. He turns upon sensing movement, and bestows upon Ging a wide, beaming smile.

Ging takes it all in. “I expected nothing less from you.”

“Really?” Pariston holds his arms out, his thin wrists poised above oversized sleeves. “Do you like it?”

“You're bright as ever, Paris,” Ging says.

“Now, Ging.” Pariston's eyes are dark. “You sound like you mean that.”

“You're keeping everyone waiting.” Ging continues idly, as if Pariston's words had no effect on him. As if they hadn't yet even reached his ears. “You shouldn't.”

“And why is that? I wanted to make an entrance. It is the Year of the Rat, after all. Mine doesn't come around but once every twelve years. It is something to celebrate, is it not?”

“Some of us have things to do.” Ging steps further into the office, adjusting the drape of his tabard across his shoulders. “Places to be.”

“Something that could hold even your fickle attention?” Pariston asks. “Now what would that be?”

Ging's mouth ticks up, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat as he ducks his head. The gesture is something automatic, instead of an attempt to hide the expression that overcomes him as he seems to remember something with great fondness.

“The migration of the Giant Lachian Elk. I thought I'd go and hunt them.” At Pariston's cluelessness, he continues. “The creatures live deep in the forest. They're almost impossible to find on their own. But once in their lifetime, the entire adult population will journey as one across the Lachian mountain range for natal philopatry, to reach the flank vent of a volcano. You can't hunt them there, either—the air is too caustic for humans to breathe. I think it will make quite a challenge.”

“Giant elk?”

“They're easily twice as tall as you are,” he says. “Dense, and horned. Not what one would expect. The last migration took place over a decade ago.”

“I see.” Pariston once more adjusts his voluminous sleeves. “You really do things your own way, don't you?”

“I always have.” Ging seems affronted for a moment, but relaxes again as Pariston softens his approach. “I see no reason to do it any other way.”

He pauses, and his eyes catch on something beyond Ging's shoulders. “Some would call that selfish.”

Ging only shrugs. Then, he straightens, turning, just quick enough to catch the last few footsteps before Cheadle Yorkshire enters the office. He has a front-row seat to the way her face drops upon catching sight of Pariston's attire.

He is dressed in a haori of impossibly golden fabric, draped perfectly across his body and belted with cloth in a slightly darker, but no less resplendent color. The nagajuban underneath the haori is a matte, almost bloody red, worn higher on the neck than is typical. Her eyes drop to his throat, then rise back up to take in the full ensemble again.

It could almost match his hair, but then he moves and Cheadle catches sight of the metallic thread woven into the fabric. Her forehead twitches.

“You're late,” she says, and her voice comes out strangled. “...Rat.”

Pariston bestows a sunny smile upon Cheadle, and steps more fully around the side of the desk so that she can see him better.

“But of course! Fashionably late, I hope.”

“You're wearing...that...to the meeting?” The desk behind him holds rows of red bags patterned with wishes for the New Years. Cheadle counts eleven among them.

She points an accusing finger at him, then sweeps it towards the bags. “What are those?”

“I know many of us have adopted only the most passing of customs related to this holiday, but I wanted to take the opportunity to celebrate in the traditional way. These are gifts, of course, for the rest of the Zodiacs! They are typically given to more junior members of a family or business, and as I am the Vice-Chairman, you all are my juniors, are you not?”

Pariston laughs, something overly orchestrated, and turns towards Ging. “There is one for you as well, Ging! I had hoped some of you would track me down, so you can help me with carrying them to the office. I could always ask some of the assistants to help, though. I've given the rest of the building's staff their presents already, of course.”

Cheadle is still trying to stifle a scowl as Pariston continues with his speech.

“Envelopes are traditionally used, but my presents were a little bigger than what one could hold! I hope you like them—I picked things out with you all in mind. The envelopes would be kept under your pillow and slept on for seven nights before opening, supposedly to promote good luck and good fortune. I could try to insist everyone sleeps on these, but knowing my coworkers, I don't think anyone would actually do it.”

He pouts, and then brightens. “On the seventh day, everyone grows one year older! Isn't that something?”

“I thought you didn't like this sort of thing,” Ging says to her, shifting on his feet at the sudden attention focused on him, and the affective way Cheadle reacts. “You seem upset.”

“You weren't there, Ging, but our dear Cheadle elected not to celebrate the Year of the Dog, two years ago.”

He seems surprised. “You did nothing?”

“No. I did not.” Her hands are fists at her sides. “Ging.”

“But you wanted to?” His voice is steady, and he tries to catch her gaze, even as her own wavers.

“Yes.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I felt, at the time, that there was pressure to maintain—I mean to say, to keep such frivolous pursuits from interfering with our work. It is easier for you, Pariston—no one expects you to take things so seriously. It was different for me. So I let it pass by.”

She exhales through clenched teeth, and for a moment there is silence. Cheadle collects herself, her face reddening, as if suddenly aware of just what she has said and who she has said it to. Then, she takes another breath, as if emboldened by conviction.

“The passage of time,” Cheadle says at last, “is something to be celebrated. And yet, it feels like loss, sometimes, doesn't it?”

“Sometimes,” Ging echoes.

Cheadle sets her jaw more firmly. “I don't like celebrating that loss.”

Pariston has another placid, fathomless expression on his face, but he turns to his desk and plucks one of the bags from its surface. Characters are drawn on them as if with brushstrokes, but they are otherwise unlabeled, and he draws it into the air with gusto and places it into Cheadle's hands.

“For you. With all of my blessings for the future.” He waits until she takes it to let go.

“Thank you.” She stumbles over the words, as if they taste sour. “Rat.”

He beams at that, and reaches for a second bag to hand to Ging. The other man has already headed towards the doors, both hands shoved in his pockets. “Come on, Cheadle. The Vice-Chairman can surely manage all of those on his own, don't you think?”

“What?” Pariston is despondent, and holds up an armful of bags as they depart; Cheadle feels the beginnings of a laugh forming in her throat.

“Friends! Come back! My grand entrance-! I had plans—”

As they walk, side by side, Ging glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “You know,” he says, after a pause. “You don't need any of these things for good fortune. Traditions provide structure. But friends, and family, and purpose, above all else, do the rest of the work. Do you see that?”

“I'm starting to.” She folds her arms around the bag, its contents shifting. The shape is awkward, and she tries several different ways to carry it before finally hefting it higher in her arms.

“Good luck with your hunt,” she says to him, adding her customary salutation. “Ging.”

“And you as well,” he says.

“What? I'm not hunting anything right now.”

“Then you must. And your fortune will change. That'd be my wish for you, at least.”

This time, the words come much more easily. “Thank you.”

Despite the gloomy weather, and the melancholy she once felt at the arrival of another year, there is instead a feeling of anticipation—an urge to astonish, like Pariston, and a desire to do things her own way, like Ging. She does not like things that are uncertain, and if there is one thing more unknowable than all else, it is the future. But for now, there is a feeling of excitement for what the future will bring, and a sudden warmth in her heart from her surroundings and the encouragement, however offbeat and unexpected, from her friends.

----------------------

Notes:

1) Lachian is a reference to the Lachin Corridor, a mountain range in Azerbaijan. Natal philopatry is the practice of creatures like salmons and loggerhead turtles to return to the place of their birth to breed. There's no recorded evidence of larger animals doing this, but for the Hunter World it'd hardly be the strangest thing out there, lol. Everything else was made up.

2) My knowledge of traditions related to the Lunar New Year is nowhere near exhaustive and here they're meant to be more analogous to a Hunter World counterpart and not a real-life equivalent. According to the order of the Zodiac Twelve, the four years prior to the Year of the Rat would've been Ging, Cheadle, Cluck, and Saiyuu. Post-Pariston would be Mizaistom, Kanzai, and then Piyon, which is why I chose the characters I did to converse in the beginning.

3) The story was inspired by this HxH mobage game picture of Pariston: