Killua loathed to be sitting in the back of a Tesla that evening when his mind was scattered elsewhere. He blamed his thoughts on Gon, seeing as they all revolved around that little shit, but he couldn't pinpoint which part of Gon's life had him more worked up. Did it have to do with their recording session?

No , he thought, rubbing his thumb idly beneath the hem of his sleeve. This has to do with that guy who misgendered Gon .

How could Gon know a person like that? In fact, Gon seemed excited to see the guy. As much as he wanted to ask Gon about it, it wasn't his place. He felt inclined, however, to spit in Ikalgo's coffee mug if he ever got the chance.

"How are you feeling?" Pariston's voice came from beside him, resting no more than an arm's length away in the back seat of that Tesla.

Killua straightened a touch, his hand flattening over the front of his black suit and button-up shirt. "Fine. I'm glad to be here with you," he said with a faint, charming smile that made the frustration in his gut churn to a boil of fury. How could he be sitting here playing doll when he could be recording with Gon or interrogating the rat bastard about Ikalgo.

Who the hell did Ikalgo think he was? Did he really transfer to USFC just for Freecss?

"Oh, there's no need for a facade," Pariston hummed, the glow from his phone screen reflecting off of Killua's window. Killua glanced at him, and Pariston offered a short smile. "Just be yourself."

"Sounds like something a mom would say," Killua said, to which Pariston praised with, "See? Infinitely better."

Killua let out a hollow laugh. "This must be a kink of yours I have yet to hear about. Rest assured—stowing away my sass for the night. I'm not here to cause trouble."

Pariston reached a hand out, and pressed it firmly to Killua's arm. Killua shivered. Sly move , Killua thought, breath completely vanished, evaporated, vamos, I thought he was about to grab my thigh .

Killua met his eyes as Pariston said, "Perhaps I want you to cause trouble," before turning back to his phone and leaving Killua's arm be.

The dinner was taking place at an elaborate ballroom event center where, surrounded by guilded sculptures and marble columns, Killua found himself thrust back into the life he used to have with his parents. The Zoldycks were a family of affluent individuals who surrounded themselves with well-behaved children to put on display at events like this just to garner the attention of impressive white men saying, " You've done so well raising them. "

It made him want to gag.

Instead, however, he was here for a different but similar purpose: to be put on display.

The first conversation he stood in on, Pariston turned to Killua to introduce him as nothing more than, "my nephew."

The person seemed just as alarmed as Killua, but Killua was quicker to recover. He shook the man's hand and said, "I know, shocking that people adopt."

And that, it seemed, was precisely what Pariston had hoped for when he paid Killua under the table for his services. The bright way Pariston's eyes lit up at Killua's comment had Killua grinning, pleased that he had not only (likely) scored a tip, but had also managed to make one of the guests at the event laugh.

As they mingled and brushed elbows with usually-stuffy business men, Killua kept to Pariston's side through the first hour of their night. The guy had , after all, paid quite a hefty sum to get Killua there, and so Killua would oblige his presence. However, after the cocktails and the appetizers, they drifted from the cusp of the bar to find their seats, at which point Pariston plucked a flute of champaign from an oncoming silver tray and held it out in front of Killua.

Killua blinked at it before raising his hand to grasp the tall, glass neck of it. Pariston grinned at him and said, "You're doing awfully well at this, nephew . Dare I say you've done this before?"

"Depends on what you mean by that," Killua said. "If by... accompanying gentlemen beyond private doors , you'd be flattered to know you're my first."

Killua took a sip of champaign as he flattened a hand over the front of his tux. Pariston grinned, his eyes trailing over the attendants as the time called for everyone to take their seats. Considering the confidence in Pariston's step, Killua assumed the man knew precisely where to go.

Sure enough, their names were posted at pristinely-set tables like they were at a goddamn wedding. This assigned seating tactic felt elementary to Killua, and Pariston seemed to have a similar idea.

The man took their name tags and, as discretely as possible, placed them at the table behind them. Killua took the two discarded name tags and put them on the table that was intended for them. Pariston gave him a hidden thumbs-up as someone not too far away started in their direction, paused at the sight of Pariston, and immediately turned to leave.

"Oh, the man of the hour," Pariston declared, pointing to the getaway. He put a hand on Killua's shoulder and said, "You take a seat—I'll be right back."

Killua pulled his chair back as he watched Pariston half-jog after the disheveled-looking guy who looked more like a professor who had just rolled out of bed that morning after grading papers until the wee hours of the morning.

The man wove between tables and chairs as Pariston chased him down. The guy cursed when he looked over his shoulder and found Pariston right behind me. "Nope—No thank you , leave me alone, Hill," he said, using someone's walker to block Pariston's path.

"Ging, you delightful bastard, I knew you'd come," Pariston teased, gliding past the walker and swinging it back around and into its rightful place beside the owner. He jogged up beside the man—Ging, as it were—and said, "I have quite the surprise for you—"

Ging paused in his escape to turn back to Pariston, who skidded to a halt, his smug, grinning face mere inches above Ging's finger, poised directly at his nose. Ging shook his hand, waved dismissively at Pariston, and walked off once more, muttering, "I have no intention of indulging you and your surprises . I loathe surprises."

"Yes, well, I loathe that you loathe surprises because I, in fact, love them," Pariston preened as he caught up, hooked his arm around Ging's, and spun him back around.

Ging shed his arm with a scoff and flung a hand up to stop Pariston from ruffling his hair.

"Is that—? Are you graying? You're turning into a silver fox now, aren't you?" Pariston said.

Ging glowered at him. He tossed the tasseled ends of his scarf aside with the open flaps of his tweed blazer, hands on his hips and said, "I take it you plan on leaving the event anyway to follow me. Is that it?"

Pariston preened. "You know me so well," he said, wistful and flattered.

"Right, well, and I can't very well kill you to prevent either of your two scenarios from happening, can I?"

"Depends on the three scenarios that came to mind," he said, hands clasped behind his back. He rose an eyebrow at Ging, prompting and eager, and Ging's narrowed eyes only narrowed further.

He pursed his lips and looked away, giving Pariston a perfect view of the gray hairs growing in behind his ears like the tufts of fluffy hair protruding from a cat's ears. Before Pariston could pluck one out, just for safe-keeping, Ging turned back, decision made.

"One," Ging started, and Pariston was all ears because Ging was giving him that look that said he would uppercut Pariston right then and there if he could, "I stay and you explain this ' surprise ' to me, in which case you're a thorn in my side for the rest of the night until I ditch you at the valet."

"And two?" Pariston hummed.

" Two, is that you'd wind up following me out of the venue and to the steakhouse I have reservations for three at in the case that you wound up being here so that I could A) avoid you and B) eat and drink a long island without social scrutiny, which I prefer ."

"Ah, a long island. Very sorority-girl of you. I love when you embrace your youth," Pariston hummed. Before Ging could gray any further, Pariston stached a second and third champaign glass that night, one of which was glared at by Ging as Pariston presented it to him and said, "It's not a long island, but anything will do."

Ging took it with a vengeance and downed it like a shot as Pariston added, "And don't you mean reservations for two? "

"Not at all," Ging said. He stalked back in the direction of his table—which was now their table, considering the rearrangement of name tags—and all but tossed the glass at one of the attending waiters. The waiter caught it in a panic, eyes wide as Pariston hurried past and apologized on behalf of Ging.

As he followed, he called after Ging, saying, "And what was that third option?"

"Also involves my reservations," Ging said, and muttered off to the side, "Both at the stakehouse and for indulging you." Luckily—or rather, un luckily—Pariston picked up on it and laughed.

During this exchange, Killua sat unaware of the chaos that was bound to ensue. He resisted the urge to check his phone, but ultimately broke that promise in order to text Kurapika and ensure that he was still alive and did so by including a password they had agreed upon so that Kurapika would know it was actually him.

In the midst of sending the message, someone approached beside him and set a velvet clutch down in the broad space between Killua's champaign and her napkin.

Killua tucked his glass closer to his plate as he said, "Oh, sorry—I'll get this out of your way—"

"It's no problem—" she said at the same moment, and they both paused, their recognition peaking in a clash of cymbals and orchestral clamor that signalled the end of the pre-dinner charades.

Killua never experienced shock quite like this.

"Canary," Killua whispered.

"I—" Canary started, and Killua's heart pounded agonizingly hard in his chest. It felt like a hammer was about to crack his ribcage and leave air whistling out of his lungs.

Canary's signature look was still present that day in the form of a tuxedo not unlike Killua's, only with a flare of color in her cherry red lipstick and cherry red blouse that bloomed with ruffles up to her throat. Her cuffs were accented with it, too, as were her perfectly manicured nails.

She always did wear gold jewelry, and that night was no different. It was accompanied by glittering gold eyeshadow that shined against her dark skin and the golden barrets in her black curls.

"You look amazing . Wow," Killua said, surprised he even found his voice. It cracked, though, and he felt it all the way down to the part of him that wanted to die in that very same second.

As he cleared his voice, Canary smiled and said, "Thank you. And you look—great as well. Not gonna lie, I saw the white hair and thought you were ancient. Like, eighty at the least."

Killua pressed his closed fist to his mouth, trying to gather his bearings as Canary took her seat beside him. They both cleared their throats, and Killua realized then that this was just as awkward for her as it was for him.

"You never told us you were leaving," she said, pointedly, busy popping open her clutch.

"I... never intended to," Killua said.

"Alluka was heartbroken."

"Yeah, I know."

Canary freshened up her lipstick as she said, "And now you're here . Of all places. Why is that?"

"I could ask the same," he said. Canary snapped her hand mirror shut and Killua resisted the urge to flinch. Damn , he thought, I always turn stupid when she's around. I can't lie to her!

And perhaps she was the main reason Killua couldn't face them that night he left Alluka and Canary's place for good.

"You know what I do. You know why I'm here," she said, at which point Killua noticed that Pariston was on his way back, hot on the heels of that man he chased down earlier.

"Why isn't Alluka with you?" he asked, turning to Canary again.

Canary studied him for a moment. A long, dreadful moment. Killua swallowed hard and said, Shit, is it really that bad now? "I would have brought her," Canary said, and Killua couldn't emphasize his sigh of relief more, "but I'm accompanying my boss tonight."

Killua rose an eyebrow. As far as he was concerned, Canary was the head of her company. The business began as a startup her junior year of college—no more than twenty people, if that—at which point she was hired on as an intern, and then full-time post-grad with the promise of several promotions within the first year. One thing led to another and Canary was pulling the strings.

So hearing that she even had someone higher-up than her was surprising. She never talked about any overbearing, narcissistic overseer. Didn't people complain about bosses? That was what people did, didn't they?

"Your boss?" Killua repeated.

Canary gestured then to the man Pariston had been shepherding around.

The man yanked out the seat beside Canary and sat with an annoyed huff, and Killua took one look at his disheveled appearance and decided that yes , he did, in fact, have the aesthetic of a crotchety professor.

Canary didn't seem at all fazed. In fact, she simply slid her glass of alcohol over and said, "Malibu and coke," and the man took that like a shot as well.

Pariston claimed his seat beside Killua with a triumphant smile. He placed a hand behind Killua's chair, and as Canary's eye gravitated towards it, Pariston pointed to Canary's boss, and Killua's anxiety spiked.

"That man right there?" Pariston said, and the man glared at them both. "Is Ging Freecss."

As if Killua's brain hadn't already imploded, it now exploded in a colorful assortment of curses. Freecss!? he thought, his mind racing back to Gon Freecss, the only Freecss he knew and the only one he ever imagined existing. Gon never spoke of his parents, let alone their professions .

But there Killua could see it—an exact (albeit older ) rendition of Gon's facial structure slapped and stretched onto the face of this decrepit professor who groaned in contempt.

"Oh, don't parade me, Hill," Ging groaned. He passed a hand over his face and dragged it down to his chin. "Who's this kid anyway, huh?"

"Oh, of course, this—" Pariston started, but Killua's brain had already caught up to him at that point, and Canary being there had plunged him into overdrive.

Pariston had been going around introducing him as a nephew—never by name, since they never agreed to that, and so Killua was left with a mostly blank, crystal-clear slate that Canary could see right through. She'd call Pariston out on the nephew lie, and something told Killua that Pariston would catch on in an instant if he just told Ging—

"Killua," Killua said at the exact moment Pariston gestured to him and said, "Killua Zoldyck."

Killua's heart plummeted from his chest.

Ging straightened, just a fraction, to look at Canary. Canary was staring at Pariston with her brow knit, looking thoroughly frazzled by the strings of fate that brough Killua to Pariston's side that night. Killua, likewise, looked at Pariston with the unfathomable urge to scream, " HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW MY NAME ?"

Pariston was still sporting that plastic smile of his that looked oh-so fake but was oh-so genuine. Seeing it informed Killua that Pariston had planned this. He knew precisely why Killua couldn't scream it, and it was because his actual relative was sitting directly beside him trying to put the puzzle pieces together.

"Zoldyck?" Ging repeated. He rose an eyebrow at Killua then and, with a slight huff of distaste, said, "Sorry to disappoint, but this is an incredibly anticlimactic surprise. I admit, you had me for a second there, but as it turns out—I really don't care about this."

Pariston smiled. "Oh really? I assumed 'Zoldyck' was familiar to you, considering Canary's a Zoldyck—"

" Half Zoldyck," Canary corrected.

"—And your son is flatmates with Killua."

If it were possible to hear a pen drop amidst an entire ballroom of grown adults, Killua would have heard it. He would have told the offending pen-dropper to shut up because he couldn't process this without complete and absolute silence.

How in the world would Pariston know this? Killua thought, paling second-by-second. He knew there was always a risk of stalkers at The Phantom , but he never thought they'd go this far or risk his entire reputation in front of his sister's wife.

Killua turned to Pariston and, voice hoarse and quiet, whispered, "How do you—?"

"Simple. I personally filed your leasing papers," Pariston said, tapping a finger to his cheek. He leant his elbow against the table with a smile as the pieces of the puzzle clicked in Killua's head.

Canary turned to Ging and said, "I didn't know you had a son."

Ging was staring, unblinkingly, at Pariston. "I don't have a son."

Pariston hissed with a fake grimace. "You really have been missing out," Pariston hummed, shaking his head. "Daddy's little girl has grown into a handsome young boy."

Ging shoved to his feet faster than Killua could blink. His chair nearly toppled behind him, but Canary caught it before it could clatter. Canary yanked her hand back as Ging crossed behind her, behind Killua, and to where Pariston was taking his dear sweet time getting to his feet.

"What the fuck is this," Ging hissed.

Pariston splayed his hands out and said, "A surprise! See? You're surprised, aren't you?"

The only reason I'm here is because of this damn lease situation , Killua thought, gripping the edge of the table like he was about to bolt. The only reason I'm here is because of Pariston-fucking-Hill—

It had been such a tolerable night until that moment Ging put a finger up in front of Pariston's face and said, "There are two scenarios that can come of this."

"Go on," Pariston prompted.

"One, I do nothing. Two, I riot."

"Oh, I can only imagine which one you'll pick—" Pariston sang just before geared back and bashed his forehead into Pariston's nose.

Chairs skidded. Glasses clanked on their tables, plates and silverware shaking as Canary lunged to her feet to stop her boss from starting a good old fashioned tavern brawl. Ging, however, had Pariston by the lapels and was now flinging him across their table with a force and strength akin to an MMA wrestler.