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a dish best served cold

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First course.

Ging points at Killua. “What is he doing here?” he asks.

“I invited him,” Gon replies, passing the bread basket to his left.

“Okay. In that case, what is he doing here?” Ging says, pointing at Pariston.

“Gon-kun invited me,” Pariston says, smiling as he takes the bread basket from Gon. Killua leans away to avoid getting a few stray sparkles in his hair. “In fact, from what I understand, he invited all of our colleagues in the Zodiac, but unfortunately, it seems everybody else had plans.”

“Then,” Ging says. “Why am I here?”

Pariston hands the bread basket off to Killua. “In my opinion, people who wander around without an evident purpose in life are the most likely to be drawn in by promises of free food!” he chirps, giving a sweeping glance across the table.

“Killua, your hands just turned into claws,” Gon says. “Killua, you’re crushing the bread basket. Killua, are you listening?”

It’s too late. The bread basket and all buns therein are the first victims of the night.



Second course.

“Gon, I told you that this was a terrible idea,” Killua says, just as Pariston flings a salad fork at Ging’s face.

Ging, in turn, leans over to pick up a napkin from the floor, avoiding the utensil by a hair or two.  “Whoops, I dropped this. Silly me,” he says.

“Whoops, my fork slipped out of my hand. Silly me,” Pariston says. The fork is sticking out of the wall, trembling slightly.

Gon puts his hand up. “Excuse me, waiter?” he asks. “Could we get another fork, please?”

“This,” Killua says, gripping his own salad fork so hard that he ends up bending it in half, “is not a problem that can be fixed by asking for replacements.”

“Excuse me, waiter?” Gon says. “Make that two forks, please.”



Main course.

“Gon-kun, you’re quite mature, aren’t you?” Pariston says. “To treat your own father to a dinner at your age. And such a fine dinner it is, too! I’m not even sure Ging-san knows how to pronounce filet mignon.”

“Thanks, but Killua’s the one who decided on the foods, not me,” Gon replies cheerfully.

Ging has cut his meat and decorated it with the side garnishes to give it an expression that looks an awful lot like a smiling face. He then takes his steak knife and roughly chops the filet in two. “Actually, I speak seven languages,” he says. 

Pariston turns past Ging to look at Killua. “How precocious of you, Killua-kun,” he says. “But I would expect no less from a child of the Zoldyck family.”

“If that’s how you feel, then you probably should’ve checked the food for poison before eating it,” Killua replies off-handedly.

“Oh my, what a sense of humor,” Pariston says, laughing heartily.

Killua looks up to give him a piercing look. “Do I look like I’m joking,” he asks flatly.

Pariston’s smile goes a little haywire at the corners of his lips. Ging reaches across the table to put a hand on Gon’s shoulder and solemnly tells him, “You’ve made a good friend.”



Dessert course.

That Killua was the one who decided upon the courses really shows by the fact that their dessert is a three-tier chocolate buttercream cake, decorated exquisitely and somewhat excessively frosted.

Ging raises his hand. “Hey, waiter. Can I trade this slice for an Amaretto coffee?” he asks.

And that’s how Gon Freecss is forced to hold his best friend back from attempting to punch out his deadbeat dad at a three-star restaurant.