#simon selby

Selby's gold-tipped fountain pen scrawls across the parchment, answering the night's questions with decisive elegance. A small pocket watch—a gift from his dearest friend George—lies open on his desk, each tick of the second hand a reminder of the lateness of the hour. Moonlight streams through the curtains he never got around to closing, shining in cold contrast to the warm beam of his desk lamp. The rest of his study, plunged in darkness, seems a more appropriate setting for what is essentially another late-night writing report for his enigmatic sponsor.

Simon idly considers that one night he might suggest Rain or Taj complete their own reports, allowing him to spend his evening enriching himself with his love's company—your company. Except then he remembers Rain's childish script, often adorned with mindless sketches, and Taj's succinctness, which often raises more questions than it answers. And so, he continues writing.

Unfortunately for Selby, he is only human and susceptible to human frailty. The late nights have begun to take their toll: his eyes droop, his head feels heavy on his shoulders, and his quick script begins to slow.

After a long day’s work, Selby takes off their coat at the door and kicks off their shoes, quickly followed by slipping on the pair of slippers that have been anxiously waiting for their return.

It’s the early hours—they don’t expect anyone to be up and about. A muffled giggle and a stampede of feet above their head alert them to movement. They sigh. Their child is never as quiet as they think they are.

At first, they walk upstairs, not certain of what they wish to say. Flashbacks of an authoritarian childhood have them dragging their feet. It’s only upon walking in on their child, leaning against their wardrobe, face flushed, that a mirror of Selby’s own parents reflects on their demeanour.

“Anything you wish to confess, duck?”

“No?”

“Very well. Then, I suggest you sneak away your heavy-breathing beau by the time I have changed for bed—and in the morning we can discuss your aversion to the truth in greater detail. Good night, love.”

Rain: They were peckish.

It’s the only reason Rain heard a thing. They snuck out of bed, tiptoed downstairs, and tucked into the secret chocolate stash buried in the pantry, and were on their way back upstairs when they heard it. A giggle. A very familiar giggle. Rain couldn’t mistake it for anyone else—their child’s laugh was the precious noise in the world. What was surprising, however, was the muted chuckle that followed—entirely unfamiliar.

Well then…

At the top of the landing, where their child’s bedroom is, Rain makes a point of increasing the volume of their footsteps as they get closer. A quick succession of bangs and muffled noises precedes a tense silence.

At the door, Rain announces themselves. “I’m coming in, dewdrop!”

Their bedside table lamp is on—far past their child’s bedtime. It’s the first unavoidable and most obvious clue that their child, with their face buried beneath their blankets, is currently pretending to be asleep. Rain cannot suppress a smirk.

“So strange… I could have sworn I heard my little dove laughing,” they say aloud with exaggerated emphasis. Rain glances around the space—it’s immediately obvious where their child has tucked away their guest.

A trail of clothes acts like a line of evidence, leading directly to the closet. Rain follows it, picking up the evidence as they go. As soon as they reach the closet door, you drop the act.

“Wait!” you cry out, shooting upright. “Please, don’t…”

“You are so adorable when you’re flustered, petal.” They open the closet door, and out pops the contraband. “Whoops. Busted!” they say jokingly. “You can stay on the couch tonight. I’ll drive you home in the morning.” They turn to their child, weighing up their horrified expression for prospective punishment. “Back to bed for now, dewdrop. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

Taj: They had already made it clear—no romantic prospects behind closed doors without express permission. The rules exist for a reason. They’re not trying to be a tyrant. Unfortunately for their little tyke, they are a parent who knows all too well about rule-breaking and its consequences. They want better for you than the childhood they survived.

And despite all their rules, it's because their child is half-Qita that they anticipate those rules being broken.

Their dastardly little offspring has clearly been practising being light on their feet. The irritant they have chosen to date clearly has not. The moment they tumble in through the bedroom window, Taj is alert and aware.

Wonderful. Time to be the bad guy.

Far more quietly than their interloper, Taj chases up the stairs two at a time. Their child might not have quite as sensitive hearing as they do, but it’s good enough.

As planned, both occupants of their child’s bedroom only become aware of Taj’s presence the moment they knock. Feeling generous, Taj affords them enough time to panic, tumbling over each other to shove any incriminating evidence aside before the inevitable.

A few seconds. That’s all they get. Taj isn’t that generous.

The door swings open. Even before Taj takes a step inside, they hear muffled breathing coming from inside the closet. Their child stands frozen in the middle of the room, hoping against hope that they have somehow got away with it.

“Your 'friend’ has five seconds to come out of that closet before I get really mad.”

Suddenly, in a flurry of movement, their child flings open the closet door and drags their beau out into the open. “I’m sorry!” they exclaim, words jumbling together, “please let me explain! They were only supposed to be here for a moment. I didn’t think you’d mind if—”

Taj sees the panic; it’s like holding up a mirror.

They sigh, interrupting their little tyke’s tirade with a kiss against their forehead. “We’ll discuss it later. With that being said…” they glance over at the shivering intruder with far more intensity. “If you have respect for my child, you should respect my rules. If you are willing to cross my boundaries, how do I know you won’t do the same to theirs? Don’t test me.”

N: Family used to mean something entirely different to N—it was a shackle, a hot iron to wield one’s convictions and to burn those who disobeyed, and a trophy to show off to those who dared to be curious.

You taught them something different… with patience, gentleness, and arms open wide.  So now, with all your many lessons, when they hear their child giggling with someone who ought not be in their bedroom late into the night, they demonstrate restraint. Patience. Serenity.

It's good for them, they justify. It’s perfectly normal for a teenager to be curious, to test boundaries. This is fine. Totally fine. I’m not worried about it… Fine, maybe a quick check-up is called for.

They rap their knuckles against your bedroom door. The bumbling bangs and bumps, followed by a quick succession of shushes, are not as discreet as their child probably thinks they are. Still, N waits. Patiently. One leg bouncing on the spot. Until finally, the door swings open.

“Hey!” their child exclaims, slightly breathless. “Is everything okay?”

“Nothing of note, my little fiend-ling.” Before their child can further question them, or worse, shut the door, they slip into the room, enjoying the wide-eyed stare of their child.

“Can I help you with something?”

N has to stifle a laugh. “Yes, dear. Perhaps you could explain to me why there are a pair of feet sticking out from beneath your bed?”

“Eh…”

“You could at least date someone with fashion sense. Odd socks… with holes? In my house?” They turn to their child, a twinkle of amusement in their eyes. “Next time, little fiend-ling, play some music. It will do wonders for masking the worst of your giggles.”

Finally, the demon turns on their child’s paramour, bending over so that they can bask in their horrified expression. “It’s uncouth to court someone’s child without first introducing yourself to the parents. You are lucky it is me who caught you—you wouldn’t want to upset mi amor.” They shudder for effect. “Terrifying.”

Umbra: You always tell them they are too permissive. Children need boundaries—rules to follow so that they can learn right from wrong. Umbra understands the theory, but the execution… Well, how could they possibly punish a little version of you? It seemed a mountain they would never be able to climb.

“I think our little cherub has snuck someone into their bedroom,” you say, hands on your hips. “I could hear whispering through the door when I went to the bathroom.”

“That’s wonderful. Remember the first time I snuck into your bedroom?”

“No it’s not! Our child is clearly flounder—wait, you snuck into my bedroom?”

Oh… they hadn’t done that since… “N-Nevermind. Do you wish for me to stop it?”

“Yes! And this time you better stick to it!”

Umbra nods, determination in their heart. Every step, they repeat the same mantra inside their head. They will invoke your rules, they will set boundaries, they will make you proud!

They step inside their child’s bedroom, and their heart melts. Their child blinks up at them, a picture of innocence, entirely unfazed by their intrusion. “Hello!” you say, in a perfect mimicry of their other parent, to whom Umbra would hand the world. “Is everything okay?”

Umbra shakes their head to refocus. They glance around the room for signs of another soul. It’s seconds before they notice a rather human-shaped lump peeking from the curtains. Without a word, they stalk towards the drapes; every step closer is acknowledged with an involuntary, high-pitched staccato note from their little one.

They yank back the curtain.

Pressed back against the window is a wide-eyed stranger, shrinking away in fear.

Umbra adopts the aura that the love of their life always says they utilise when hunting. Instantly, their victim bolts from the bedroom, overwhelming fear pushing them forward in desperation.

Rain: They have been here before.

The suffocating red, the mask that wears you rather than you wearing it. Oppressive, like hands squeezing your throat and choking the air from your lungs. Rain recognises it almost immediately. Bloodlust.

It’s been a long time since Rain set that mask aside—a hard won battle. It fought back on the worst days of their life. They were addicted to it on the best. It wrestled, wrought, whispered and wretched. It tugged at their life, promised them freedom. Damn it. It nearly destroyed them forever.

Now, they see it in you. Inescapable, uncontrollable. It’s eating away at you, promising retribution but offering nothing but pain in return. The mask is fitted to your face, and Rain doesn’t know if they have the strength to take it off. Not again.

But they will try. For you. Whatever it is that has taken hold of you, they know it’s negotiable. Their mask was a mirror. It wasn’t real. It was a reflection of themselves. This, though. This is something else. Something apart from you. And something that isn’t a part of you can be separated.

They won’t leave you to their fate.

“Okay, Cherub. Let’s get this mask off, okay? The sky is clear today, and I want you to see it.”

Taj: It didn’t take a genius to figure out you were acting nuts. The first “I’m going to kill you” could be played off. We’d all said stupid shit in the heat of an argument. But then, on the quiet evenings, curled up together by the fire, at the times when Taj was feeling most like themselves, you started saying worse things. Whispered threats rather than sweet nothings, prodding and poking as they slept, as if testing they were still warm.

All of it is fucking weird.

This isn’t you.

Fuck. It isn’t you.

The realisation washes over them like an ice-cold glass of water poured over their back. The tufts of fur sticking from their ears feels like static, the fur on the tail turning it into a rod. They’ve lost you. From right beneath their fucking nose. How had it taken days of escalation before they decided to pull their finger out of their ass and notice?

It isn’t difficult to trap you. Anger and bitterness are a powerful motivator. It was even easier to do when the beast inside began to snarl and snap like a ravenous dog. Your entire face twisted into something alien. It pisses him off.

He kneels beside you, the cage they locked you in standing firm against your thrashing. “You really fucked up when you took them. Really fucked up. But don’t worry, I’ll bring them back. And when I do, we’ll both have the pleasure of shitting on what’s left. So… Let’s play, shall we?”

N: “I’m quite enjoying this new murderous streak,” they joke, throwing an arm over your shoulder like a little devil. “If I had known you would be this willing to skin your enemies, I wouldn’t have bothered with the saccharine sweetness to earn your trust.” They were kidding, of course. An off-colour joke in response to what they believed was an odd attempt at humour of your own.

They didn’t think you were serious.

Not until they woke with a knife pressed against their gullet.

But they are still a demon. It wasn’t a difficulty to switch your positions, rolling you beneath them to wrangle your flailing limbs back under control. They are certain the knife cuts them in a few places, but the adrenaline is enough to mask the worst of it. All of their attention is locked onto the deep, black abyss of your eyes.

Out of desperation, N weasels their way through your mental barriers. What should have been as easy as opening a door, becomes as impossible as trying to push through a wall of steel. Whatever is living inside of you has forced them out.

“Well, that absolutely will not do, my dear. There’s only room for one pestilence in your life, and I have quite taken the spot.” They press you beneath, settling their weight on you, glaring into your eyes. “Now I’m talking directly to the bloodthirsty parasite that has hidden away the only person I truly care for—fear me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Umbra: “Are you… okay?” they asked, for what felt like the fiftieth time that day.

You looked sick. There was no other way to describe it. Your skin had lost its colour, and your eyes, that once shone like the full moon in a sky full of stars, had gone black. Like every star had been wiped from the sky all at once. Like a siren, you were destined to dash a ship against the rocks. Your melodious voice changed from a lullaby to a dirge—a haunting, mournful song already lamenting your victims. The only thing Umbra was uncertain of was who exactly would be on that ship.

Umbra was lost at sea. They would have been willing to follow you anywhere you wanted them to go before. Now, they hesitated. Their stomach twisted painfully, and their hands began to shake. It didn’t seem right—it didn’t seem like you.

It was only after they sought answers elsewhere did they recognise the truth. The siren wasn’t you, but inside you.

But how did they release you without hurting you? Would the siren destroy its host—destroy you—if they realised Umbra knew the truth? Umbra would rather you swim in a river of your victim's blood than spill a drop of yours.

Perhaps that’s the answer, then. Perhaps once the siren is satisfied, they will get you back.

Rain: The question makes Rain choke on their drink. They had been enjoying a nice cold strawberry milkshake through a straw when the server bent over, a twinkle in her eye. “You two together?” All the blood rushes to Rain’s head, cheeks burning in embarrassment.

Had they truly been so obvious? Rain glances at you nervously, concerned you might have already figured out their intentions. They didn’t want the first time you heard it to be from any mouth but theirs. When life was a little more forgiving—when the ghosts of their past stopped haunting them. But you don’t even blink. “Oh, no. I’m not their type.”

Rain wants to laugh. It’s only their mortification that stops them. “I don’t have a type,” they say quickly—a little too quickly. “Well, I mean, not any type in particular. I’m up for anyone, to be honest. Wait, no, not like that. Not anyone. They have to be special. Like you. Well, not like you. Just you; I’m not looking elsewhere—!”

They pray the ground swallows them whole.

Taj: They hold onto their hood a little tighter; their ears have been dying to break free from beneath it since your nosy neighbour dared to utter the question. Their first thought is “who the fuck are you to ask this?” The second is “don’t be ridiculous; as if they could ever be interested in a human.”

But then, they hear the words leave your mouth. “Oh, no. I’m not their type.”

Taj scowls. Who said you get to decide that? Shouldn’t they have a say? Fine, your easy denial could have been ripped straight from their mind, but hearing it spoken aloud—instinctively, as if you hadn’t even needed to think about it—fills them with dread. The words grate inside their mind like claws shredding skin.

“Exactly,” they say, out of pride. They swallow down the bile burning their throat. “There isn’t a single hope of me lookin’ twice at a koel.”

They force themselves to believe it.

N: It might surprise the others, but casual touch didn’t come as easily to N as they pretended it did. It was an easy enough game to play; N memorised the rules a long time ago. Except, it didn’t feel much like playing when it was with you. Throwing an arm across your shoulder, letting a hand drift across your back, leaning closer to whisper in your ear as if they were sharing a secret—N did these things because they wanted to. How long had it been since they truly wanted to?

So, the question truly wasn’t a surprise. Naturally, people would assume you were a couple—a rather handsome one at that.

“Oh, no! We’re not together. I’m not their type.”

Ouch. N feels it deep in their gut. Winded—wounded—like someone had just slammed a fist into it. Their smile diminishes, almost imperceptibly. Unnoticeable to anyone who refuses to look past their thin veneer. N’s heart tightens in a way that reminds them it still beats.

They bury it down. The charming demon comes out to play once again.

“I have all kinds of types,” they say, a tempting lilt to their voice. “A dark-haired beauty, a light-haired menace, dim-witted, sharp-witted… I’m not all that fussy. There’s room for you on my schedule, I’m sure.”

Every word tastes like tears.

Umbra: Being with you was easy. Too easy. As easy as Umbra imagines it is for you to breathe. Breathing isn’t so easy for them.

There is a side of them that comes out when they are with you. The demon makes fun of it—says they go soft. Umbra doesn’t care. Being with you feels a lot like breathing.

And when something comes that easily, it isn’t the kind of thing you second-guess. So, when someone questions the relationship, asking if they were with you, well—“yes” was the obvious answer. That question only required eyes. Umbra is sitting right next to you.

“No, Umbra—they mean together together. Anyway, no, we’re not together. I’m not their type.”

Rain: They would be quite hypocritical if they felt threatened by your persona, given their own history. But since laying eyes on you, they haven't even glanced at another person. So, they do feel a little nervous that you might not share the depths of their feelings.

However, that fear is quickly dismissed once they recognise it as the fear of losing everything you give them—love, affection, time, and purpose. They cherish and value everything you provide; they only hope that, even in their own humble way, you feel the same about them.

Taj: At first, it’s all par the course for Taj. Obviously, you are only interested in getting them into bed. It’s a good time; they aren’t going to complain. Taj would never expect anything else—this is as far as an interest anybody has ever shown them.

But then, you linger. And you keep lingering. Suddenly, you're no longer just rolling around in bed with them; you're making them breakfast, running them a bath when they are tired, talking about the stars as you lie beside them under the open sky, resting a hand on their shoulder when they feel unsteady—the list keeps growing. And so does their heart.

It stings when they notice you direct your attention elsewhere; a passing glance, laughing a little too hard at another’s joke, biting your lip when you think they aren’t watching—they want it all to themselves. But, just as long as it’s their bed you choose, they can swallow the rest.

N: Much like Taj, they accept it readily. Pretty words spoken in pretty patterns, like the poetry they drafted in their youth. A trap of the sweetest honey, delectable and decadent, but sticky like syrup. They are a master at playing the part, at seeming unattainable, at always maintaining the perfect distance while provoking a desire for intimacy. Their forgotten heart splinters upon realising you can weave the fabric of desire just as easily.

A realisation that is soon followed by endless affection—a game they have never played. Adorned jewellery, centuries-old wine, and massages that aren’t foreplay. A night in, curled up without expectation. Gifts of touch, of love, of attention. They are overwhelmed.

It takes a great deal of courage to believe that they deserve it.

Umbra: They don’t understand. You are forward, upfront, and direct with your desires. Umbra is merely grateful to have your attention. They accept you as you are, as you do them. Unintimidated by your easy sexuality, even if they don’t necessarily understand why it is directed at them, they bask in your affections, drinking it in like drops of dew.

They don’t see the mask.

Not until you lay it down in front of them, uninhibited, baring your soul to theirs, offering to lay down at their feet if they wish it. They don’t. They want to see your eyes.

“Let me get that for you.”

Simon steps in front of you, holding the restaurant door open for you as you exit into the winter chill. He waves at the owner through the glass door, who is no doubt already happily counting the bills he slipped him on the way out.

“Thank you,” you say, blowing some air into your hands to stave off the cold.

“For what, darling?” he asks, offering an arm for you to take as he guides you down the street. You reach out and take it with a shy smile, lashes lowered, and Simon finds himself wishing he could still see the colour of your eyes.

“For holding the door, for a lovely evening, for a wonderful dinner, for organising a damn violin player to come and play our song—”

“Well, I fear my singing it myself would have only soured the evening—”

“What I’m trying to say is… I had a good time.”

Simon’s chest burns with infallible fondness. “Of course. Think nothing of it. The pleasure of your company is an irreplaceable gift, your smile—invaluable. Every night we spend together is a night worth remembering.”

You shake your head, your eyes creasing humorously. “I’m surprised you were able to find somewhere so fancy so close to Albach Bay.”

“Your hometown has a great many hidden treasures; you being the most precious amongst them.”

“Stop it.”

“I don’t mean to rush you, Simon — I know you are a very careful person — but my arms are beginning to ache,” Rain says, with their arm bent at an odd angle.

“Very well. Carefully press it against that very spot, and it should, hopefully, remain there… for the rest of the night at least.”

You glance over at Rain as you both slowly but surely press down and let go in tandem. The cobwebs flutter dramatically with a draft, then settle into place. You breathe a sigh of relief as you step off the ladder, gratefully back onto solid ground.

“Perfect; well done. Excellent teamwork.”

Rain raises a hand expectantly for a high five, which you comply with, using as much energy as you can summon from the little strength left in the burning remnants of your arm.

“Where’s Taj and Umbra anyway?” you ask, glancing around the dimly lit living room, once pristine, now covered in fake cobwebs and witch’s cauldrons overflowing with a “punch” concoction created by Naera.

The demon herself is lounging across the couch, happily watching everyone else do the work while she drinks a glass of wine—noticeably not the punch she made. “They snuck out together not too long ago. Well, it was more like Taj dragged Umbra out by his sleeve while the living dead looked like a mouse trapped in the paw of a cat. Which, I suppose, was quite accurate.”

Rain rolls their eyes as Naera laughs at her own joke. “You shouldn’t put your feet up on the coffee table,” Rain admonishes, knowing full well they are often guilty of doing the same thing. “Simon doesn’t like it.”

Naera smiles over the edge of her wineglass—it’s the smile of someone plotting. “Oh, I do apologise. How very rude of me.” She turns to Simon, who has been quietly inspecting the decorations and shifting things around, when something appears off to him. While looking the man in the eye, she slowly lowers her feet, adorned with the fluffiest pink slippers you have ever seen, off the coffee table.

Simon, far too distracted with perfecting the final touches for the night, barely acknowledges Naera. He dips his head in what you suppose is gratitude, then bolts into the kitchen.

“Thanks,” Rain says, with barely suppressed irritation, before quickly following after.

The moment their back is turned, Naera lifts her legs back up, propping them on the edge of the solid oak coffee table, as she takes another sip of wine.

“You better not drink all of Simon’s good wine either,” you chastise, barely concealing a smirk.

“I know it’s Halloween, dear, but if I wished to be this group’s piñata, I would have handed you all a stick to hit me with. Lighten up! It’s a party!”

“Don’t give Rain any ideas. If they think hitting you will grant them a prize, they might seriously consider it.”

The doorbell chimes through the apartment, the first of what you anticipate being many. You barely make two steps towards the door before the kitchen slams open behind you.

“I’ll get it!” Rain shouts excitedly, barrelling towards the front door, grabbing the pumpkin bucket filled with candy on their way. The moment Rain flings the front door open, there is a chorused “trick or treat” as a bunch of kids in an eclectic mix of costumes hold up their bags or their buckets for what they certainly hope is a treat rather than a trick.

Rain fists handfuls of candy into each container. You wince as the kids' faces light up at Rain’s generosity—already anticipating the large influx of kids turning up at the door for such a generous donor. Hopefully, Simon has bought enough candy for the entirety of Albach Bay.

“Goodbye! Have a nice night!” Rain calls, enthusiastically waving at the kids as they move on, skip in their step, to the house next door. “Well, that was fun.”

It’s sometimes too easy to take these holidays for granted when you live them your entire life, but it’s… kind of nice… seeing Rain so enthusiastic. Especially since the only aspect of the night Naera is enthusiastic about is the wine.

Simon re-enters the living room with a silver tray filled with nibbles in bowls more expensive than your rent. He weaves through furniture and decorations to the coffee table that Naera is still lounging on. Without a word, Simon knocks her feet down. Naera blanches—“excuse me,” she groans—Simon ignores her, not even sparing her a glance, and balancing the tray on one arm, he uses his now freed hand to reach into his pocket to pull out a sanitary wipe. He wipes the surface where her feet had been, then sets the tray down.

“There. This should hopefully satisfy Taj enough that she won’t feel the need to—“

The front door bursts open, and two familiar faces walk in. Taj, hood down, fluffy brown ears dancing with every sound, taking full advantage of the freedom the holiday brings. And another much larger figure, donned in a queen-sized bedsheet with two holes cut out the front for eyes—Umbra, somehow looking far less imposing than he ever has. Both of them walk in carrying bags filled with enough candy to feed ten children.

Simon’s eyes grow wide at the sight of it all. “Please, don’t tell me—how, exactly, have you both managed to acquire this much in one evening? And does it have anything to do with why Umbra is wearing one of my bedsheets?”

“Taj said—“

Taj slaps a hand over Umbra’s face, where you suspect his mouth is. “We went trick-or-treating. So what? Don’t you always complain that I don’t integrate myself enough with the locals?”

Simon sighs. “And the ‘locals’ didn’t have a problem with two adults knocking on their door?”

“Well… no,” Taj answers, in a lie as bold as brass.

“Taj.”

Umbra frees himself from Taj’s palm, tugging the sheet off his head. “It’s okay, Mr Selby,” he begins in the polite tone he usually adopts when talking with Simon, “because Taj was sure that every household was left a present in return.”

Simon blinks. “Present?”

“Yes! Taj brought along eggs so that everyone who said no—“

“Quiet, Icicle!” Taj barks, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

Simon’s stare turns thunderous. You almost shy away from it yourself. Luckily for Taj, Simon seems to think better of causing an upset on a night that is supposed to be fun. He takes a deep breath, holds it, then slowly breathes out.

“We’ll discuss this later,” he finally says, regaining much of his composure. “We were waiting for you both to come back before starting the film—“

“I wasn’t waiting,” Naera interjects, “I was quite enjoying the peace and quiet.”

“—We expect to get a few knocks on the door throughout the night. Rain has happily agreed to be on door duty.”

“Yes! And if we run out of candy at any point, Taj has brought enough back for everyone.”

“Touch my sweets and die.”

Simon sighs. “That’s the spirit, everyone. Settle into your seats.”

While everyone else finds a spot to settle in, gathering in front of Simon’s television, Umbra walks over to you, clutching a bag of sweets and chocolates that is far too large. "Here, I got these for you,” he whispers, holding the bag beneath your nose.

“Oh, Umbra, I couldn’t—“

“Please. Take them. I want you to have them,” he reiterates, eyes big and hopeful.

Smiling, you take the bag, and Umbra’s entire face lights up. “Shall we share them? They’ll be the perfect snack for the movie.”

Umbra’s skin seems to crack with the width of his smile.

You wave him over to the sofa and plonk yourself in the middle. Rain leaps onto the seat on your right, making the sofa bounce with their enthusiasm. Taj silently slides into an armchair away from the sofa, the one everyone knows is reserved for her. Before you can wave Umbra over to the seat directly on your left, Naera tucks herself in beside you.

“You shouldn’t have shuffled your feet, dead legs. Besides, I only got up for a refill. I was here first,” she says, waving her wineglass in front of his face.

You open your mouth to defend Umbra’s position—there’s no way Naera didn’t hear you and Umbra discussing sharing the bag of sweets—but without complaint, Umbra slips between the sofa and the coffee table, sitting between your legs on the floor.

“Umbra, you don’t need to… I can make Naera move if you—”

Umbra shakes his head. “I like it here.”

Sure. It’s not like you aren’t used to Umbra’s more eccentric quirks by now.

“Right. Is everyone ready?” Simon asks, crouched beside the TV set with the rented VHS in his hand.

Taj got the choice of VHS to rent this time, so it promises to be the goriest blend of blood and body horror she could find, with the excuse of ‘well, it’s Halloween’. No doubt she’s looking forward to watching us all squirm.  

“Oh, yes. We’re all vibrating with excitement,” Naera drawls sarcastically, though you see her sit up a little straighter, a content smile on her lips.

Having already primed the television set, Simon kneels beside the VHS player, checks the tape, then slots it in. The film company’s logo fills the screen, and Rain cheers. Satisfied that everything is in working order, Simon moves a dining chair from the table and sets it beside the couch, taking his seat.

The movie plays, and as suspected, it’s a bloody, gory flick, but far cheesier than you thought it would be. It’s actually quite laughable. Taj spends the entire time tucking into her sweet stash, sniggering at Rain whenever they get scared. Rain watches with wide eyes, ducking beneath their shirt every time things get a little tense. Naera belittles every inaccurate detail— “This is ridiculous. That isn’t how you pull a spine from someone’s back…”—followed quickly by Simon shushing her. You and Umbra often exchange sweets, although you notice that rather than eating any, you hand him some, then he pockets them, smiling all the while. You can only guess what he intends to do with them.

At some point during the night, all of you seem to forget about the movie. Taj, surrounded by half-scattered open wrappers, teasing Rain with fake Halloween traditions, smirking each time Rain insists they try another one of Taj’s wild suggestions. Naera, poking Umbra with her foot halfway through, each time sparking another squabble, which you quickly had to defuse so Simon wouldn't send them both packing from his house. Every time the doorbell rang, Rain would dash across the back of the furniture to answer it first, as if in a race against herself.

It's messy. Even attempting the most mundane of everyday activities together feels like a chore. But then, at the end of the night, when the lights have dimmed, the candles have burned away to nothing, and the VHS tape has long run silent, when you are all together—most half asleep, dozing off in their seats—it feels like family.

“Would you like me to drive you home?” Simon asks, voice whispery quiet so as not to wake the others.