#writeblrween

“I mean,” Bren says, more pointedly, “it’s Halloween, and I’m going trick-or-treating.”

“By yourself? Well, I guess so. You’re sure you don’t have any friends to go with?” He sighs, still typing at the speed of light with one hand. “I would ask Ava, but I’m already trying to message—” An idea seems to come to him, and he looks up over the top of his computer screen. “Elle,” he asks, “do you think—”

Elle puts down their spatula. 

“It’s completely normal for fifteen-year-olds to go trick-or-treating with their friends,” they advise, turning away from the rice for a moment. “I’ve seen nine year olds go out alone, around here. Why has this not come up before?” 

“In elementary school they organized class groups for trick-or-treating. And sometimes I go with people from school as friends. Or Ava.” Bren pulls out a chair and sits down in it. “But she’s with her girlfriend. At the party. She said since I’m old enough to go by myself she wants to get drunk. Except she fingerspelled it with a ‘c’.”

“Mhm.” Elle pokes at the rice with their spatula. They do recall Ava being oddly unavailable for Halloween, for several years. “But it’s probably not as much fun to go without a friend.” 

“Right.” Bren kicks their legs underneath the table.

Elle considers an idea, counts to three internally, and holds back a sigh.

“Bren,” they say. Bren perks up, raising their eyebrows. “Would you like me to go trick-or-treating with you.”

“Yes, please.” And they disappear into the bedroom; Elle assumes for a costume. Elle leans their head against the oven cover, closing their eyes. One of the oven lights turns off, and they grope around to turn it back on.

They would like very much to ask Ephraim for his thoughts. But he hasn’t said anything, and so his thoughts are as clear as they could be—that he’s busy, and he approves. And he trusts Elle, of course, because... well, when given the opportunity, they’re not that bad as a chaperone.

When given the opportunity.

Elle silently recites something they read on a healing crystals forum board about peaceful and calm energies. A positivity that can cure the world. Something a little too religious for their tastes. And—

“I’m a robot,” Bren says, and so they are. At least, they’ve drawn buttons and levers on a slightly-too-small shirt, and they have a silver mask on. The mask has antennae. “Again. If it’s not broken, don’t fix it.”

“Of course.” Elle leaves the spatula resting on a dish and wipes their hands. “You made it?”

“A long time ago. My dad helped with the mask. I have to wear it every year until I grow out of it.”

“You have to?” Elle asks, and Bren just shrugs. Elle assumes this is not the moment for a comforting reassurance about compulsions and how we do not have to listen to them. Anyway, it’s already dark, and Elle is an early riser. Best to set out now. “‘Fraim, I’m leaving the rice on the stove. You can heat it up in the microwave if you’re hungry before we get back. I haven’t been out on Halloween in so long,” they add absentmindedly. “I have no idea what the trick or treating scene is like now.”

“It’s good,” Bren says, and Elle cracks an appreciative smile. Ephraim holds up a thumbs-up sign, now scrolling. Elle sighs. They don’t like weighing the odds of whether Ephraim will be available for You-Know-What later while Bren is in the room, because it makes them feel weird, but it’s also Halloween. And it’s not as though they would need the entire night. Though the machinations—getting Bren somewhere, getting Ephraim and Elle elsewhere—are complicated. And, well, it’s Halloween. And Halloween with children means trick-or-treating. Elle yanks a bag of candy out of the cupboard—because they remembered—and ignores Bren’s widening eyes as they pour it into a bowl to leave out front. This reminds Bren to go run back into the house for their pumpkin-shaped candy bag.

** 

Bren is incredibly easy to handle, Elle thinks; they are quiet and stick by Elle’s side without bumping into them. And the decorations on some of the houses are quite elaborate, even though the guy who used to set up an entire haunted house in his garage doesn’t live here anymore. The person at his address is wearing a witch’s hat and some complicated makeup, and Elle’s not sure how to bring it up to them, so they don’t. 

They feel, again, as if nothing has changed since their childhood. As if they’re just taller. And then Bren asks them something and they have to ask for a repetition because they’ve been staring out into space. Or a paper-towel ghost on a wire, as the case may be.

“Do you think it’s unJewish to go trick-or-treating?” Bren asks again, and Elle shrugs.

“That’s a question for your dad, isn’t it?” they ask, but Ephraim is probably the most in the Halloween spirit of them all, in his own way. Elle read the story in question, now that they don’t have to ban themself from Googling his name, and found it pleasantly Frankenstienian. Though they’ve never been much of a literary analyst themself.

“Because it’s a pagan holiday,” Bren clarifies.

“This doesn’t make it less of a question for your dad,” Elle says, steering Bren towards the end of the block. A witch and two Britneys walk past them. “Unless you think I know something about pagan religions. My parents weren’t religious, anyway.”

Bren tugs Elle towards a TAKE JUST ONE! :) bowl in front of a darkened house. Elle is very pleased to see that they do, in fact, only take one. 

“My opinion,” Bren says (Elle heaves a sigh of relief), returning to the sidewalk, “is that it’s like everything else, and you can find lots of excuses. Did you know Maimonides thought that the Jews should use Greek philosophy in their beliefs?”

“I don’t know who My-mon-ih-deez is,” Elle says, walking back, and Bren hops a little to keep up. Elle slows down a little, trying to stay conscious of their legs.

“Rambam. He was a scholar during the Chanukah period, and he wrote the Mishnah. Well, I don’t remember the dates.”

“That does sound more familiar.”

“But his Wikipedia calls him Maimonides. Probably because it’s the Greek name so it sounds less ethnic.”

Elle breathes a sigh of relief as Ephraim’s front door comes back into view. Bren frowns immediately, or at least they frown more than they usually frown.

“Why?” they ask, not bothering to elaborate.

“Oh, I was just worried I’d lose you down a well or something,” Elle says. “The counselor’s office is pretty well-enclosed, so I don’t have to worry there.”

This is the kind of counselor joke that usually gets people to lighten up just a little bit, but, predictably, it does not work on Bren.

“I don’t fall down wells with anyone else,” they say, tromping up the little steps up to the porch. “I don’t think we even have any wells.”

“It was a joke, kiddo.” Elle moves the candy bowl out of the way of the front door; it’s still decently full. “I’m just nervous. I know it’s not logical.” They click the door open and pat Bren’s head as the two of them enter. “Maybe I’d be the first to lose a child in a well in a town where there are no wells.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Ephraim says, still typing furiously. He looks up and catches Elle’s eye, shooting them a small smile. “Bren?” 

Bren hops into a chair nearby, looking into their pumpkin. Ephraim ruffles their hair again, and they train their gaze on his screen, reading along with whatever he’s doing. 

Elle sighs again, shaking themself out after the outdoors. They run a hand through their hair, checking for leaves and fluffs and Outdoor Things, and wash their hands at the sink, making a note to get the other two to wash their hands before dinner. Being outside is one thing, but having your hands on the same computer you’ve been using for over a decade—! Elle shudders.

There’s someone outside. There’s Constantine outside. By this point, Atlas can sense a Rainier without needing to know where they are. But, Atlas guesses, Kay is looking at the shrubbery to the right—left—his left, house’s right—of the house, where someone is hiding. He wouldn’t be able to tell without magic; they’re entirely concealed by bushes and vines. And Atlas is just weighing whether or not he should deal with a potential murderer on Halloween when he realizes that the person in the bushes is Constantine. 

“There you are,” Kay says, as usual, before Atlas has realized himself. “My father is among the shrubbery.”

“Okay.” Atlas leans back against the windowsill; Constantine-in-a-bush is not half as interesting as Kay-right-in-front-of-him. “Family tradition?”

“Of a sort.” Kay resumes her position at the windowsill, craning her neck slightly. “Do you sense someone coming?”

Atlas checks. “No. But if your dad gets his ass beat for hiding outside in the shrubs, I’m not gonna take care of it.”

“He is not going to ‘get his ass beat’ for hiding in the shrubbery.” Kay wrinkles her nose and heads back in the direction of the hallway. Atlas follows her to his room, tossing a ball of magic-ink from hand to hand.

“You know,” he says, “if you were a normal person, that would’ve been a great moment for a joke. ‘Legolas, what do your elf eyes see’? But you’ve never seen a movie. I’m a shell of my usual self around you.” 

“I have seen films before,” Kay says, sidling into Atlas’s bedroom, “and I have read the books. Which came long before the films, and formed the basis for all of your Internet memes.”

“It’s not the same,” Atlas sighs, but he sits down on his bed and pulls Kay into his lap. They stare out the window together, waiting. For what Atlas does not know. “Could we be having sex right now?” he ponders. Kay shushes him. “I’m just saying. We’re both in bed—my bed—and you’re acting mysterious and unHalloweeny. I can think of nothing better to celebrate this distinguished holiday than mfffmfmfmf,” because Kay has her hand over his mouth. He kisses it and pulls it away. “Did you know some kids are coming to TP your house?”

“Yes,” Kay whispers, pulling the curtains aside. 

“And I’m not gonna stop them,” Atlas says. “I get that you guys are being hunted like rabbits or whatever, but your dad deserves to be TPed.”

“I live here too,” Kay mutters absentmindedly, brow creased. 

“I didn’t exclude you,” Atlas notes, and then someone screams. He jumps up—a muffled ow from Kay, who hits the headboard—and looks out the window, where the Rainier shrubbery is emitting a powerful stream of garden-hose-water directly into the faces of several small children.

Well.

They’re not that small.

Kay clambers back up over Atlas to get a better view. Her eyes gleam disconcertingly; the orange outdoor lights cast bright reflections. 

“This is so unVictorian,” Atlas comments, but Kay is curled up and watching the dispersion like fireworks. For that matter, Atlas would not have expected the hose to be powerful enough to follow them like that, but apparently Constantine has practice. “This what happens when the cops don’t come to your house?” 

But Kay isn’t looking at him. She’s letting out a small, quiet noise that almost sounds like—but when Atlas turns to see her better she’s back to being stone-faced. 

Atlas slumps down against his festive (pumpkin-covered) bedding, holding a pillow to his chest. He supposes he should not be surprised that the injury of small, irritating children is what makes Kay Rainier laugh.

I mutter something. Probably something about there not being an official calendar.

“Doesn’t matter. Avner has the main one, and with his harem of supporters we get news eventually. It’s Halloween, Eliza. Get up.”

“This isn’t Christmas,” I grumble. “It’s not—New Year’s. This doesn’t have to start right now.”

“Does here.” He’s pulling on his boots—or doing something else that requires a lot of stomping and banging around; my eyes haven’t adjusted. Someone Avner-shaped steps out of the bathroom, glittering. 

“Eliza,” the Avner-shape says, “you look tired.”

“Oh?” I blink several times. “That surprising?” 

Red dashes out the door.

“You don’t have to wear a costume; I’m going as a snow princess again.” Avner floats over to the stove and brings me something warm. “I told him to at least wait until I could get you cider.”

I can’t think enough to respond. But when he comes into focus I see that he is wearing more sparkly makeup than usual, and it’s all silvery-white, and he has the eyeshadow and the this and the that, and one of his hundred pretty dresses. I try to remember which makeup is kissable and which isn’t—he kisses my cheek first, solving the problem.

“He likes Halloween,” Avner comments, unnecessarily. “I’m not going to stop him from enjoying it. When it gets light out there’ll probably be pie contests or something, and we usually try to find a carnival.” He seems to be considering something. I chug my cider. “It’s surprising. I don’t know who announced it. Everyone’s out in the streets, anyway.” A loud whoop passes by our window.

I make a noise and flop back into bed.

“I would have warned you,” Avner says, “but it was a surprise for me, too. Well, I’ll come back after a bit to go to bed with you.”

“mrblfthanks.” I’m not sure if I’m speaking or just thinking in my head. “gnightavi.”

“See you!” He tucks me back in and runs out, too. Shutting the door this time. I try to find the warm spot I was resting in.

**

Halloween is better as a daytime holiday. We can run around and drink pumpkin-things and listen to people discuss making a Forest-themed holiday (which Red tells me happens every year) and change outfits every half hour if we feel like it. There’s some kind of fashion show for handmade costumes which devolves inevitably into an argument over what exactly ‘handmade’ is and a duplication of the prizes to pacify everyone.

Avner pulls us into a shop decorated with festive garments and strikes up a conversation with the owner about textiles; Red and I molest the fabrics while Avner discusses their attributes. We wind up taking a sample of a very fuzzy one and something gauzy that looks like Avner’s style, depositing them at home before going back out for more pie.

I’m surprised to find a blow-up slide in the middle of the woods. All the grown adults are losing their shit over it, obviously; a couple of people muddle their way through the lines with actual small children. I’m just putting together a theory of how it works without electricity when I notice the look on Avner’s face.

And then it’s gone, because he’s noticed me looking.

“Hm?” He takes my hand. I forget momentarily what I was going to say. He’s not wearing gloves—anyway.

“You looked pensive,” I say, which is true. Conflicted, perhaps. Not deep in thought, but not too shallowly, either.

“Oh. I was just thinking.”

“On Halloween? Day of all freedoms?” I hold a hand up to my eyes to shield them from the setting sun; Red sweeps downhill on the slide. At least, I assume it’s him, from this distance; I can’t imagine anyone else wearing that outfit.

“Well, nothing bad.” Avner loops his hand pseudo-casually around my waist, which means that both of us stop talking while Avner checks to see if I’ve noticed and I pretend I haven’t noticed but then I look his direction to see if he’s going to keep it there and he looks my direction to assure me that yes, in fact, he will.

“Evil machinations?” I guess. It’s hard to imagine Avner with machinations, actually. Mathematical machinations, sure, but not... Forest-wide evil-laughter-style machinations.

“Good machinations,” he assures me. “I just have to figure out how to execute them.”

“Mm. I’m putting you on the list,” I say, and hold a minute-long intermission for the conversation by putting my head on Avner’s shoulder and reestablishing our situation. I’m just thinking of how I could casually get us both in a sitting position on the grass, preferably with me leaning on him, when he asks me what list I’m talking about and I have to remember what list I mentioned. “Oh—who killed the White Queen, obviously.”

“I’ve been on that list,” he reminds me. “I inherited the throne, remember? I’m the most suspicious person there is.”

“Right. Avner Ivory, owner of many physical weapons which he enjoys using to hurt people.”

“I have at least one sword.” 

“So does everyone else in a hundred-mile radius. Red has shifty eyes,” I say, and he snorts. “Let me know if you need help with the machinations.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I think I’ve figured them out.”

**

We stay up almost until the stroke of midnight (whenever that would be—Red and Avner both have watches, each of which show different times), but can’t manage it all the way. Instead, I fall asleep over Red, who is asleep on top of Avner. Which means Red’s getting up manages to disturb both of us.

“I just had a feeling,” he says, eyes shining. I bury myself back in the blankets, yanking an embroidered throw over my head. “Eliza—don’t you think—”

“No,” I moan. “I don’t think.”

“Asa,” comes Avner’s muffled voice, “don’t you think you should confirm outside?”

“Yes,” Red agrees. “Definitely. I’ll be right back.”

I can’t tell whether I’m asleep or not in the interval. It feels like he wakes me up all over again running back in—at least when he leaps onto the bed.

“Ow,” Avner says. Pointedly.

“I can’t believe you didn’t notice,” Red counters. “Avner. Your calendar. I went to check it.”

“You did?” He doesn’t sound particularly concerned.

“Yes. And I’m not the only one. Did you know the other calendar was off by a day?”

Avner doesn’t respond, or at least I think he doesn’t until something touches me and I yelp. But then I realize it’s Avner trying to cuddle and I yank him towards me. I think I’ve been dreaming about seaweed.

“Can’t you lovebirds think of anything else?!” Red cries.

“Than sleep?” Oh, I’m so funny in the middle of the night. “No, not particularly.” I roll over and squeeze Avner, who pulls the blanket up over both of us.

“I’m telling you that it’s Halloween!” Red yanks the blanket off; Avner grabs it back so quickly that Red falls off the bed. “It’s—Halloween for real; Second Halloween, or yesterday was pre-Halloween and today is Halloween, whatever, but anyway, get up; get up it’s Halloween—”