Who Needs Trick-or-Treating? (James)

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Car-pooling after class would have been too great an emotional investment, threatening to send Simon over the edge before their evening plans could begin. Instead, as soon as the last bell drew classes to an end, he had retreated to his car, driven home to his apartment, set the alarm, and settled in for a nap, not bothering to remove his costume beyond the flower crown and horns that would dig painfully into his forehead when pressed into the pillow, and the boots that would scuff his mattress and sprinkle dirt on his sheets.

He awoke to the persistent beep of the alarm clock, if not refreshed, then more stable. Enough to face his plans for the evening without entertaining the thought of canceling more than once.

An accomplishment. His therapist would be proud. Cyrus would be proud.

Simon felt less proud than he did determined, as he placed the agreed-upon pizza order, then ran a comb through his hair and splashed some water on his face, before adding another layer of deodorant given that he would be in close quarters with another person for several hours.

One would think he was on a date, with the addition to his grooming routine. A thought that would amuse his brother but neither brought a brief smile to Simon’s list nor caused his lips to twist in disgust. He did not go the additional mile of breathing into his hand to check whether he needed to brush his teeth or pop a half-dozen tic-tacs. They would eat garlic bread, and he could guarantee beyond a shadow of a doubt that this wouldn’t end with them in one another’s personal space enough to notice.

He paused in front of their media cases, finger outstretched as he searched through titles for the DVDs he promised to bring with him. Gathered them up and dumped them unceremoniously into his shoulder bag, but took greater care with the portable DVD player because the equipment was delicate and he had no desire to ruin the evening’s plans through a single act of disregard. Scooped up a handful of Halloween candy from the bucket before leaving it outside the door with a sign for any stray children to help themselves to two or three pieces (what did he care if they ate more than the recommended serving size?). Then the key ingredients of puppy chow as promised: Chex, peanut butter, chocolate, and a bag of Cyrus’s confectioner’s sugar. The bag sagged from the weight of his bounty, prompting him to adjust the strap on his shoulder before it slid to the floor or left behind a red mark, cutting into the sensitive skin left exposed by his costume tunic.

Finally, just as he was ready to leave, after patting his pockets for keys and cell phone, remembered that James’s beverages could be rather…limited, prompting him to shuffle into the kitchen and retrieve a bottle from the refrigerator which he added to their supplies.

He arrived at James’s doorstep and knocked lightly on the edge of the door, gaze drawn to the pointed boots he wore in lieu of more comfortable shoes.

[James Fawcett]

James had already placed the pizza order before Simon arrived, proud of himself for remembering the details they'd agreed upon. His jack o lantern surveyed the dark parking lot, eyes glowing from an LED candle chosen because if Maybe knocked it over then she wouldn't set fire to the apartment. Every blanket he owned had been tossed onto the sofa, including his comforter because Vermont was cold and he couldn't imagine that nobody else felt it.

The idea of colder than this was honestly a little terrifying. His own costume wasn't more practical than his friends, all cream colored brocade and tights because he was a prince. That, at least, was what he planned on telling any trick or treaters who might show up at his door. He wasn't actually sure that they would, but he had a bag of candy dumped into a red plastic mixing bowl just in case. Not particularly festive, but he'd never managed to acquire anything more seasonally appropriate; whenever he considered investing in Halloween decor he was flummoxed by the lack of any storage space to keep it in.

He opened the door with his phone in hand, pizza tracking app open. "Hey! C'mon in." He gestured vaguely towards the sofa, where Maybe was kneading the blanket nest with loud purrs. "Pizza should get here in about..." He glanced towards his phone, "Twenty minutes? If you're hungry before that there's still umm apple pie."

With the amount of baking he engaged in with Cyrus there was always apple pie available. Whenever he thought he would at last exhaust their stores, they baked another entire round.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Were Cyrus here in Simon’s stead, his eyes would linger on James’s tights, admiring the view for a few precious seconds before his gaze settled on warm brown eyes, enticing him with a smile. Simon’s eyes also, briefly, passed over James’s tights, not interested in the contents; rather, they were en route to where his gaze settled, on his shoes, as always. The other man’s anxiety and excitement melded into a nearly overwhelming morass of anticipation, cresting over Simon before James could even invite him into his apartment.

Twenty minutes wasn’t long to wait at all. Simon could set aside dessert for that long, although he hefted the bag. “That’s good. I, uh, I have the Puppy Chow ingredients with me, too.”

He was reasonably certain that he had not imagined that conversation (why would he?) and they had discussed making his favorite comfort snack to ease the through their Halloween marathon.

“I have the DVD player, too. If you want me to hook it up now? Unless, uh, I’m be in your way?”One long finger scratched the back of his neck in a tic, waiting for the other man’s answer. He was not his brother, able to, or interested in, commanding a room the moment he emerged. Rather he took instruction well and had no desire to run roughshod over James’s personal space.

[James Fawcett]

James bent over to grab Maybe, who was attempting to sneak out into the hallway. The feline yowled her displeasure, claws digging into the brocade. "Come...come on in."

The words were more of a plea than an offer, desperate for Simon to step through the door so he could close it and prevent his cat from escaping. "You can....you can hook it up now, let me just make sure Maybe's out of the way."

Because she would try and play with the wires, or else sit on Simon's lap and try to get his attention. He supposed he ought to have locked her up in the bathroom before his friend came over, but he hadn't thought about how she might interrupt any of this; she loved both the Ettinger brothers so much that he preferred to allow her to roam about when they were present. But...no, for now she was going to have to be trapped. He scooted backwards for a few steps before turning, hustling towards the bathroom, where her litter box was kept, and unceremoniously dumping her before slamming the door shut in her crying face. "Sorry," He whispered to the door, "You can come out when Simon's through."

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Simon’s eyes narrowed rather than widened, conveying surprise and concern at Maybe’s frantic efforts to escape and the retribution she turned on her owner for stopping her. He had heard the other man describe her as difficult and finicky, and had been treated to the occasional emotional burst or stray thought, but this wasn’t the calmer creature who let Simon play with her paws or who would follow Cyrus to the ends of the Earth.

Turning sideways, he squeezed through the door and then nudged it shut with is foot as soon as his shoulders had cleared the jamb. Then moving out of the way, edging towards the living room where James had indicated he could work on the television while the other man all but dove for the bathroom like a football player running for a field goal, Maybe tucked under his arms while she spat and hissed.

Unable to do anything about it, Simon knelt beside the television, pushing the monitor out a few inches and rotating it 60-degrees to clear enough room for his hands to work. By the time James emerged, he was halfway finished with the task.

”She, uh, she’s in a mood? For Halloween?”

[James Fawcett]

James shook his head in exasperation as he returned to his guest. "I don't know. She hates being stuck inside. I wish I had a yard I could put her in but I dunno. I would worry about her if she were outside."

Between the cars and the dogs and the alligators...wait, no. Vermont didn't have those as a concern, thank God. But he'd also heard that having outdoor cats was bad for the environment and while he didn't entirely understand this (cats were naturally outdoor animals, weren't they?) that was yet another worry that would eat at him if he let her out. Next cat he acquired would be an adult, so he would know their temperament ahead of time. Lap cats who would keep him company while he played the piano only.

But for the moment, this was the cat he had, and for all her challenges he was fond of her. And, sometimes, he thought she liked him, too. Not as much as she liked the Ettingers, but enough.

"Can I uhh...get you anything while you work? Coffee? Hot chocolate?"

He'd actually managed to pick some up at his last visit to the store, thanks primarily to Cyrus pointing it out and asking if he wanted some. A whole assorted box, the same kind that the Ettingers had at their home, and two giant bags of marshmallows because somehow hot chocolate and marshmallows felt correct and cozy in an almost storybook way. That the weather was cold enough to actually justify this was remarkable, and even if he would prefer warmer temperatures all things equal, he also had jumped at the opportunity to indulge in hot chocolate in an appropriate climate.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

“You shouldn’t keep her outside,” Simon murmured, more confident and vehement in this simple sentence (despite his hushed voice) than in any sentiment expressed in front of Jams before. Owing , perhaps to his fascination with animals and the career path and hobbies that had followed. Little did he know that his brother had recommended to James that they get together because he could rattle off all of the details about wildlife, which he did now, less as the type of impressive party trick one unveiled to show off but instead to underscore his words of caution. “We’ve got coyotes, foxes, fishers, hawks, and then the, uh, the snow, and traffic.”

A kind way of saying that even a cat as spirited as Maybe would find herself running through her nine lives quickly.

He connected the last of the AV cables, honest when he had promised the other week that this was a simple enough task, and then plugged the DVD player into an empty outlet in surge protector strip. His task complete, he carefully nudge the television back into place and tucked the wires out of the way to prevent tripping over them or drawing Maybe’s attention when she was released from her confines. Reflexively, then, he wiped his hands along the hem of his tunic, the closest approximation to his jeans that would typically absorb the tic.

“You have hot chocolate?” His flat inflection almost gave way to the surprise he felt at the offer. The last time it had been coffee and silent recrimination about forgetting to buy it. This was a positive development. “Yeah, that’d…be good.”

[James Fawcett]

"You have coyotes all the way up here?" James asked, somehow shocked that Vermont had any predatory mammals in common with south Georgia. Sure, there were gray squirrels and there were deer, but...coyotes? "Yeah, I don't want her to be a snack." He sighed heavily, resigned to keeping her locked inside despite her clear wishes for more exploration. He wondered if she would be more accepting of her plight if he had a house for her to wander around. But then, why did he need a house? The apartment was enough space, and houses were expensive.

"Yeah, hold on a sec," He promised, rubbing his sleeve where Maybe had rent tears in the fabric. The hot chocolate packets were in a box in the pantry, which was quickly found and passed over to Simon. "I'll warm up some milk?" He offered, stepping back towards the kitchen to begin preparations. "And uhhh...what movie should we watch first?"

If he were the only one present there would only be one movie displayed, but with a guest he ought to be mindful. It might be important to Simon to start with one of his, some routine he couldn't break.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

“Yeah. They’re, uh, they’re bigger than the ones down south. From crossbreeding with…wolves, up north.” The coyotes had only migrated east during the early 20th century, stopping first in Canada to breed with the wolves of the snowy neighbor to the north before settling in Vermont where they lived cautiously in the more wooded areas to avoid humans as best they could. Unlike some smaller mammals who had come to view mankind as a food source and skirted ever closer to denser residential areas to nibble scraps.

It was an interesting topic to Simon which ensured that he believed few if any people outside of his classroom wanted to hear about it.

The instruction to hold on kept the empath in his spot, still kneeling beside the television rather than rolling more comfortably to sit or rising to his feet. Maybe’s pitiful yowls from the bathroom struck a sympathetic chord.

He was trapped too.

The shimmering, metallic packaging of Land-o-Lakes hot chocolate single-servings was immediately recognizable, familiar and pleasant, simplifying the task of selecting a flavor. Simon knew all of the varieties and could pick on based on color alone, although each as helpfully labeled. Hazelnut was royal blue, while forest green as mint, and white, French vanilla, burnt umber was caramel, and…his brow furrowed briefly at the brighter orange hue and the two words: “pumpkin spice.”

That was new, and he wouldn’t try it if it was the last flavor left.

His fingers closed around a chocolate supreme, dark brown, the same shade as the unsung M&M often left out of holiday batches for being too plain and unimpressive.

To which he was sympathetic.

With the remark about putting on milk, the spell of waiting had broken, and he leaned on his hand, pushing himself to his feet and then shuffling after James towards the kitchen. “Let’s start with Charlie Brown. It’s, uh, traditional, right?”

[James Fawcett]

Coyotes crossbred with wolves? That was far more terrifying than alligators; why didn't people mention this when they discussed the North the same way they discussed alligators and Florida?

"There are wolves here?" He asked uncertainly, suddenly wondering if the howling at night was from dogs after all. He didn't consider that by up north Simon might mean even further north than Vermont, because to him up north was where they were.

He wanted to ask if Simon minded starting with that one, but he didn't want to set off another round of it's fine. Are you sure? that tended to haunt his conversations with other people. By not asking, though, he ensured that he would worry he was being rude the entire rest of the evening.

Milk splashed over the rim of the mug and onto the counter as he measured it out and he sighed, but didn't move to wipe it until after he'd shoved the mug into the microwave and placed the milk back into the fridge. He watched the microwave keenly as if staring might make it go faster and as soon as the clock flashed down to .01 seconds left he yanked open the door, bringing the now hot mug to his friend. "It's hot," He warned as he passed it over, as if that weren't obvious.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

“Hmm?” It took a moment for the question to filter through, and on its heels, the realization that James thought up north meant further upstate rather than elsewhere entirely. Simon shook his head slowly to deny the possibility. “No, uh, the wolves live in Canada. We just have the coyotes, and…well, bears. But those are further in the woodlands, away from people.”

This was the longest complete sentence that Simon had managed in the other man’s presence since James had moved into the building over the summer. A pity that this was, if not an area of expertise, then at least pertained to a passion, what passed for one in his life – a hobby, of sorts, and still he couldn’t muster enthusiasm in his voice or manage eye contact with his friend.

Simon accepted the mug with a murmur intended as gratitude, one hand gripped the handle where the heat wouldn’t pool, while the other, fingers splayed to absorb the worst of it, rested along the opposite side, his thumb perched underneath to keep it steady. The logo had no immediate meaning to him, and he didn’t ask, just as James didn’t offer an apology over some embarrassing association or explain with pride the logo. The hot chocolate packet dangled between his thumb and forefinger as he approached the nearest counter to mix the contents.

“If you, uh, find a microwave-safe bowl, we can make the puppy chow…unless you want to wait until dessert?” Simon had noticed this about James, that he seemed to delineate more carefully between his meals instead of spreading all of his food out together in one undifferentiated mass to shovel mechanically into his mouth.

[James Fawcett]

Oh, right. Canada was actually a real place that existed, not simply a fictional concept brought up only to point fingers in political debates. He'd heard that in Canada you could go to jail for being too openly Christian, and he still wasn't sure whether or not that was true. It seemed unlikely, but he hadn't looked into the truth of the matter at all.

"We can make it now," James agreed, bending down to tug open a drawer beneath his oven. He stared at the plastic bowls a moment before he realized none of them were microwave safe, at which point he stood again, grabbing a bowl from the cabinets instead.

"May as well have it ready, right?"

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Had he heard that right. Someone had told James people sent you to jail in Canada for being openly Christian? Truly, the other man had grown up in a parallel universe, and for the first time (or rather, over these past few months) Simon suddenly understood who the audience was for the blatant lies and fear-mongering of Fox News and the Sinclair Broadcast Group.

James was lucky to have broken away.

For Simon, Canada was somewhere to visit on the weekends, back when he was in college and afterward, teaching in Ohio. Ontario was less than an hour away from his campus, a few hours from Cleveland, and it was traditional that when someone turned 19, they hopped across the border to take their first legal drink two years before they could in the United States. It was cold, and they prided themselves on being polite, and throughout the Bush administration, people would come up to American students and express their sympathies. And still, it was very culturally Christian. But he didn’t know how to express any of that, or whether he should at all, when James had kept the thought to himself, mindful enough not to give voice.

The Puppy Chow was a good distraction, and Simon latched onto that with the frenzy of a drowning man for the nearest life preserver as it floated by. “Yeah. You’ll want to have a couple of handfuls right out of the microwave, because it’s best when it’s that fresh, but it lasts for days.”

Which meant that an hour or two while they ate pizza and watched their first couple of movies would hardly make a difference.

He murmured his thanks as he accepted the bowl that James passed to him, setting it down on the counter with nary a glance to ensure that it wouldn’t melt or explode in the microwave. Then, like Mary Poppins with her magic bag, he pulled out the chocolate chips and the peanut butter he’d brought. His first tug at the bag failed to separate the seam, instead he banged his elbow against the cabinet, launching little echoes of pain and discomfort along his arm while he grit his teeth to try again.

The second time was the charm.

His brother would measure to keep the recipe balanced. Simon unceremoniously dumped the entire contents into the bowl, then plunged his hand in to grab a couple of chips and popped them into his mouth, before offering James the same opportunity before the peanut butter changed the flavor and coated everything sticky and tan.

[James Fawcett]

James watched with interest as Simon dumped ingredients into the bowl, but before he could accept the chocolate chips the doorbell rang.

"That must be the pizza!" He exclaimed, stepping away from the kitchen. He was glad that Maybe was already contained so that he needn't worry about her darting towards freedom while he signed the receipt for the delivery person - who, upon opening the door, appeared to be twice James's age.

Too old to be doing this for a living.

The music teacher scrawled a fifty percent tip on the tip line before illegibly signing his name, then he grabbed the stacks of cardboard boxes that made up their meal and wobbled his way back to Simon.

The garlic knot box, smaller than the others, slipped and slid across the larger surface of the pizza boxes. "Sorry, d'you think you could grab that one for me before it falls?" He asked, just as the box slid perilously close to the edge.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

One unsung benefit of visiting another person’s house instead of hosting was that Simon had no reason to interact with the delivery person, or with anyone else at all apart from his friend. Even the trick-or-treaters, should they arrive tonight, dressed in costumes, buckets held aloft as they recited the ritual words in exchange for candy - James would handle them whenever they rang the bell.

Thus, while the other man answered the door, Simon focused on preparing their Puppy Chow. Dumping the chocolate chips into the bowl after a final feat of strength, followed by digging out a spoon from the drawer he remembered after his visit to carve pumpkins. Although he wouldn’t call attention to it, he had memorized most of the layout of James’s kitchen that day.

Sometimes that came across as creepy and thus he never mentioned this to other people. When Cyrus did the same, it was considered charming, perhaps impressive as a party trick. Simon lacked both the self-confidence and his brother’s charismatic aura to earn a similar reaction. But just as he’d shoveled the peanut butter from the jar and dumped it into the bowl, before he could mix or pop the concoction into the microwave, James requested help.

The bowl lay there forgotten as Simon shuffled over. Assessing only briefly, he picked up the box, ignoring the heat radiating from the bottom as it warmed his fingertips. “Where should I put this?”