Chapter 2 #2
I grab a carving knife and position my pumpkin. “Okay, first step—we need to cut off the top and scoop out the insides. Fair warning, it’s going to get messy.”
“How messy?” Khatak asks warily.
I grin and plunge my hand into the pumpkin’s opening, pulling out a handful of stringy guts and seeds. They squelch between my fingers, slimy and cold and absolutely gross.
It’s hard to not cackle like a villain.
“This messy.”
Khatak stares at my pumpkin-covered hand like I’ve just reached into a biohazard container. “You’re… using your hands?”
“It’s faster this way. And more fun.” I plop the guts into the discard bowl with a wet splat.
He carefully, precisely, begins cutting the top off his pumpkin with the serrated knife. Each movement is measured, controlled. When he finally opens it up, he reaches for one of the scooping tools and begins extracting the insides with almost surgical precision.
Not a single seed or sticky string touches his skin.
I’m wrist-deep in pumpkin guts, stringy bits stuck under my fingernails, orange pulp smeared on my forearms. Khatak wields his scoop like a scientific instrument, each motion careful and deliberate.
“You know you can just stick your hand in there,” I say, pulling out another handful. “Really get in there.”
“This seems more… appropriate.” He meticulously scrapes the sides of his pumpkin.
“Appropriate for what? A surgical procedure?”
His lips twitch—almost a smile. “For maintaining cleanliness.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I wipe my hands on the towel, leaving orange streaks. “Besides, you’re going to get messy eventually. That’s half the point.”
“Is it?” He glances at me, then quickly away, but not before I catch something in his expression. Longing, maybe? Or uncertainty?
We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I decide to stop pushing him. If he doesn’t want to get messy, that’s his loss. He just doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.
I focus on sketching out a rough face on my pumpkin—crooked smile, oval eyes. Nothing fancy. Khatak studies his pumpkin like he’s planning a military campaign, occasionally wiping his hands on a towel before they can get too dirty.
“So,” I say, starting to carve out an eye. “Do Volscians have anything like this? Holiday traditions, I mean?”
“We have the Festival of Blades, but that involves actual combat exhibitions. Not quite the same as… this.” He gestures at the pumpkins with his scoop, a hint of bewilderment in his expression.
I grin. “Yeah, Halloween’s pretty unique to humans. It’s actually one of my favorite memories from childhood.” I pause, glancing at him. “Did you have good memories like that? Growing up?”
His careful scooping stalls for a moment. “Volscian children don’t really… celebrate. Not recreationally. Only when one achieves a particular feat.”
The way he says it—so matter-of-fact—makes something twist in my chest. “Wait, you never had fun traditions? Nothing just for enjoyment?”
“Not like this, no.” He looks genuinely puzzled by the concept.
“That’s kind of sad.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “I mean—sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s alright.” He offers a small smile. “I’m curious about your traditions. You said this was a favorite memory?”
I lean back, my hands covered in pumpkin guts, and grin. “Oh, definitely. When I was ten, my best friend Mara and I went trick-or-treating dressed as witches. You know, little black dresses, pointy hats, the whole thing.”
“Trick-or-treating,” he repeats slowly, testing the unfamiliar words.
“Going door to door collecting candy from neighbors. It’s a whole thing. Going house to house, collecting as much as you can.” I start carving out the second eye.
Khatak’s brow furrows. “You demanded food from strangers?”
“Sort of? It’s tradition. You knock on doors and say ‘trick or treat,’ and people give you candy.”
“And if they refuse?”
I pause mid-carve, grinning at the memory. “Well, that’s where the ‘trick’ part comes in.”
He’s stopped scooping entirely now, watching me with rapt attention.
“So there was this one house—Mr. Peterson’s place.
Every year, he’d turn off all his lights and pretend he wasn’t home, even though everyone knew he was just being cheap.
” I carve out the mouth, making it a wide, crooked smile.
“Anyway, Mara and I had this route planned out—all the houses that gave the good candy. Full-size chocolate bars, the fancy stuff. And then we came upon Mr. Peterson’s place…
By this point, we’d filled our pillowcases with candy and our heads with… ideas.”
“What kind of ideas?”
“Harmless ones! Mostly. We started with Mr. Peterson’s house—we filled his fountain with bubble bath. You should have seen the foam. It was like a soap mountain.”
I cackle at the memory. It served him right; he never cleaned the fountain, and it smelled terrible even from the street.
“Then we hit Mrs. Chen’s place with fake spiders in her mailbox because she’d given us raisins. Raisins! On Halloween! That’s like sacrilege.”
Khatak’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“Though I’ll admit, we might have gotten a little carried away. We TP’d at least five houses that night.”
I’m smiling fully now, remembering the thrill of it.
“You…” Khatak leans closer, his voice dropping low. His breath is warm against my ear, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.
“You urinated on their homes?”
I freeze. Blink once. Twice.
Then I burst out laughing so hard I nearly drop my carving knife. Pumpkin guts slide off my hands as I double over, gasping for breath.
“What? No! Oh my god, no!” I manage between giggles. “Not pee. TP! It stands for toilet paper! You throw rolls of toilet paper into trees. It unravels and hangs there like streamers! Annoying when it rains and makes a mess, but not any real property damage.”
Khatak pulls back, his skin darkening to that deep burgundy flush that I’m starting to recognize. “Oh. I thought… my translator suggested…”
“That we went around peeing on people’s houses?” I’m still laughing, wiping tears from my eyes with the back of my wrist. “What kind of vandalism would that even be? ‘Sorry about your lawn, Mr. Peterson!’”
He covers his face with one hand, but I can see his shoulders shaking. He’s laughing too, even through his embarrassment.
“In my defense,” he says, his voice muffled behind his palm, “human customs are very confusing.”
“Okay, that’s fair.” I grin at him. “But no. No peeing. Just toilet paper. Much less… biological.”
Khatak looks at me sidelong, curiosity making his eyes bright. “And your parents permitted this… tricking?”
“Oh, they didn’t know. That was the beauty of it.
” I grin at him. “We thought we’d gotten away with it too until Mrs. Peterson caught us putting fake tombstones in her yard.
She just stood there on her porch, arms crossed, watching us.
We thought she was a statue, so she damn near scared us to death when she started cackling like a mad woman and chasing us. ”
“You were punished?”
“That’s the best part. She started laughing. Turns out, she’d been wanting to teach her husband a lesson about Halloween spirit for years. She told us we did a good job, gave us each a king-size candy bar, and sent us home.”
I look up from my pumpkin to find Khatak staring at me with this expression I can’t quite read. Not shock anymore. Something else.
“So, come on.” I lean forward, resting my chin on my hand, getting pumpkin guts on my face and not caring. “Surely you’ve got some interesting stories from your childhood. Haven’t you ever been a bit wicked?”
So maybe I flash him a bit of a saucy smile.
Maybe I am flirting a bit with him. It’s harmless, and I have to admit that I kind of like the guy.
He’s actually talking to me, rather than just staring at me creepily or demanding I go with him to meet his parents.
Aliens do not seem to get the concept of dating at all, it seems. At least the ones I’ve come across.
His skin darkens—a deep burgundy flush creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. His tail twitches against the chair leg. “I… no. I wouldn’t know how. Not on purpose.”
The admission hangs between us, so honest it makes my chest tight.
“Wait, really?” I sit up straighter. “Come on, every kid gets into some kind of mischief. Sneaking extra dessert, staying up past bedtime, something.”
He shakes his head slowly, his attention dropping to his pumpkin.
“My family is military. Old bloodlines, warrior traditions. My father is a decorated general, my older brother a celebrated combat specialist.” His voice goes quieter.
“Such things weren’t tolerated. We were raised to be orderly, to follow instructions precisely. Creativity was… discouraged.”
The way he says it—so matter-of-fact, like he’s describing the weather—makes my heart ache.
“How old were you when you first stepped out of line?” I ask softly.
His small horns shift as he tilts his head, considering. “I suppose… coming here. To this hotel.” He meets my eyes, and there’s something vulnerable in his gaze. “This is the most rebellious I’ve been in my entire life.”
Oh.
Oh.
I look at him—really look at him. The careful way he holds himself, the precise movements, the concern about mess and order. It isn’t snobbery or pretension. It’s survival. It’s what he’s been taught, what has been drilled into him his whole life.
And here he is, sitting at a pumpkin carving station, about to shove his hands into vegetable guts, trying something new simply because… why? It’s certainly not because he wants to; he holds himself away from the pumpkin like it might eat him instead. Is it because I invited him?
The thought makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Well,” I say, reaching for his immaculately scraped pumpkin. “Then we’d better make your first act of rebellion count.”