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Feyd had seen a lot of ridiculous things in his life, but this was near the top of the list. His boots made a very specific, sticky sound every time he moved, a gross little schlurp as the mud clung to the soles and refused to let go. Somewhere off to the left, a kid was screaming bloody murder about a caramel apple that had tragically met the dirt. On his right, another child was flinging hay like confetti.
“Remind me again,” he said flatly, “why we’re here and not…literally anywhere else.”
Paul turned to him with a grin that could melt even the grumpiest Harkonnen heart. His scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, his cheeks pink from the chill, curls ruffled by the wind. “Because it’s October, and you promised me you’d stop being allergic to fun.”
“I didn’t say that.” Feyd squinted at him. “I said I’d consider letting you drag me somewhere seasonal. That didn’t mean I signed up for a farm filled with screaming goblins and mud that wants to eat my shoes.”
“Mm,” Paul hummed, stepping around a puddle. “That sounds like something a guy who secretly loves this would say.”
“I—what?!”
But Paul had already wandered ahead, weaving between rows of pumpkins. Feyd followed, muttering under his breath and swiping mud off his jeans every few seconds, but his eyes stayed on Paul. The way he knelt down to check the undersides of pumpkins, brushing off dirt like they were little treasures. The way he bit his lip in concentration.
Finally, Paul crouched beside a perfectly round white pumpkin and smiled. “This one.”
Feyd frowned. “It’s pale. It looks like a ghost that gave up halfway.”
Paul just turned that smile on him, soft, teasing, dangerous. “It looks like you.” Feyd blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Pretty. A little intimidating. Kind of out of place here, but in a good way.”
Feyd’s ears turned red, and he pretended to look at another pumpkin to cover it. “Flattery will not make me forget the mud situation.”
Paul only laughed and set the white pumpkin in the little wagon that was provided to them. “Pick yours, then, Mr. Mud-Expert.”
Feyd glanced around, half-heartedly inspecting the field until he found a classic orange one; round, glossy, and effortlessly basic. “There,” he said, pointing. “Pumpkin-shaped pumpkin. Done.”
“Predictable,” Paul teased, tugging the wagon toward the stand. “Very on-brand for you.”
“Excuse me for respecting tradition,” Feyd said, falling into step beside him, mud be damned.
~~~~~~~
By the time they made it back to Paul’s place, the sun was setting, gold light spilling across the living room. The smell of warm apple cider filled the air, cinnamon and cloves and sugar simmering quietly on the stove. Paul had spread old newspapers across the dining table, two carving kits laid out like surgical tools. Feyd eyed them skeptically. “You’re really going through with this.”
“Obviously,” Paul said, tucking his hoodie sleeves up. “Now grab a spoon. Time to commit pumpkin murder.”
They started scooping. Paul’s focus was intense as he scraped every last stringy bit out of his white pumpkin. Feyd, meanwhile, was…less refined. He attacked the insides with determination and minimal grace, flinging pulp onto the newspaper.
“Gross,” he muttered, grimacing at the texture. “It’s like the pumpkin’s insides are trying to fight back.” Paul laughed, genuinely. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you love me anyway.”
That shut Paul up for a second. He didn’t deny it, just smiled faintly, eyes flicking up to Feyd’s face before he went back to carving. The room filled with the quiet rhythm of knives against pumpkin rind, soft music playing in the background, cider gently bubbling. When they finished, Feyd set his orange pumpkin down proudly. “Classic jack-o’-lantern. Fangs. Sharp edges. Scary.”
Paul turned his white pumpkin around—carved into a small, serene smile, eyes half-lidded like it was in on a secret. “Cute,” he said softly. “Happy.”
Feyd leaned over, wiping pumpkin bits off his hands on a towel. “So, one’s terrifying and one’s smug. Perfect match.”
Paul chuckled, leaning over to wipe some pumpkin bit off Feyd's cheek. “Just like us.”
Outside, the wind rustled the leaves. Inside, two pumpkins glowed side by side on the kitchen counter—one orange and wild, one white and calm.
“Alright,” Feyd said, voice low, “maybe this was worth the mud.” They had migrated to the couch, Paul insisting that watching a halloween movie next was part of the tradition too. Pumpkin themed blanket included.
Paul lifted his head from Feyd's chest, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw and smiled, “Told you.”