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Trent said his name once, testing it gently, like he wasn’t entirely sure it would land.
“Ted.”
The response was immediate and completely unrestrained. Ted laughed — not a polite exhale or a quiet chuckle, but a full, startled guffaw that burst out of him before he could stop it. It rang out across the porch, bounced off the siding, lingered in the cool October air.
Trent waited.
He had learned, over the years, that waiting was sometimes the kindest thing you could do. Even if his boyfriend was laughing in his face because of the stupid costume.
He tried again, a little firmer this time, letting the name stretch out into something that sounded almost like a warning. “Ted.”
That wiped the laughter right off Trent’s face. He made a noise that was half-protest, half-groan, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he might physically contain whatever came next.
“But you—”
That earned him a look — tired, incredulous, fond despite itself. The kind of look that suggested Trent had walked directly into something he didn’t know how to navigate and was already resigning himself to the consequences.
Ted wiped at the corner of his eye where laughter had coaxed out a tear, then finally let himself really take in the scene in front of him. “Apologies, you just-.” He found he couldn’t keep speaking out of the thought that he’d burst out laughing again.
Trent stood on his porch looking like someone who had survived negotiations of epic proportions. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion rather than defeat, posture angled slightly inward as though bracing against the night air or the simple act of being seen. One hand rested on his hip, fingers curled tight there, tension held unconsciously. His other hand was clasped firmly around a much smaller one.
His daughter.
She clung to him with absolute trust, fingers threaded through his like an anchor. Her costume was unmistakably homemade — a dark blue shirt that had been cut and reshaped with careful intention, lighter blue makeup streaked boldly across her cheeks and temples. Cardboard flames jutted from her hands, wobbling whenever she shifted, painted in shades of orange and yellow that caught the porch light just right.
In her other hand, she dragged two creations behind her on thin leashes. Ted squinted, stepping back slightly as they bumped against his shoes.
They were… creatures. Papier-maché, maybe. One was a mottled reddish-pink, its cardboard body layered thickly enough to suggest weight. The other was a sickly blue, cracked and jagged by design. Their eyes were uneven, painted with devotion rather than precision. He smiled at that.
Ted’s gaze drifted from the girl to the man beside her, then back again. Trent looked exhausted in a way Ted recognized instantly — not the kind that came from a bad night’s sleep, but the deep, settled fatigue of someone who gave everything they had, every day, without keeping much for themselves. There were shadows under his eyes, lines at the corners of his mouth that spoke of constant effort.
And yet.
There was joy there, too. It threaded through him unmistakably, glowing brightest whenever he looked at his daughter. In the way his body angled protectively toward her. In the way his thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding them both. He looked utterly happy to be here — not here, on Ted’s porch, but here, with her.
Ted smiled wider before he could stop himself.
Then his attention caught on the rest of Trent — on the costume.
Trent was wearing a long, deep-purple dress, the fabric flowing and clinging in equal measure. It slipped off one shoulder slightly, revealing skin dusted faintly with shimmer. Gold accents traced the neckline and waist. His makeup was dramatic and sharp — dark eyeliner cut clean and deliberate, eyeshadow blended into rich plum tones that made his eyes look darker, brighter, more intense.
Megara. Ted’s brain stalled for half a second too long, breath catching before he could recover.
It was… unfair. Entirely unfair.
He grinned, slow and deliberate, and reached for his phone.
He snapped the picture before Trent could react, the shutter sound loud in the quiet moment.
“Aww,” Ted said cheerfully, already tucking the phone away. “You both look so cute.”
Trent opened his mouth. Closed it. Let out a long breath that sounded suspiciously like surrender.
Ted crouched down in front of the girl, careful not to crowd her, smiling warmly as he settled at her eye level.
“So, hon,” he said, voice softening naturally. “What kinda candy d’ya want? I’ve got pretty much everything. Even the American ones with the bad sugar.”
He glanced up at Trent when he said it, flashing a quick wink. Trent crossed his arms, unimpressed, though the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
The girl didn’t hesitate.
“Everything!” she shouted, giggling so hard she nearly dropped one of the leashes.
The sound hit Ted square in the chest.
For just a second — barely long enough to register — it pulled something sharp and bright up from memory. Henry’s laugh had sounded like that once. The thought landed harder than expected, and Ted’s smile wavered before he could catch it.
Trent noticed, as he always did.
With practiced ease, he ushered his daughter toward the kitchen, murmuring something about letting Ted work his magic with a smile. She went willingly, curiosity already tugging her forward. Trent followed her partway, then turned back and crouched in front of Ted.
“Ted,” he said quietly.
“Hm?”
“You okay?”
Ted waved a hand, casual. “Fit as a fiddle.”
Trent didn’t react. Just raised an eyebrow.
Ted sighed. “Alright. I’m fine. Really.”
The eyebrow climbed higher.
“Fine,” Ted conceded. “I missed Henry. Just a little.”
He kept his tone light, deliberately breezy. “He’s spending Halloween with his mother. He’s just… far away.”
He said it like it was nothing. Like distance was an inconvenience instead of something that hollowed you out if you let it. He rocked slightly on his heels, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
Trent didn’t answer right away.
His daughter had returned, now wedged comfortably between them, her small fingers looped through his sleeve. Ted had already pressed candy into her free hand, and she inspected it with intense focus, turning a chocolate bar over slowly like it might bite back.
“That one’s my favorite,” Ted said. “Unless you’re more of a sour kinda gal. Life’s about balance.”
She looked up at him seriously. “Dad doesn’t like sour.”
Ted gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Well now. That’s tragic.”
“It builds character,” Trent said dryly, adjusting the strap of his dress where it had slipped.
Ted smiled at the girl. “Don’t listen to him. Sour candy teaches resilience. And joy. It’s science.”
She considered this carefully, then nodded. “I’ll eat it when Dad’s not looking.”
Trent sighed. “I’m standing right here.”
Ted beamed. “And what a fine sight you are.”
That earned him a look — long-suffering, fond, faintly flustered. Ted pretended not to notice. If he noticed, he might say something earnest, and that was dangerous territory with a child present and his heart already aching.
Instead, he crouched again. “So,” he said. “What’re we this year?”
She lifted her hands dramatically. “Hades and Megara.”
Ted nodded solemnly. “Of course you are.”
“She insisted,” Trent said. “There were negotiations.”
“There always are,” Ted replied. “Hades’s a good choice.”
She grinned.
They stood together in the doorway again, an odd, perfect little tableau. Ted noticed again how tired Trent looked up close — the quiet exhaustion of someone who gave everything willingly. And yet the joy was there, undeniable.
Ted straightened. “Alright,” he said. “Candy intake. Hydration. Maybe a snack so your dad doesn’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” Trent said.
Ted raised an eyebrow.
“I’m being subtle about it, at least.”
Ted laughed loudly. “Buddy, you’re dressed as Megara. Subtle left the building hours ago.”
Trent rolled his eyes but followed him inside, his daughter tugging eagerly at his hand. Ted talked the whole way — about candy ethics, about Halloween being the most emotionally honest holiday, about trick-or-treating as social networking for children.
The girl listened raptly. Trent listened too, quietly cataloguing the way Ted made space without demanding it. How natural it all was.
“You’re good with her,” Trent said softly.
Ted shrugged. “Kids are just little people with big feelings.”
“She likes you.”
Ted’s smile faltered. “She’s easy to like.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Ted inhaled carefully. “I miss him,” he admitted. “Every holiday feels like holding my breath.”
“You’re allowed to miss him,” Trent said. “Even when you’re doing alright.”
Later, when the girl asked if Ted could come with them, the night shifted.
Ted tried not to hope, but it was inevitable, especially when the little girl did the same puppy eyes that Henry did.
Trent studied him — really studied him, as if he was trying to see if he was in the right condition to do so — then nodded.
“One street,” he said.
Ted’s smile could’ve powered the block.