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October thirtieth. A day he’s come to anticipate almost more than the day preceding it. The eve before Halloween.
He supposes that it’s the thrill of it all: the knowledge that, before the clock strikes twelve on the thirty-first, they would have a new picture in their cherished collection, a new face to look forward to every time the preceding page was turned until it became just as familiar as the other ones.
On this day, that is what they usually preoccupy themself with after setting up the guest bedroom and placing a near-overflowing amount of candy into a bowl that could probably memorize the faces of every child who has knocked and will knock on the door, dressed in their silly costumes and wearing smiles so bright that the sun itself would be thrown into a jealous rage.
Memorizing their faces, but never their names.
He doesn’t bother to, either. His only concerns are the polaroids and the dates, as easy as the latter is to memorize. He can put a name to the face already engraved in his mind if he sees a MISSING poster in passing. Maybe he’ll remember for a day or so before all that remains is a small face smiling widely at the camera, naive to an almost pitying degree.
He asks out of kindness, not necessity. What kind of host would he be if he could not do as much as that?
“Ye have heard that it was said of them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment.”
Their attention is quickly brought away from the photo album in his lap and instead turned to the television. They forgot it was on; more often than not, they stop listening to whatever is playing only a few minutes after turning it on, choosing to treat it as background noise.
A verse that they catch the tail-end of briefly sticks with them.
Thou shalt not kill.
Their lips curl so subtly that they don’t register it. They cannot help but feel the slightest hint of smugness, but beneath that?
Cold neutrality.
Well, maybe not cold, but the feeling is still present. That supposed coldness warms over when they look at the photo album again. Still neutral, yes, but a…warm kind of neutrality.
The photos make him happy, he realizes. Happy because he did this—they did this.
But he is still the one who takes the photos. His partner stands there and looks affable and smiles, just as he does.
But Fourteen doesn’t take the pictures. He doesn’t gently shake the polaroids and place them in the photo album with unadulterated reverence; he doesn’t sit and admire the photos for hours on end, committing each face to memory over and over and carefully—oh-so carefully—tracing the date, 10-31-19XX, neatly scrawled under each and every one of those pictures that hold so much importance for their own special reasons.
Ten does all of that and more.
Despite that, he has many things to appreciate Fourteen for— one such thing being that, out of the two of them, Fourteen has never been afraid to get his hands dirty. Not that Ten is scared getting messy in his own right, but he makes it quick and painless. He tries to.
Fourteen is the opposite. Fourteen maims and tears and likes to leave nothing left. One of the rare times he didn’t was to make a scarecrow that left Ten pleasantly surprised when he saw it standing tall in their backyard.
Fourteen is the reason Ten counts on—or dare they say, anticipates—hearing screams coming from their house on Halloween night, because it shows that Fourteen is having fun; that Fourteen can drop the amiable act and finally chase and hunt because that is what makes him happy, and why should Ten make him feel ashamed of something that brings him so much joy?
They do not realize that they have already finished flipping through the photo album until they try flipping to a page that doesn’t exist yet.
They also do not notice the presence beside them until they look up to find themself staring into all-too familiar eyes.
“Fourteen.”
“Ten.”
His name is barely a whisper on Fourteen’s lips, spoken so softly that he was almost sure he had imagined it. The photo album is quietly closed. “How long?”
“Long enough to watch you smile at every picture.”
Of course. Ten can’t help the fond curl of his lips. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Why would you be?” Fourteen responds just as quickly as he leans close enough for Ten to pick out the flecks in his eyes that contrast so beautifully with his irises.
“You aren’t usually this subdued before Halloween,” Ten deftly says, his voice lilted with barely disguised curiosity.
“I’m not.”
“Is there a reason for that?”
“No.”
“Mm.”
The short-lived conversation ends there. Ten doesn’t mind. Both of them are usually content to let the silence speak for them rather than fill it with meaningless banter. Fourteen lets his head drop to Ten’s shoulder. He pays it no mind, briefly considers flipping through the photo album again, and settles on listening to the television.
“And he that killeth any man shall surely be put to death.”
“You forgot the candy.”
Ten glances at Fourteen with the slightest hint of surprise in his eyes. “Did I?” He usually doesn’t.
“You usually don’t.”
“I know.” It’s one of the first things he does when he wakes up.
Fourteen lifts his head just enough to tilt it. “Will you do it now?”
It sounds like less of a question and more of a demand, but Ten doesn’t take it seriously. That’s just how Fourteen talks when he doesn’t have to play pretend.
“…Later.”
“Later?”
“Later.”
“Before tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
They leave it at that. Later. Ten closes their eyes and lets themself breathe; they’re not one to let things slip their mind, and they won’t let it happen again. Sloppiness is unbecoming of them.
“How many do you think we’ll get tomorrow?”
He opens one eye. “You usually aren’t this talkative.”
“Was that supposed to be an answer?”
Ten snorts. “No. Maybe… four.” He closes his eye again to avoid seeing the amused look surely adorning Fourteen’s face.
“Four is generous.”
“Let me be hopeful,” Ten sighs. “…Two.”
“Two it is.”
“You say that like it’s a promise.”
Fourteen kisses his cheek. It’s a fleeting thing, but it lingers just long enough for Ten to register that it happened. It’s something that happens few and far between, just enough for his heart to beat faster at the unexpectedness of it whenever it happens. “Do you want it to be?”
“I’ll think about it,” Ten responds lightly. He won’t, but Fourteen doesn’t need to know that.
“And he that killeth a beast, he shall restore it: and he that killeth a man, he shall be put to death.”
Ten tunes out the noise from the television after that, content to sit with Fourteen and merely exist in the same space as him while he’s still calm, for lack of a better word. The same applies to him as well, but to a lesser extent. He’s kinder about it. He makes it quick. Fourteen makes it slow. That is what differentiates them from each other.
He prepares himself to put on his best smile tomorrow. He prepares himself to play the part of a kind, concerned, and gently persuasive host (“It’s dangerous to walk home so late into the night. Why don’t you stay with us here until the sun rises?”).
He prepares himself for Halloween.
And he that killeth a man, he shall be put to death.