Theme is ‘Halloween on Christmas’ A, for some family-related reason, gets kicked out of the house. He wanders around and finds B. B is determined for this day to be his last. A tries to dissuade him. You do the rest.

MUSTs

Everything that happens in the present of the story must be set outdoors.

Must use the words: archive, pancake, mandarin, butter, phantasmagoria, pounce/d and permission.

One character must say: “It’s the floaty men, dude…they’re here to steal your soul and put it in a little star-shaped glass box…”

MUST BE SLASH

The story must at some point feature the re-enactment of a famous scene of a famous movie whether intentional and acknowledged is up to you)

NO-WAYs

No mentions of alcohol or drugs.

Nothing can happen indoors

Not allowed to start conversations with ‘I’

“Its not like I need your permission to live my life!” I shouted. My mother's nose flared and I could see her jaw clench.

Then she smiled. It was the same smile I had seen all my life, especially after I turned six, sickly sweet and promising violence. I was twenty-six now, I'd gone to college, gotten a job, had a life, or should have, and that smile still sent me shuddering. I had even tried to move out, four years ago, after I finished getting my degree, when David had just gotten into high school and Samuel into the military. To the world, I was an adult, I was free. But not to her. To her I was a beating horse and, willingly for my siblings, a sacrifice. But not any more. Not now that my youngest brother was going to be in college and the other in the military. I hadn't let her ruin their lives and I wouldn't stand for her ruining the rest of my own. Her eyes flashed and she grabbed my arm roughly. I winced and tensed in anticipation.

“Out John, get out.” My father said calmly, coming out of the door. She released my arm in surprise, looking abjectly mortified. She had probably known this would happen one day, but probably never expected this outcome, never thought my father would do it in such a humiliating way. Not in our front yard.

I stilled. Father. I had thought that father had known nothing, but by the look in his eyes and his knuckle whitening grip on mother's shoulder, he knew. He had known the entire time. The timely returns home, the opportune phone calls home when he was overseas... It made sense now. I bit down on my lip and turned to get my backpack from where it had been thrown earlier, the backpack that contained almost everything I owned, to leave my home for the past twenty-six years; my prison.

My brother padded onto the back porch just as I was leaving, looking much like the kid that I still thought of him as, in a baggy USMC t-shirt and ducky printed flannels, instead of the twenty-two year old, hardened military arms specialist he was. I was only four years older than him but during our childhood those four years had seemed like eons to me. Samuel had found out about the beatings in high school, when one day he came home early and I hadn't managed to clean up fast enough. He had been shocked.

I was supposed to be the perfect son, always responsible, the best grades, best reputation and perfectly obedient, even willing to stay home and watch the kids while father worked. It was unfortunate though, they said, that I had to turn down Harvard because we didn't have enough money. They didn't know the half of it. But it was the rumors that made the connections for Samuel. He began to see the little signs, mother's hands shaking as she gripped her hairbrush too hard when I talked to my friends on the phone, how carefully I moved one day – we had had pancakes that morning and I grimaced every time I flipped them in the pan – how I monitored the fridge, making sure that everything was fully stocked, even the butter that we rarely used because mother thought we would get fat, just so everything would be perfect. Everything had to be perfect.

“Are you... leaving?” Samuel's voice was soft, as though he didn't want to draw the attention of our parents. I nodded, anger cooling. “Oh.” He looked at me sadly. I didn't say a word, and shoved my backpack into my car. “Goodbye.” He said quietly.

--

It felt weird, being out so late and knowing that I wouldn't be punished as soon as I went home. Or rather, knowing that there was no home for me to go back to. It hadn't been a nice life, but I was used to it. But now I didn't have to be used to it. Knowing I didn't have a limit in my life was liberating and alarming, all at once. I wondered if this was how college students felt, but no; they knew that as soon as the next vacation they could return to their warm homes, friends and family, back to safety. I sat in my car, the world seeming to crash down around me, upon me and yet it also seemed like it was exploding outward, freeing me. I stopped by the pier. The breeze was cool on my skin, and I felt the last remnants of my anger departing, leaving the remaining shell of me empty and open.

The pier was more crowded than I would have expected an outside place to be at this time of night, but then again I'd never been outside this late anyways so how would I know. I watched as the teenaged girl pounced on her boyfriend, their raucous laughter and the laughter of their friends ringing in my ears. It was something I had never done.

Christmas eve, the reason that Samuel was home and the reason my mother had fought with me. David wanted to spend Christmas with his college friends and hadn't come home. Mother had wanted me to go and get him, to force him to come home but I had refused. I scowled and shoved my hands into my pockets, I would not think about that. I was free of that house.

A dark moving figure on the bridge on the other side of the meridian that separated the part of the pier that overlapped the land and the concreted, man-made river that fed into the sea caught my attention. I tapped the shoulder of one of the street performers that were standing around.

“Excuse me,” I said, pointing to the figure, “what is that?” But at that time the street lamps that turned on when the sky became too dark flickered and grew bright.

“It’s the floaty men, dude…they’re here to steal your soul and put it in a little star-shaped glass box…” He answered, eyes vague, even as he looked at me. I blinked and shifted back.

“Right.” I said, and shuffled away. The figure wobbled from side to side. The wind nipped at my face as I walked toward the bridge, causing my ears to feel frozen even as I huddled in my jacket. I reached the bridge.

“Holy-!” I swore upon seeing exactly what it was that had me so curious. It was a man, holding onto the lamp post that was in the middle of the bridge, standing on the railing over the river. The man looked back and tensed.

He couldn't have been more than thirty; he was dressed in a suit and I could see his briefcase on the floor. His eyes were obscured by his glasses, his short tawny brown hair rustling in the wind that was pulling the stray hairs from my ponytail and whipping my face.

“You can't stop me, you know.” He said. I nodded vigorously and held up my hands in an attempt to pacify him.

“Okay, okay. I won't try to stop you.” I said. The man stared at me doubtfully, not looking the least bit mollified, and turned back to lean over the side of the railing.

“I'm just ah... going to stand over here.” I said, pointing to the other side of the bridge and shifting back when the man looked back.

“You... you aren't going to try and stop me?” He asked. I shook my head and shrugged.

“It's your choice, I don't like it and I'd rather not see it; I don't want a death to ruin my freedom, you understand. But, ah... If you're alright with me going to jail as an accessory to murder or something its fine.” I said.

“More like negligent homicide.” He corrected me.

I shrugged again. “Sure, whatever, man.”

“So you don't care if I die; you just don't want to be sent to jail. But you still aren't going to stop me.” He said, clearly confused.

I snorted. “Yeah, I've always been told that I was a bit cracked. I guess it just comes with years of abuse.” I replied flippantly. He stilled.

“Abuse?” Crap, I hadn't meant to say that. Oh well, it wasn't like he knew who I was or anything. I wet my lips and considered.

“Trade you a story for a story.” I said. “I'll tell you mine if you tell me why you want to kill yourself, and if you still want to kill yourself afterward I'll let you. Sound fair?” His eyebrows furrowed.

“You're strange.” He said. I laughed.

“It's been said before.” I smiled. “Give me your hand, I'll help you get back.” The man balked and shifted. “Oi, oi!” I exclaimed.

“I never said I was going to agree, you know.” He said, glaring at me.

“Fine, but you're not going to do it anyways.” I said, rolling my eyes. He bristled.

“How would you know?” He snarled. I gave a derisive snort.

“If you were going to do it, you wouldn't have been up here for the past five minutes. You're probably just too chicken-shit to do it.” I sneered. His eyes narrowed

He let go of the lamp post. I rushed forward and caught his wrist. My shoulder screamed with pain and I felt my stomach tighten with shock and fear.

“You actually did it.” I said, my voice thick as I strained to keep him from falling. I managed to get my hands under his arms.

“Let me go.” He said, but he didn't struggle.

“No.” I said, pulling him part of the way up, until his feet could reach the bridge through the railing.

He scowled at me even as I tugged desperately on his arm.“Why? If you don't, you'll fall too.” He hadn't noticed that his feet could touch the floor. I hoisted him up further. He was entirely too light.

“Then it will be my fault. Besides, you're too interesting to die.” I responded, starting to breath heavily.

“Huh? Oof!” His feet touched the bridge briefly but it was wet so he slipped again. I pitched forward, and scrambled to find footing.

“I have you, I have you.” I assured him, murmuring softly into his ear. “Do you trust me?” I asked. His heart beat against his ribcage, I could feel it against my arm.

“No.” He said. I laughed wryly, still holding him on the railing. It reminded me of a movie my brother forced me to watch once. I stopped laughing when I remembered that the ship sunk at the end.

“Well perhaps you should have faith.” I murmured. I lifted him completely and twirled, laughing again, despite the gravity of the situation. My hysteria the result of an adrenaline rush, no doubt. I held him fast as we fell in a heap next to his briefcase.

“If you ever...” I gasped weakly, feeling the rush of energy leave me, “try to kill yourself again, I'm going to kill you myself.” He chuckled just as breathlessly as I felt. “And stay away from bridges!”

“Don't worry,” he replied, “if I ever try to kill myself again, you'll be the first to know.” I grunted. “Are you going to let go of me any time soon?” He asked.

“Nuh-uh.” I said, pulling him even closer to me. He made a soft sound, but I couldn't tell whether it was a negative reaction or simply a disgruntled, dismayed sound. “So... how adverse are you to kissing a complete stranger?” I asked with a grin. He laughed, it was pretty, his head thrown back against my shoulder, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

“At this point,” he said, “not very.” I blinked. Up close he was a lot better looking (especially considering he wasn't hanging over the side of a bridge.) His hair looked incredibly soft and now I could see golden-blond highlights that shimmered in the light, his eyelashes were so long that they actually touched his eyeglass lenses, he had a strong jaw, his nose was long, but not too strong or big in his face and his lips were... I tore my gaze away and loosened my hold, but threaded my fingers through his. I stood, pulling him up.

“Let's go.” I said. He blinked.

“Where?” He asked. I shrugged.

“Where do you want to go?”

--

I pulled an orange out of my glove box and offered it to him. He stared at it with a dubious expression, and then back to me.

“Why, pray tell, do you have a mandarin orange in your glove box?” Condescension dripped from of his voice and I shrugged and shoved it back into the compartment. This was really the man I'd saved not fifteen minutes ago? I toyed with his fingers, his hand still in mine. “And when are you going to let go of my hand?” He asked sharply.

“When are you going to tell me about yourself?” I shot back. He sniffed and I slammed the car door shut. He tugged on my hand, but I kept my grip firm and shoved both of our hands into my pocket and twined our fingers together more tightly. His hand was absolutely freezing. “Let's walk.” I suggested, though he didn't have much of a choice. We walked around the marina, and he shivered.

“Cold?” I grinned as I wrapped my arm around his waist. He scowled but didn't pull away. “What's your name?” I asked finally.

“Mason.” He answered. I blinked. I could see slight color to his cheeks, it was hard to tell in the dim light, though it may just have been because of the cold.

“Oh. Could be worse, could be Maynord.” I smirked. “It's a more interesting name than John at least.”

“Who's Joh-” Mason started, then snapped his mouth shut. “Oh, right.” He said, and stared at his shoes. I waited for him to say more, but he seemed determined to remain silent.

“Did you know,” I started, “that the Christmas season has the highest suicide rate of any time of the year?” Mason looked up, startled. I grinned. “Gotcha.” He sighed.

“You aren't going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” I smiled and squeezed his hand. “It's a big thing, to want to take your own life. And as I was the one to save that life-”

“Unwillingly.” He interjected. I snorted.

“-I have the right to know why.”

“I have a son.” He said, almost grudgingly. “No maybe that's a bad place to start.” He took a deep breath.”Well actually, I have three kids.”

“Wait, wait. How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.” He answered, staring at his toes.

“And how old is your oldest?”

“...twelve.”

“You had him when you were sixteen!?” My voice cracked. He frowned and motioned for me to sit down on a bench we were walking past. The water looked black from where we were, the orange reflection of the lights across the way shimmering as the water shifted.

Mason shook his head in response to my question. “The boy's mother was somebody that I met a few years ago. She had him when she was nineteen and her parents threw her out of their house. His younger brother and sister are my own sister's children, she died...”

“So... Why the hell would you want to kill yourself? Don't you want the best for your children?”

“They want him back.”

“They being the oldest's... grandparents?” Mason nodded. “So basically you're giving up before you can even start to resist. And what about the other two? Isn't that why they aren't with other relatives? Because they have none?”

Mason shook his head. “They have others, but Mary was my twin sister and she started living with me after her husband died, he had no family. Barely two years after that, she died. So the state decided that it was alright for me to have them. I have another sister, who would probably be able to take much better care of them.” He said dejectedly.

I rolled my eyes; “you don't know that. Besides, maybe they like you better and maybe that would inconvenience your sister. You don't know.” Mason shook his head.

“I think Scott hates me.” His voice was heavy. “His mother just died and I can't think of anything to do except sit around stupidly or go to work. I can't even manage to comfort him, not a single awkward attempt.” I stopped waving my hand around.

“Wait, you're married?” I said the words slowly, trying to sort everything out in my mind.

“She died a month ago. Scott's mother.” He answered.

“...Alright, so you have three children, none of which are biologically yours.” He nodded. “Two are from your sister, and one is from your... wife, who's child you're taking care of.” He nodded again. “Do you fancy yourself a charity or something?” I asked, incredulous.

He frowned.

“No.”

“So you did love,” I tried to think of the kid's name, “Scott's mother.” I dead panned. He grimaced and shrugged.

“She reminded me of my sister. It was... our relationship was more like roommates than lovers. She took care of the kids while I was at work, took care of the house.”

“...Was she hot?” Mason looked up sharply, his eyes telling me he thought I was crazy. I shrugged. “It's a valid question.” I mumbled. He looked away again, but his eyes were narrowed with amusement.

“She was pretty in the classical sense. Sea green eyes, pale skin, red hair, shapely figure.” He listed her features off in a detached manner. My jaw dropped.

“Are you gay?” I asked. He jerked back, and stared at me. I grinned. “Again, valid question.” His bottom lip pushed out slightly and my grin widened. “Are you pouting?”

“No, I'm not.” He said through gritted teeth. I guffawed.

“Yes you are.” He scowled.

“And you?” He asked, challenge in his voice. I tensed.

“That's...” I trailed off hesitantly.

“Turn about is fair play.” He said to me, smiling smugly. I glowered.

I growled. But it was fair, considering what he'd told me. “My father is in the military,” I started reluctantly, wetting my lips, “he traveled a lot. That's how he met my mother. She lived in a third world country...” I shrugged. “Their values are different than ours, at least that's my theory as to why she did what she did.” He was staring at me. It was a bit unnerving.

“You could say I was my parent's golden child, their first hope.” I continued, avoiding his gaze. “My mother's because that meant she could stay in America, my father's because I represented how much she loved him and vice versa. Father said that because they had had a child, that is, me, they shouldn't move around so much. He bought a house, took time off from the military until I was five. My mother's sisters came over to America. They'd looked up to her, I guess it was a lot of pressure. Father was recalled into the military. The war was hard on him, but he always took time to visit us when he was on leave. Then something happened to my mother, maybe it was the fact that her family was constantly asking for money, or maybe the scrutiny of the other wives, or even I guess, racism. Something changed.” I looked up; the clouds had moved, illuminating the entire square with the orange glow of the moon.

“It was small things at first, getting pinched a little too hard because I left my toys out, or my hands slapped for touching something of hers. It was never serious enough that I had to go to the hospital, even if I passed out it was fine. As I got older I began to be able to read the signs, whenever father hadn't come home for a while, or when the other gunnies gossiped, drunkenly joking about my father taking “another young thing” - it was never true but I think she lived in fear of it, her resentment for my father translating into a switch or belt to my back; I started looking more like my father when I turned about ten. It was when my third brother was born that the beatings became more consistent and severe, when my father finally retired from the military and took a job as a chef. She had started treating my brothers a little too roughly and he noticed, I noticed. I started taking the blame for them. By the time I was sixteen, she had started to leave the house more and more often, leaving me to take care of my younger siblings.”

“Why didn't you run away?” Mason asked suddenly. I rubbed my cheek absently, watching my breath form clouds.

“Simple; I didn't want her to hurt my brothers. Plus, my father was a respectable sergeant in the military, he could have been fired for the smallest indication of incompetency, and abuse is no small matter.” I didn't know why I was telling Mason all of this, but it wasn't like I was ever going to see him or my family ever again.

“How old are you now, anyways?” He asked. I blinked, I hadn't expected such a question.

“Twenty-six.” I said.

“And do you still...” He trailed off.

“Ah... no. I was just thrown out, today actually, else I'd not be out so late.” I grinned sheepishly, “still had a curfew.”

He blinked. “You were just... thrown out today?”

I laughed. “So you can understand why I don't exactly want to go to jail.” I said, amusement tugging at the corners of my lips.

“Yes I suppose I do.” Mason slumped against the back of the bench. “This is totally going to come back and bite me in the ass.” He said quietly.

“What is?” I blinked. He snorted.

“Well I was about to ask something extremely stupid.” I cocked my head. “You're going to force me to tell you, aren't you?” He said dryly. I grinned.

“Do you really think I would do that?” I asked innocently. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

“I was going to offer for you to live with me.” I coughed. That was one random proposition.

“Probably just a random bout of sympathy.” I choked out. “I can see how that would be a nuisance, or at least inconvenient. I wouldn't want a stranger to be living in my house and taking care of my kids.” I said with a shrug.

“That's not it at all!” He said almost at a shout. He winced at the loudness of his voice and lowered it. “I have more than enough room and resources but... Ah... actually... I think it would be more awkward for you.” He murmured, a blush dusting his cheeks.

“What do you mean?” Mason refused to look in my direction. “What do you mean.” I asked more forcefully, even prodding him in the ribs with my free hand. He sighed.

“It wouldn't be like it was with Marie.” He said tiredly.

“But I love kids.” I said, my brow furrowed.

“Marie did too...” Wait. Marie, Mason, Mary. That meant...

“You're Mason Taylor, who was married to Marie Hensen!?” I interrupted him. He blinked and nodded.

“Uh... yes. I thought you knew already.” I always did consider myself an archive of useless information. It just took me a while to make connections. Marie Hensen, little princess of two of the biggest names in the modeling industry, her mother a former model and her father the son of an agency head. She'd gotten disowned about twelve years ago... It fit the timeline.

“Oh... I-uh... didn't.” I finished lamely. But it made sense. I frowned. “The tabloids all exclaimed about your hot and heavy romance, how your sister and she were friends and how...” He cut me off by squeezing my hand.

“That's exactly why it would be awkward for you.” He said.

“Well I highly doubt that us being in a hot and heavy romance would be the first assumption of the press.” I pointed out. “Even if gay couples are becoming more common.”

“No. I-ahg...” He growled. “I am gay.”

“Well there's nothing wrong with that, I'm not homophobic.” I said. Then I frowned. “But then why did you marry?”

“No no... What I mean is...” He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Because I'm gay, it would be awkward for you to live in my house.”

I scowled. “You think I would be a bad influence on the kids? I can assure you I'll be the best nanny possible. Or rather,” I amended, “I'll try to be. But I'm pretty good with kids so...” It didn't actually sound so bad.

“My feelings may not stay so platonic as they did with Marie.” Mason cut me off.

“Well that's fine.” I said with a shrug.

“It... is?” His confusion made him impossibly cute.

“Yeah, because ever since I saved you, I've had this uncontrollable urge to kiss you.”

“You-you would put your entire life on hold for a stranger?” He asked.

“I wouldn't really consider it like that, actually it would be more like moving forward in my case.”

“Oh.” He said softly. “You need to stop making sense.” He muttered. The sun was coming up, making the water in front of us golden.

“It'll be a phantasmagoria of fun.” I giggled.

He laughed. “What does that even mean?”

“I don't know.” I told him, truthfully. “I feel sleep deprived though.” He put his face in the crook of my neck.

“Do you think I can still kiss a stranger?” Mason asked softly.

“Am I really a stranger?” I smiled. He shook his head and looked up.

“Maybe.” His breath ghosted across my lips and I could feel his smile.

--

A/N: "Marie" is said like "mah-ree" and "Mary" is said like "M-airy." And if being in a car counts as "indoors." Oops. Scene reenacted: the Titanic, when the chick tries to off herself and that other guy saves her. (ps, I've never watched the Titanic...) Hnn...

+Andy