"I made some new stencils for our pumpkins. Wanna see?" Justin inquired, reaching into his messenger bag.

"Yeah!" Gus' eyes lit up in excitement. "I've got the rest, Jushun." He scooted along the bench and grabbed a folder that was next to the carving tools before scooting back again. Opening the folder, he flapped a piece of paper at his dad. "I 'member you lwicked" - he spoke even more awkwardly as he tongued a stray pumpkin seed - "the one of Mama-"

Brian could just make out a figure on a broom. Ordinarily, he would've enjoyed the confirmation that the model for the broom-riding witch was Mel, but the way his son slurred ‘like' made it sound like he'd licked the bulldyke.

"No fuckin' way," he muttered.

"Five dollars, Daddy!" Gus caroled joyfully.

Brian cast his eyes toward the twenties he'd already splashed out.

That earned a muted "Oh" from his son.

"Take a look at these." Justin fanned out five sketches - a bison; a dreamcatcher; a turtle with a cluster of arrows above it; a tipi with a feather; and a medicine wheel with an eagle - so both Gus and Brian could see them.

Brian wasn't sure why the drawings had evenly-spaced holes punched along some of the edges. Since he didn't want to look like an idiot for asking, he had to hope that the answer would become evident as they proceeded.

In any case, Justin's stencils should satisfy his son's current thirst for all things Native American. Brian had been equally fascinated at Gus' age. He'd always wanted to be one of the Indians when playing cowboys and Indians - even though the ‘noble savages' usually got the shit kicked out of them and even though he hated being the underdog.

"Cool!" came the enthusiastic accolade from his son, who was getting more nuanced information about Native American history, both in school and from his parents, than Brian had. 

"I know a tipi isn't right for the local tribes" - Justin shrugged in apology - "but I thought it might do?"

Gus frowned down at the sketch. The boy was a stickler for accuracy, so he might reject that one out of hand.

"It's simpler than the others, so it might be good for your dad's first time," Justin clarified. "Besides, it could be a cone-shaped wigwam. Some of the wigwams had a more basic design than others."

Brian did his best to hide a wince. He didn't mind using that template. It really was kind of ‘cool' and would be different from the standard, ‘toothy' Halloween fare. It was just that the ‘first time' thing - at his age - was more than a little embarrassing. 

"'kay." Gus nodded, accepting that reasoning. "I really like the dreamcasher." He ran his fingers over the intricate design.

"I can help if you want that one. Or with any of the others," Justin offered. "I thought you might like the bison since it's unique to North America. Besides, when we put a couple tea lights inside the pumpkin, they'll look like pools of fire in his belly."

The bison was also less complex than the other designs - except for the one which had been designated as Brian's - which would make it easier for Gus.

"You gonna do one of the others?" the boy wanted to know.

"What do you say we save those for next year?" Justin smiled at Gus. "I'll work up some more designs too, including a proper longhouse."

Huh. Brian eyed the now empty folder speculatively. Where was Justin's template? Then again, the blond artiste could probably draw something freehand, the grooves in the pumpkin - whatever the fuck they were called - barely impeding him.

"We're gonna do this again?"

"Sure." The word fell out of Brian's mouth before he could think it through. Why not though? He'd have some experience and wouldn't be a rank beginner next year. Besides, it'd make his boys happy. "We can make it a tradition to carve pumpkins for Thanksgiving," he proposed.

That elicited yet another fist pump from his son, and Brian was then obliged to high-five both of his sonnyboys.

"Can we take 'em to Grandma Debbie's?" Gus ran away with Brian's notion. 

"Deb'd love having them for decorations," Justin seconded the idea.

Shit. What if his pumpkin was a flop? It was too late to back out now however. With what he suspected was more of a grimace than a smile, Brian asked, "So what do we do first?" directing the question to his son.

Gus sat up straight, clearly relishing the opportunity to be in charge. "First, we gotta cut off the top. Um." He paused for a moment to study the two pumpkins he'd recently carried over to the table, then pushed the slightly more oblong one over to Brian, almost knocking over the motor oil masquerading as coffee.

Cup rescued, Brian took a swallow, scowling at the bitter taste. He must've forgotten to add a bit of extra sugar, he reckoned, quickly rectifying his mistake.

"That one's good for the tipi, Daddy. And I'll yoosh this for the bishon." Gus kept the squatter pumpkin in front of him. The seven-year-old flicked a quick glance at Justin, who nodded in approval of his choices.

Gus smiled happily. "What 'bout you, Jushun? Wish one do you want?"

Justin motioned at a couple of large, oblong-shaped gourds at the far end of the table. "I've got dibs on these."

"'kay," the youngster acquiesced. "Now, Daddy, we gotta cut off the top of the pumpkin."

Unprompted, Justin passed over a crayon so that Gus could draw a circle around the stem. Gus lost control at one point, the marker hitting one of the grooves, skittering off course and leaving a jagged, bright blue smear across the pumpkin.

The boy seemed unbothered, just picking up where he'd left off and completing a slightly lopsided circle.

Gus looked up and grinned. "Don' worry if you make a mishtake. It'll wash off. It's- Whatcha call it, Jushun?"

"Water soluble," Justin supplied.

"That," Gus concurred. "You try, Daddy." He handed the crayon over.

Brian couldn't remember the last time he'd held a crayon. He'd left the coloring books to Linds and Justin when it came to Gus; Melanie had also demurred when JR came along, until it rapidly became apparent that coloring outside the lines was de rigueur for the toddler - a skill Mel declared she possessed in spades.

"You want a different color?" Justin dangled a lurid pink crayon in front of Brian.

Gus giggled, "That mashes the Little Mermaid's top, Daddy. You gotta yoosh that one."

Just great. Brian curled his lip at Justin, snatching the disgusting marker from fingers that had gone limp.

Justin winced, evidently just now registering what the fish girl was wearing, and flicked an apologetic glance at Brian. "Sorry," the twat muttered.

Brian hiked an eyebrow in reply, not sure what Justin was apologizing for: the Little Mermaid's existence; her outfit; the over-bright crayon; or something else entirely. Whatever, Brian wasn't quite ready to forgive him for foisting the pink crayon on him. The things he did for his sonnyboy. He hastily drew a circle around the top of the pumpkin, almost falling prey to the same pitfall as his son. Just managing to maintain control, he passed the pink thing off to Justin as soon as he was done.

The blond wrinkled his nose at the gaudy crayon, causing Brian to huff out a laugh. Now the brat got how repulsive the color was.

As the younger man drew a circle around the top of one pumpkin and then started on another, Brian wondered what had possessed Justin to inflict that garish hue on him. He'd never known Justin to use pink in his paintings, and none of his clothes were pink. Among the gang, only Emmett incorporated pink in his wardrobe; it was too showy for the rest of them.

It was then that Brian remembered the Pink Posse and the deliberately eye-catching sleeveless T-shirts the vigilantes had worn. He'd been so fucking scared that Justin would end up in prison or get seriously hurt, he recalled, a shudder traveling down his spine. Every single night he went out with that whack job Cody, Brian had pictured himself sitting outside the hospital room where Justin lay in a coma - only this time, he didn't wake up.

"Brian? You okay?" he distantly heard Justin ask.

It took a worried "Daddy?" from Gus to penetrate his fugue and bring him back to the present.

He croaked, "Yeah, Sonnyboy," before raising his coffee cup in trembling hands and burying his face in it. Christ, he hadn't been hit by a daymare about the bashing in a long time.

When Brian lowered his coffee, he was met with two sets of concerned blue eyes. 

"I'm okay," he reassured his son. "Just... a bad memory."

Gus' brows drew together. "'What memory, Daddy?" 

Brian didn't want to give Gus an aversion to the color, so he just said, "A really awful sense of fashion," accompanying the vague statement with an exaggerated shiver.

Naturally, Gus, who took after Justin in throwing on whatever was ready to hand - and reasonably clean - thought that was funny. 

Brian slanted his eyes at Justin, planning to tease him about the paint-splattered clothes he'd donned, but an image of his lover's head being caved in, blood everywhere, superimposed itself on his vision.

"Hey," Justin murmured, running a soothing hand down his back. Like Gus, he was perceptive and had a better idea of where Brian's mind must've gone. His mouth next to Brian's ear, Justin assured him, "No more posse." 

Brian was grateful that he was keeping it circumspect in front of Gus. The boy was bound to be inquisitive if he overheard.

"Yeah?" He searched earnest blue eyes. He still didn't know what had happened to wean Justin away from Cody and stop him from toting a gun around. He'd confronted Justin about the gun, but he didn't do anything else. Maybe it was time to ask - and talk things out.

As if he'd read his mind, which wouldn't surprise Brian, Justin's lips touched the corner of his mouth in a butterfly-soft kiss. "Promise," he husked.

Brian wrapped an arm around Justin's waist and tugged him closer, but the urge to go further was waylaid by a protest from his seven-year-old son.

"Pumpkins, Daddy! Papa Jushun!"

Cockblocked by a pumpkin, Brian mused wryly, resting his forehead against the blond's. This was what had become of Brian fucking Kinney. Not that he really minded when faced with an eager smile from his son, the son he hadn't known he wanted until he held Gus in his arms for the first time. After that, it had just been a matter of time before he realized he was fooling himself about being nothing more than a drop-in dad.

Predictably, Justin beamed at being called Papa. Not that the moniker was new - Gus had been calling him Papa Jushun ever since their sojourn to Toronto. He just usually skipped the ‘Papa.'

When he remembered how being a drop-in dad had morphed into being a long-distance dad, Brian's heart started thumping wildly against his ribcage. He'd nearly torn himself in two, letting Gus go to ensure his well-being - especially since he didn't agree with the half-baked rationale behind the move.

Thankfully, neither the separation from his son or his lover had lasted long. Mostly because Justin had called him on his ‘it's only time' nonsense, showing up at Kinnetik for what Brian thought was a visit less than three weeks after his departure.

When Justin confessed that he'd never actually left the Burgh, they'd had a serious row, Brian not giving a fuck that his employees could hear them yelling. After rattling off the news about his upcoming shows, Justin had kissed Brian to shut him up, the kiss rivaling the one he'd once planted on him at Vangard. A growing desire to get to the makeup sex had led Brian to admit that he wouldn't rather have Justin in New York. 

He hadn't cared that his employees could hear them going at it either.

Their trip to see the girls two months later had revealed the cracks in the lesbians' ill-planned resettlement in Mountie Country. Crammed together in a too-small, overpriced rental down the street from one of Mel's nosy family members - cousin, aunt or whoever the fuck - hemorrhaging money, no work visas and no easy path to obtain them, they'd been constantly in each other's hair and on the verge of splitting up again. 

Brian and Justin's visit had been the start of the girls coming to their senses. 

Brian had done his best to demonstrate his appreciation to Justin for arranging the trip, the young artist shelling out money he could ill afford for flights and a hotel, one that was of a standard Brian wouldn't balk at.

He'd known Justin would be offended if he tried to reimburse him - he was as touchy as Brian in that respect - so after spending a couple days with Gus, he'd dragged Justin off to Church Street. There, at Fly, the best gay club in town, he'd bottomed for Justin in public for the first time.

He still wasn't sure who had benefited the most from his brainstorm, but Brian was pretty sure it was him. Justin'd had him on all fours on one of the couches in the backroom, pegging his prostate relentlessly but keeping him from tipping over the edge for what seemed like hours. Even now he could remember how agonizing that had been - and how good it felt.

"Yinz can kish later!" Gus insisted, recalling Brian to the present.

Just as well, Brian thought. Even his oldest, baggiest pair of jeans was becoming uncomfortable.

The frustration on Justin's face consoled him a little as he sat up. He wouldn't want to be alone in his predicament.

"‘Yinz?'" he queried, arching an eyebrow at his son.

Gus shrugged. "We're Yinzers, Daddy."

Joanie would've been mortified if he'd called himself a Yinzer when he was growing up; his mother didn't like to betray her blue collar roots. While he hoped she'd never meet Gus, it amused him to imagine Joan's reaction to her grandson proudly proclaiming himself a Yinzer. It'd probably give the old bat a heart attack.

"Ready, yinz?" Gus asked with an infectious giggle.

Brian glanced at Justin's pumpkins, each of which had a perfectly formed circle around the top. No jagged marks or splotches; the dips apparently hadn't caused any trouble for the blond.

Justin, who'd followed his gaze, smiled and shrugged. "You just gotta know how to manage the ribs and it's easy."

Those annoying indentations were called ribs? It figured Justin would possess that useless tidbit of information.

"Huh," he grunted.

Justin stood, plucked a tool with a short, wide grip from the orange-trimmed case and carried it around the table to Gus. 

"I can do it!" Gus spoke loudly as he reached for the implement, his brow creasing.

"What did you promise your moms?" Justin demanded.

The boy slumped. "That I'd let you help me."

Justin lifted his brows and waited.

"'Cause I'm too young..." the seven-year-old trailed off before dissenting, "But, I'm not-"

A stern "Gus" from Justin cut him off. "You are too young to do this without supervision. If not for the age-appropriate tools in that kit" - he waved a hand at the end of the table - "you wouldn't have dispensation-"

Justin paused when Gus tilted his head inquisitively. "That's another word for ‘permission,'" he explained.

Gus nodded, and Justin then finished, "You wouldn't have dispensation to try any of this. You'd be stuck with coloring book pumpkins, along with JR."

Brian had to clamp his lips together to keep from laughing at the disgruntlement on his sonnyboy's face.

"Besides," Justin continued in a gentler tone, "the top of the pumpkin's hard to cut through. It's really thick."

"Yeah," Gus admitted sheepishly. "I could barely wiggle the knife Mama was yooshin', even wif her hand over mine. Thanks for gettin' a speshul kit for me." He held up the weird-looking tool, which had stubby, pointed protrusions along one side and a blunted, squared-off tip.

The black handle fit perfectly into Gus' small hand, Brian noted. He'd have to come up with a way to thank Justin for purchasing the child-size set of tools.

He was already planning a deluxe blowjob when Justin requested, "Let me get this into the pumpkin, okay?"

Gus relinquished the tool, and Brian watched as Justin placed the serrated edge against the pumpkin and rocked it back and forth, again and again, until it finally popped through the rind.

Craniotomy underway.

"Now you can help me." Justin wrapped an arm around the orange gourd so it wouldn't slip and helped Gus cut back and forth in short, jerky motions, making his way around the crayon circle.

"Keep it at a slant," Justin counseled, correcting the angle of the blade. "We don't want the lid to fall into the pumpkin."

"'s a lotta work," Gus gasped at just past the halfway point.

"Why don't you take a break, and I'll get your dad started," Justin suggested. "Have some OJ."

"‘'kay," the boy readily agreed, thirstily slurping his juice. "Ima get shome more," he said a few beats later, scooting off the bench and trotting into the house, sippy cup in hand.

Brian waggled his eyebrows at Justin. "You got an age-appropriate tool for me?" 

Justin smirked. "I'll save that till we get home. In the meantime" - he grabbed a version of the whatsit that had an adult-size grip and handed it to Brian - "try this out."

Brian pushed the weird implement at the circle he'd drawn and got exactly nowhere. "What is this thing?" he asked, irritated.

"It's a keyhole saw. It's easier - and safer - to use than a knife."

The prongs did sort of resemble the ridges on a key, but why not just call it a ‘key saw'? Then again, he thought, absently poking his tongue into his cheek, he didn't exactly mind the image of a ‘key' sliding into a ‘hole.'

Justin grinned slyly, as if he knew what Brian was thinking. He probably did; you didn't have to be a mind-reader to figure it out.

Taking the funky saw from him, Justin held it perpendicular to the gourd and moved it back and forth, punching through the skin in short order. "It just takes a minute to get it going since we haven't thinned out the skin yet.

"You wanna give it a go?" He bestowed a bright, encouraging smile on Brian. "I'd better get started on one of my pumpkins so I don't hold things up. Just rock the saw back and forth and don't rush it. You'll have the blossom end off in no time."

"You mean the lid," Brian commented sardonically.

Already sawing into one of his pumpkins, Justin agreed, "Mhmm, it makes for easy removal."

"How the fuck do you know it's called the ‘blossom end' anyway?" He probably shouldn't ask - Justin would likely launch into a PSA - but he couldn't help being curious.

"Five dollars, Daddy," Gus rejoiced as he returned, carrying a presumably full sippy cup. 

Brian cast his eyes at the pumpkin cum paperweight, which was safeguarding the twenties he'd handed over earlier. "I've still got money to the good, Gus. How much would you say is left?" The kid was a whiz at both addition and subtraction - well ahead of the simple math most first graders could do - so Brian knew he'd have no trouble calculating the amount. He was testing his son's honesty, not his mathematical ability.

"Forty," Gus drew out the word super slowly, waiting long seconds before tacking on, "five." A dimple winked into view, the seven-year-old no longer trying to hide his glee.

Brian chuckled. Christ, this was so different from his childhood. Even if Jack had done something so implausible as to fork over money for cussing, he never would have put up with Brian trying to finagle more out of him. He'd have backhanded Brian to teach him a lesson. 

Gus though didn't have the least bit of fear that his dad would hit him. So maybe Brian was doing something right.

A squeeze to his thigh let him know that Justin approved. That was how he interpreted it anyhow, considering the blond had always encouraged him to spend more time with Gus and to believe that he was a good father.

Gus looked over at Justin. "Can we do the resh?"

Abandoning his own pumpkin, Justin moved back around the table to sit next to Gus. He held the boy's pumpkin steady while guiding Gus' hand on the saw.

It took Brian a few attempts before he could successfully emulate the short, jerky sawing motions, but then he made good progress. He finished sawing around the top at almost the same time as Gus and Justin.

He grunted in satisfaction and looked up to see both his boys smiling at him.

"Now we gotta take off the bloshom end," Gus announced, closing his fingers around the protruding stem.

If it was even called a stem; Brian wasn't about to ask the smart-alecky blond. Unlike his son, he had no interest in learning proper pumpkin lingo.

"It makes a great handle," Justin contributed.

Now that made sense. Brian could get behind a logical term like ‘handle.'

Gus used the handle to lift off the lid and Brian copied him, only to be confronted with a solid white layer. Jesus. All that sawing and he still wasn't all the way through the rind of this fuckin' gourd?

It made him feel a little better that Gus faced the same predicament, although his son didn't look in the least daunted.

Neither did Justin, but that didn't surprise Brian. He'd begun to suspect the blond might be an expert pumpkin carver when he'd casually whipped out those templates. Never mind the way he'd been babbling excitedly for weeks about how he loved carving pumpkins when he was young.

His hand over Gus', Justin used the saw to cut a circle around the white layer, about an inch from the edge of the pumpkin.

Brian copied his boys, thinking they must have punched through the hardest part of the rind since cutting around the white layer went fast.

Justin inserted the blunted tip of the keyhole saw beneath the white layer and pried it up, Brian mimicking him.

The blond then set the saw to one side and nodded at Gus, who grabbed hold of the white piece and lifted it, setting it down on the newspaper with a muted thunk.

The underside was a little gross looking, stringy orange bits and seeds hanging from it, but nothing too awful, for which Brian was grateful. Straightaway, he removed the same hard, whitish piece, dropping it on the newspaper and fastidiously wiping off his fingertips on the newsprint.

That hadn't been the best idea, Brian realized, frowning. The tips of his fingers now had a grayish-orange tinge. He lowered his hand, planning to rub his fingers off on his jeans, but then changed his mind. The crud might stick to the denim and leave a permanent stain. Brian sighed; he'd just have to live with having Freddy Krueger's hand... for now.

Justin, unsurprisingly, didn't even notice Brian's dilemma. He grinned at Gus, asking, "You wanna show your old man what comes next?"

Brian scowled. How dare the blond brat use that three-letter word? His scowl morphing into a smirk, he decided they'd find out later which of them was ‘old' and wore out the quickest.

Justin slid a metal pie tin over until it was next to Gus' pumpkin and handed him a vaguely spoon-shaped tool with a rounded, lime-green plastic grip. He also grabbed a couple of flattish yellow packets and set one down next to Gus, placing the other one between him and Brian.

Wet wipes, Brian realized when he took a closer look. Great. This was likely to get messy.

"Now we dig out the brains!" Gus announced with relish. He tilted the pumpkin, stuck the spoon inside and began scooping nasty orangey goop from the gourd into the pie tin.

Shit. That meant- Brian looked into his pumpkin for the first time, immediately confirming his suspicion that the same loathsome gunk awaited him. 

"Here." Justin extended another of the ‘spoons,' his features bland as he looked at Brian.

Fucker. Well before he started hitting Babylon's backroom, Brian had enjoyed creating glutinous substances of a different sort in his high school chemistry class. But that didn't mean he liked just any kind of gluey, slimy concoction. He stayed away from icky foodstuffs that weren't fit for human consumption: like runny eggs, escargot, and Michael's attempts at baking cakes.

Now he had something else to add: pumpkin brains.

Justin helpfully set another pie plate next to Brian as he reclaimed his original spot at the picnic table and then went to work sawing the tops off of his pumpkins. Brian could hardly miss the twitching of Justin's lips when the blond sent a sidelong glance his way.

Brian sighed and eschewed the notion of protecting his hands with a couple of condoms, in lieu of disposable surgical gloves. If he didn't want to look like a wuss in front of his son, he was going to have to shovel the brains out of this pumpkin barehanded. 

Turning the pumpkin on its side, he braced himself and stuck the plastic spoon inside. He should have pushed up his sleeves, Brian realized a beat too late, his forearm brushing against the rim of the pumpkin and something viscous squishing between his fingers.

Shit, he was gonna have to throw out his supersoft, old Metallica T-shirt. He shoveled out spoonful after spoonful, getting more and more irritable. "Why aren't we just dumping this in the trash?" he griped, unable to keep a querulous note from creeping into his voice.

"'Cause a the sheeds, Daddy!"

Well, okay. The pepitas did taste pretty darned good, but he wouldn't want to be the one to separate them from the rest of the gloop. No wonder Mel was so fuckin' cranky; he would be too if his partner put him up to that.

"Mmm," Justin hummed in agreement. "And pumpkin for pies."

Brian froze, hand buried in pumpkin brains. "You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered. "Just buy a can of pumpkin."

When Justin didn't say anything for a moment, Brian cast a wary glance his way before resuming his curettage of the gourd's innards. The blond better not be planning to bring one of these tins home with-

Justin alleviated his burgeoning concern. "Yeah," he concurred. "That's way easier. Maybe fresh pumpkin makes for a tastier pie, but I'll leave it to Linds to prove it. I-"

Gus broke in, "Mommy says waysh not, want not."

"That's why I'm giving her the pumpkin guts," Justin said with a naughty giggle. 

Brian snorted in amusement. While he'd been fussing around with slithery, mucky pulp, Justin had finished sawing around the top of his second pumpkin, removed both lids and was in the process of extracting the white layer from the second one.

"Yoosh your hands, Daddy," Gus suggested. "It's fasher."

Brian looked across the table to see that his son had a much larger pile of slimy guts in his pie tin than he did. Dropping the scoop down on the newspaper, he reached in and grabbed, only to realize when he extracted his hand that he now had orangey gunk under his fingernails. 

"Shit," he kvetched. 

"Forty!" Gus promptly updated his dad on how much of the ‘curse advance' remained.

He'd better watch it, or he was gonna blow through the whole sixty dollars all by himself - before he even got the sludge out of this damned pumpkin.

He could always succumb to a streak, but Brian fucking Kinney was not a lesbian and wasn't gonna use that pathetic excuse to wriggle out of the fix he was in. Besides, his competitive instincts were roused; he'd show the ball-busting bulldyke that he had what it took.

Biting back the curses that were ready to flow, Brian dropped the mucilaginous orange crud into the pie tin. He then stuck his hand back into the ooze, extracting another gloppy handful. Rinse and repeat.

The one good thing about this approach was that he got the pulpy, squishy guts out much more quickly than if he'd stuck with the spoon. His fingernails might be in worse condition, but they'd been acquiring an orange hue anyway. He was going to need a specialty soap - like the one for removing ditto ink - to get rid of that. Hmm, maybe his manicurist would have an opening-

His musings were interrupted by a giggle from his son, quickly followed by, "Thash my plate, Jushun!"

Brian looked up to see his son scoop up a handful of mucky orange slop and drop it on the pile in Justin's pie tin. Orangey bits - and a couple of pumpkin seeds - splattered Justin's T-shirt, but you'd never be able to tell since the tee was one he painted in.

Justin giggled too. "I don't have enough space." He grabbed a handful of the goop, gesturing with his hand at Gus' pie tin. 

Brian leaned back to avoid a flying pumpkin seed and almost fell off the bench. Righting himself, he shoved his pie plate at Justin and curtly ordered, "In here."

He then outstretched a hand, catching hold of Gus' wrist before the boy could transfer more slippery pumpkin guts to Justin's tin. Christ, all he needed was for this to degenerate into a food fight. 

"Linds, er- your mom won't be happy if she can't make pie," Brian warned.

Injured blue eyes turned toward him, although Justin's gaze spoke more of mischief than hurt.

"Like that'd bother Mr. Carb-Conscious Kinney," Justin commented sotto voce as he added handfuls of pumpkiny effluvium to Brian's two thirds full pie tin.

"We're jush playin', Daddy," Gus ventured as he dropped the pumpkin guts back onto his tin.

That was what Brian was afraid of. His duds might be old, but he didn't want them decorated in orange crap. More than was already on his tee anyhow.

"Mommy's jush gonna tell Mama to do it," Gus went on. "An' Mama shaid she doeshn't wanna, so-" He shrugged philosophically. 

"Don't you want your mama Mel to be able to tell your mommy where to sh-" Realizing that ‘where to shove it' wouldn't accomplish anything, Brian used reasoning that should appeal to a seven-year-old. "If you splatter the pumpkin guts all over the table, there won't be anything for your moms to argue about." He paused for a beat, watching Gus' brow furrow in thought as he stared at the goopy mess in the pie tin. "No arguing means no money for the vakey fun," Brian finished.

Justin snickered.

It was an odd sort of bribe, Brian conceded, encouraging his kid to make money off of the bulldyke like that. Who cared though as long as it prevented a food fight and made Brian seem like less of a killjoy?

He might even be looking forward a little to hearing Mel let loose. Not even a week ago, the petite but tough she-wolf had decided that although she could do it all - putting in long hours as a litigator, co-parenting and playing Suzy Homemaker - she wasn't going to do the cooking and cleaning anymore. Not until Lindsay got a job anyhow, and then they could share.

Brian was pretty sure that meant Linds would cover the kitchen while Mel took care of the rest of the house. Fuck knew she wielded a mean vacuum, almost sucking up Brian's bare toes on more than one occasion.

After that resolution, he was more than a little puzzled about what could have led the butch woman to give in and bake pies, using honest-to-God pumpkin guts. That didn't sound like the dyke he knew. She was as tenacious as a fuckin' bulldog once she decided on something.

Really, the girls should just get a cleaning lady. Who the fuck wanted to do chores? He'd even offered - again - to pay for one, but Lindsay had responded with her usual BS about how lesbians had to prove they were better than other women. His blonde friend didn't get that being able to hire someone proved just that. Linds had grown up with a live-in cook and other staff, so you'd think she'd get it; however, playing second fiddle to Lynette because Lindsay was a lezzie must have erased her ability to think it through logically. 

Gus' mournful, "Mommy'll jush clashfy it as another streak," pulled Brian away from the unfathomable workings of the muncher mind.

"There could be more than one streak," Justin observed in his ‘chocolate wouldn't melt in my mouth,' innocent, WASPy tone.

Brian mentally cursed Justin. Next thing you knew, Gus would be intentionally interrupting a streak and waiting to see if the bulldyke picked up again. Anything to net himself another five dollars.

The seven-year-old perked up. "Thash right! Mommy shaid if Mama stops and then curshes more, thash 'nother five dollars."

Yet again, Gus' enunciation was crisp and clean when he got to the amount.

His sonnyboy recommended, "Maybe you should make a bigger advance, Daddy," every word coming out crystal clear.

"No more until it's down to twenty," Brian huffed. 

The blond at his side teased, "Until, huh?" 

"Little shit," Brian growled affectionately.

Gus crowed, "Thirty-five, Daddy!" He glanced sidelong at the pumpkin paperweight before returning his gaze to his father and dissolving in giggles.

Likewise overcome by a giggling fit, Justin leaned against Brian.

Christ, at this rate, his kid was gonna empty out his wallet, Brian mused, joining in the laughter at his expense.

Justin reached up and squeezed his neck, kneading at the muscle there.

"Mmm," Brian hummed in pleasure, his eyes lowering to half-mast. They snapped back open however when something slithered down his back - beneath his T-shirt.

"What was that?" he demanded, twisting around and dislodging Justin's hand. A hand - he now realized in horror - that was coated in pumpkin guts.

"Get it off me!" he squealed, his voice coming out abnormally high-pitched.

Justin straightaway lifted up his tee - Brian doing his best not to think about two grubby hands now touching him - and scraped the slimy vegetable secretion off his back.

"Did a spider get on you, Daddy?" Gus' brows knitted together, and he swung a leg over the bench, clearly planning to get up and help. "Don' kill her, 'kay? She won't hurt you, and I can put her owshide."

Shit, Brian silently cursed. His reaction to the pumpkin guts was bad enough. Brian didn't want Gus to think spiders freaked him out. They didn't really, unless they got on him.

"No spider," Justin announced. "Other than the one I saw making a beeline- er, spider-line for the cacti." 

As Brian watched, Justin stealthily wiped his hand on the old pair of cargo pants he was wearing, the orange blob immediately becoming indecipherable from the other stains. If there had been a spider on him, it was impossible to tell now.

"She musta been after pumpkin worms," Gus declared.

Brian paled. Pumpkin worms?

"Could be cucumber beetles," Justin stated with a sort of wicked relish. "Or squash vine borers," he added after a beat.

Jesus fucking Christ. Now Brian was picturing an insect boring into the tender skin at the nape of his neck. It took a second before he remembered that the arachnid, if it had been there in the first place, was a goner. The beetles were just Justin winding him up. Right?

His brow furrowing, Gus looked toward the corner where Linds kept trying to nourish a cactus garden. "Do you think she's hungry?"

Justin shook his head. "I'm sure she had a good snack, and she'll likely have more tasty tidbits stored in her web."

Although he settled back down on the bench, Gus looked torn between going to check on the spider and scooping more brains out of his pumpkin. Ever since his first Christmas - when Justin had gifted him with a drawing of Spinderella settling into her new home, aka Gus' bedroom - the boy had adored the creepy-crawlies. 

That was also when Brian had discovered he was fucking an arachnophile, which still made him shudder. He'd willed himself to overlook the weird spider affinity in favor of the blond's other attributes.

Those attributes still outweighed - if just barely - defects like Justin decorating him with sticky orange glop. It wasn't like he'd hesitated in covering for Brian's squeamishness, coming up with a nonexistent spider. Of course, if Justin hadn't caused the problem in the first place, he wouldn't have had to lie, but still.

Scowling a little - talk about gross - Brian grabbed a wet wipe and wiped off his hands. Despite the fact that his left hand was mostly clean - it had only gotten dirty when he made the mistake of holding the pumpkin by the rim - and without digging under his nails, it took two more wipes to get rid of the worst of the goop. He then tugged out yet another towelette and scrubbed the back of his neck. Peering at the wipe, which was now streaked orange, he didn't see any icky insect parts.

"Did I get it all?" He turned his head so Justin could take a look. "No, uh, beetles?" he checked, just in case.

A guilty look flitting across his face, Justin replied, "Um, no. There's nothing on your neck."

Brian relaxed. He should be used to accidents like that one by now - hazards of living with an artist.

Sighing, he picked up his spoon and fished around inside the pumpkin. He was resigned to having more of the stuff slither between his fingers, like pumpkin worms-

Darned twat, putting that in his head. He glared at Justin, who didn't even notice as he excavated more pumpkin brains from one of his gourds.

When he pulled out the scoop, Brian was surprised to find it was almost empty, just a couple of orange droplets and one seed landing in the tin. He turned the pumpkin upright, scrutinized the inside and mentally pumped a fist. The gourd was empty. No more squishy, pumpkiny sludge under his fingernails!

Snagging another of the moist towelettes, he cleaned his fingers off more thoroughly, even digging a little under the nails. It didn't do much good, a carroty hue remaining not only around the nail bed but also across his knuckles.

In addition to the unnatural hue of his skin, the cuticles looked ragged and he'd also nicked a couple of his fingernails. Christ, his nails looked as bad as Theodore's after his friend had been gnawing at them.

His companions of course didn't give a shit about the state of their hands. But then they didn't have to give a presentation tomorrow morning, during which their hands would be on display. He didn't want to lose the account because his hands were too disgusting for a fussy, metrosexual CEO. That meant he was gonna have to call Manuela and ask for an emergency appointment later today - and pay through the nose for a manicure.

Glancing up from the perusal of his fingernails, he noticed that Gus and Justin also appeared to have finished emptying out their pumpkins. "What now?" he asked rather belligerently.

"Easy there, Mr. Kinney," Justin whispered; "I've got a soap that'll take care of the pumpkin stains. And I know you have at least one cream that'll help make your skin all smooth and soft."

Brian pictured all his expensive lotions lined up in the medicine cabinet at the loft and tried to decide which one he'd allow Justin to apply after they got home.

He was jerked out of his musings by his son.

"Now you gotta deshide the best playsh for the wigwam."

"How about on the pumpkin?" Brian deadpanned, making both his boys giggle.

"Sheesh, Daddy," Gus expostulated. "'Course it goes on the pumpkin. But which shide is the best?"

Brian had to grin at the exasperated tone and the look the seven-year-old was directing at him. He still had a problem though; when he slowly spun the orange gourd around, all the sides looked the same to him.

"Fu-"

Gus watched him alertly.

"-bsy," he finished. "On all sides."

"Fubshie?" questioned Gus. "Is that dirty?"

"Dirty, no. Insulting, yes. It means fat and squat," Brian informed his son. It was also British, but it couldn't hurt to expand the boy's vocabulary with a word or two from across the Atlantic. Or the border; Gus doubtless would've been exposed to that kind of jargon if he'd grown up in Toronto.

"Squat?" Gus questioned in puzzlement.

A slight quaver to his voice, Justin supplied, "Kind of like Santa Claus - a big belly but thickset and muscular."

That answer appeared to stump Gus, until Justin added, "It works for Santa, but it's not a good look for most people. Nice qualities in a pumpkin, however."

"It makes the pumpkin handshome?"

"Pretty much," Justin agreed. "The Santa look is in."

Someone should tell that to Debbie and Carl, Brian thought. Not that he'd ever be so foolish, particularly with his surrogate mom. Carl would most likely laugh it off and crack a joke at his own expense, but Deb... She'd probably crack him upside the head.

Justin turned to Brian. "The best side of a pumpkin is the one that's the smoothest - no deep ribs or gouges. That's where the ‘face' goes." 

Brian still didn't see much variation in his pumpkin, but there were a couple nicks on one ‘side,' so he decided to carve on the opposite side. 

Further guidance led to him using the spoon thingamajig to thin the side that would be carved so it was approximately an inch thick. Roughly an inch, according to Justin, would make it easier to carve, but you had to be careful not to thin it so much that the pumpkin caved in. That cautionary advice running through his brain, Brian longed for a ruler to take an exact measurement. If he had a ruler, he could stick it through the middle of the pumpkin, claiming it was where the fuckin' tipi would go anyhow. But he couldn't chance that a slit for a ruler would end up in completely the wrong place, throwing the entire design off and forcing him to start over.

Really, thinning the gourd wasn't so bad - the mucking out was done - but he could feel the rind getting under his nails and wreaking even more havoc as he dug at the pumpkin with the spoon. Even Manuela wasn't going to be able to resurrect his hands on time for tomorrow's pitch, he feared.

A bead of sweat traveled down Brian's back as he worked to thin the wall of the pumpkin, anxious that he was gonna overdo it and stick the fucking trowel right through the gourd. As long as he was careful, he knew that wasn't likely, but he was having trouble estimating how much made up an inch. This wasn't nearly as easy as guessing the girth of someone's dick.

Finally, what seemed like hours later, Brian was satisfied with the results. The smoothness on the inside of the ‘face' wasn't uniform, but it would have to do. He was ‘plumb worn out' as he could recall Debbie muttering tiredly after an extra-long shift at the diner.

He'd been vaguely aware of his boys chattering away while he worked, but he'd blocked out the noise, determined to get the job done right. When he glanced over at Gus, Brian noticed his son was cutting a circle around the buffalo template that he'd chosen.

"How's that?" he asked, nudging his pumpkin an inch or two closer to Justin. He wiped his brow off on the sleeve of his tee, wishing he'd worn a short-sleeved shirt instead.

The blond artist looked up from the pumpkin he was busily drawing on, although Brian couldn't tell what it was supposed to be. It just looked like a bunch of squiggles - and maybe a drumstick? Brian shook his head. That couldn't be right. He must be getting hungry.

Justin peered inside Brian's pumpkin, raised his eyebrows and let out a whistle. "Wow. I've never seen a pumpkin hollowed out so neatly. Mine doesn't look anywhere near as good."

Brian couldn't help preening at the praise, even if it was just about a stupid orange gourd. He could feel tension leaving his body as he also peered into the pumpkin, his cheek rubbing against Justin's.

A droplet of sweat trickled from Brian's hairline and down his nose, lingering at the tip.

"Mmm." Justin's tongue snaked out to reel in the drop. "You taste good."

Brian dove in for a kiss, wondering if they could sneak inside for a quickie. It had been years since Brian caught Justin urinating in the girls' upstairs bathroom, and he'd like to replace his godawful memories of that day with something better. Justin might have been off limits then, but-

Gus interrupted the moment. "Wush next, Jushun?"

"Fuuuck," Brian whined in protest when Justin lifted his head away, their lips separating with a soft pop.

Justin husked, "Hold that thought."

There was something else Brian would rather hold, which he did his best to communicate telepathically.

His eyes locked on Brian's, Justin's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. One beat and then another passed before he swiveled his head toward Gus and rasped, "Hang on a sec so your dad can catch up."

"Here, Daddy." Gus handed Brian the stencil with the tipi and the feather. "Jush cut around the owshide. Like I did." He held up the bison template for Brian to see.

His brain still clouded with thoughts of dragging Justin off to ravish him, Brian accepted the stencil and a pair of scissors from his son and started cutting a lopsided oval around the pattern without thinking about what he was doing.

"Oh, Daddy?" Gus commented when he was done.

Brian looked up, raising his eyebrows.

"Thirty dollars, Daddy."

"Shit," grunted Brian, still not thinking clearly.

"Twenty-five!" came the immediate update on the rapidly dwindling curse fund.

Giggling, Justin gave Gus another pair of scissors and instructed both of them, "Now make some slits around the edges - a few on each side - so the template will sit as flat as possible on the pumpkin. Just be careful not to cut into the pattern."

It helped, Brian supposed, to know why he was sitting here with a pair of kid's scissors in his hand, his thumb and forefinger barely fitting through the holes. 

Once the slits had been cut, which took less than a minute, Justin handed over rolls of masking tape.

"I'll hold the template; you tape it down," Justin told Gus as he moved back around the table to sit next to the boy.

Gus frowned. "But what if I wanna yoosh the stenshell again? The tapesh gonna ruin it."

"I can always draw another bison for you." Justin gave an exaggerated wink and tilted his head at Brian. "You should turn the pumpkin around a little ways, so we end up seeing the bison from his best ‘side.'"

"Like Daddy!"

Justin nodded his agreement, and the two boys cracked up.

Offended, Brian snorted. He didn't have a best side; he looked good from any angle. He might've said once or twice that Justin should stick to profiling him from the left, but that was only because the barest suggestion of a double chin had appeared in a couple of drawings. Only when he was sketched from the right side though. Even though the renderings obviously weren't accurate, Brian didn't like having them around; he'd consigned them to the incinerator, feigning ignorance when Justin tried to find them.

Brian watched as Gus, mollified by the promise of future bison templates, enthusiastically tore off pieces of masking tape and plastered the stencil to the pumpkin.

"Cool!" Gus pronounced once he was done.

Justin pointed at the thick, holey outline of the bison. "Trace over the holes with your crayon."

"What about the hoofsh?"

"I'll show you a neat trick once you've got him outlined. Go slowly and make sure to fill in the holes."

Gus picked up the bright blue crayon he'd used earlier and began industriously filling in the holes, his tongue protruding as he concentrated.

Justin got up and trotted back over to Brian. Pressing his chest to Brian's back, he reached around and placed the stencil against the pumpkin. "How's that?" he breathed into Brian's ear.

Wasn't that supposed to be his question? Brian had trouble thinking as Justin nipped at his earlobe.

"Fuck," muttered Brian as Justin rubbed against him. How the hell was he supposed to get the damned template taped to the gourd with his blood flowing south?

Without looking up from his pumpkin, Gus proclaimed, "Twenty."

Brian groaned.

Justin moved back, the stencil sliding down the pumpkin's face, and rather gingerly sat down next to Brian. "That wasn't the best idea," he noted ruefully, pinching the worn cotton of his trousers between his fingers and pulling it away from his groin.

That was only fair, Brian thought, smirking. "Hoist with his own petard."

The blond arched an eyebrow. "I'm gonna hoist something else with it later."

Gus announced, "Jushun, I'm done." 

Visibly collecting himself, Justin picked the pattern back up and replied, "Wait a sec while we get your dad's template in place."

Without Justin distracting him - anymore than he always did - Brian soon had the tipi and feather fixed to the pumpkin.

Gus pushed the over-bright pink crayon, which had rolled to the middle of the table after Justin finished with it, over to Brian. "You can keep yooshin' this one, Daddy." 

Shit. He should've hidden it in among the damned cacti when Gus refilled his sippy cup.

While Brian colored in the holes on his pumpkin, Justin used a metal toothpick to poke holes where the bison's feet would go on Gus' pumpkin.

"You wanna do yours?" Justin asked, holding out the toothpick.

"Huh?" Brian asked, double-checking to make sure all the holes in his template were obnoxiously pink.

Justin pointed at a detail Brian hadn't noticed - puffs of smoke coming out of the hole at the top of the tipi.

Forget that. Brian pushed his pumpkin over to Justin.

It didn't take Justin long to poke holes where the smoke puffs would go.

Next, Justin grabbed the bowl with the flour, and taking a large pinch between his fingers, he thoroughly dusted the bottom half of the bison on Gus' pumpkin and the top of the tipi on Brian's. He then sat back, looking satisfied.

"Wush that sposhed to do?" Gus asked, perplexed.

Justin instructed, "Take off the stencil."

Gus and Brian tore off the masking-taped patterns. Colored dots showed where the bison's back would be carved out on Gus' pumpkin and the tipi and the feather on Brian's.

"Oh!" Gus' eyes lit up. "Thash where we cut!"

Justin smiled. "You got it."

The flour-filled pinpricks did stand out against the orange skin of the pumpkins, but Brian wasn't sure what the big deal was. "What," he snarked, "you think our eyesight's failing? We couldn't find the holes?"

Justin rolled his eyes. "I know you're good at finding holes-"

Gus didn't let him finish. "It's losh better, Daddy! I could barely see the holes in the ones Mommy did for Halloween."

"Huh," Brian grunted, conceding the point. "Cutting out the bison's hooves is still gonna be a pain in the a-"

Gus' eyes lit up, the boy clearly scenting money.

"-uh, caboose," Brian corrected himself.

His sonnyboy sighed, the dollar signs in his eyes dimming

Chuckling, Brian looked down at his own pumpkin, suddenly thankful for his simpler pattern, even though the feather looked overly complicated for a beginner. Never mind the puffs of smoke; as far as Brian was concerned, those were an SOS signal.

He needed more go-juice before he tackled this part of the project, Brian decided. "How about a break?" he suggested, already reaching for the carafe with the high-octatance liquid. "I need to fuel up."

Taking hold of his sippy cup, Gus chimed in, "Me too!"

"I guess I could have another dose of that, er-" Justin stumbled to a halt.

Brian started pouring the thick, oily brew into his cup. "Battery acid? Worm dirt? Varnish remover?" he offered a few pithy descriptions.

"Um, sugar?"

That was a strange reply, Brian thought, before realizing that Justin was actually cautioning him about leaving room for the sweetener. "Shit," Brian cursed; he'd filled his cup almost to the brim.

"Fifteen," Gus promptly briefed him.

Justin took the cup and carefully transferred some of it to his.

How he did it without spilling a drop, Brian wasn't sure. Shrugging off the minor miracle, Brian grunted "Thanks," before digging into the sugar and ladling it into his mug. He took a cautious sip and immediately spooned in more of the white granules. Geez, this had to be the worst joe he'd ever tasted. It even beat out the swill McDonald's served.

"Sorry, Sunshine," he apologized when he realized he was scraping the bottom of the sugar bowl.

Gus volunteered, "I can get more, Jushun."

"Thanks, Gus." Justin smiled at the boy. "I'll be okay; I'll just add some extra milk."

The blond topped off the tar in his cup with a sluggish trickle from the insulated carafe - apparently the last of the she-devil's brew. He then added milk, which barely served to lighten the murky color of the coffee.

He should just give up and pour himself a cupful of milk, Brian reckoned; that was what it would take to dilute this mud.

Gus reached for the bowl of roasted pumpkin seeds, but Justin stopped him before he could dip a hand in. "Wipe your hands," he intervened, holding out the packet of wet wipes.

With a long-suffering sigh, Gus pulled out a wipe and swiped at his hands.

It would have to do, Brian supposed, taking a wipe for himself and doing a somewhat better job of cleaning his hands. They should wash their hands thoroughly, but if he went inside, he might be accosted by Lindsay. His blonde friend had, of late, taken to airing her grievances about Mel every time she saw him, and he'd rather not be subjected to another go-round of ‘woe is Wendy.'

The butch lawyer's patience with her wife waiting for ‘exactly the right job' had waned in the last few weeks, and she'd started pushing Lindsay to take ‘good enough.' It was more than a little unnerving to be in sync with the bulldyke, but Brian thought Melanie had the right of it this time; Linds did need to get her shit together and find a job.

Just then, raised voices and banging noises came from inside the house, like a pot had been slammed down on the stove - repeatedly.

"I'm gettin' hungry," Gus announced, digging into the pumpkin seeds. 

Brian also scooped up some of the pepitas, which provided a satisfying crunch and a burst of nutty flavor when he bit into them.

"I hope Mama's makin' shomeshin good for us to eat."

"Don't you mean your mommy?" Justin asked, his forehead creasing as he also dipped into the seeds.

"Maybe?" Gus looked uncertain. "Mommy shaid how Mama hadda take care of lunch, 'cause she had shomeshin yurshent to do."

Brian exchanged a worried look with Justin. If Mel made lunch and it was anything like this coffee... he'd just have to haul everyone off for pizza, he resolved. He'd see what it looked like first, just to be polite, but if it was a tasteless vegetarian dish, they'd all be better off with a carb-laden, meaty pizza.