Page 34 of Fixing the Grumpy Pumpkin King
“Yes.” Jack sounded embarrassed. Vulnerable. The carved features shifted, uncertain. “And I’ve only made your life harder.”
“They were sweet. Overwhelming, yes. Catastrophic, absolutely. But still sweet.”
Jack turned to face him fully, moving closer. Close enough that Locke could feel the autumn-magic rolling off him, smell that crisp-leaves scent that followed Jack everywhere. “Then let me try once more. Please.”
Locke’s mouth went dry. “What are you planning?”
“Something you’ll remember. Something worthy. We’re going to fly.”
“What? How are we...” But Locke already knew. He could see it in the way Jack was looking at him, determined and desperate and ready to try one more impossible thing.
Jack headed for the door. Locke followed, because what else could he do? They stepped out into the October evening. Cold and clear, the kind of night where you could see your breath.The street was empty, most people already inside preparing for tomorrow’s festivities. Above them, the sky was deep purple, stars just beginning to appear.
Jack led him to the church. Of course the church. The old stone building loomed against the darkening sky, gothic and imposing. And perched on its roof...
Jack looked up at the gargoyles. Stone figures that had sat dormant for over a century, moss-covered and weathered, their wings folded against carved bodies. “They’ve sat dormant for centuries. They deserve to...”
“Jack, NO.”
But Jack was already raising his hand, already gathering power. Locke could feel it building in the air, that harvest-magic that made everything autumn and alive and wild.
Locke grabbed his carved pumpkin head with both hands. Pulled him down. Jack was tall, too tall, and Locke had to stand on his toes to reach properly, his hands framing that smooth orange surface.
And kissed him.
Pressed his lips against Jack’s carved jack-o’-lantern mouth, against the smooth pumpkin surface that was somehow warm despite being vegetable matter. The carved mouth was hard under his lips but yielded slightly, magic humming beneath the surface like electricity. It was strange and perfect and utterly Jack.
The power gathering in the air dissipated. The gargoyles remained stone. The world narrowed to this. Locke on his toes, hands framing Jack’s pumpkin head, kissing a deity who’d tried so hard and failed so spectacularly and kept trying anyway because he wanted Locke. Wanted him enough to risk humiliation. Wanted him enough to keep trying.
The kiss was strange. Pumpkin smooth and slightly warm, magic humming beneath the surface. But it was Jack. And that was enough.
Chapter Ten
LockeledJackthroughthe hay bale maze, their fingers intertwined, his heart pounding so hard he was sure Jack could hear it. The festival noise: distant laughter, music, someone shouting about funnel cakes, faded with each turn they took deeper into the winding corridors. Fairy lights strung between the bales cast everything in soft gold, but it wasn’t enough.
Not for what he wanted to do.
Three months ago, he couldn’t have imagined this. Choosing someone. Trusting someone enough to lead them somewhere private and dark and intimate. But Jack wasn’t Corbin. Jack had never been Corbin. Jack made him breakfast and conjured forests in his bedroom and looked at him like Locke was something precious instead of something to be fixed or controlled or broken down into manageable pieces.
They reached the center of the maze, and Locke stopped. The space opened up around them. Hay bales forming walls, leading to a beautiful stone fountain carved with beautiful male and female nymphs dancing around jumping fish, the night skyvisible overhead. The moon hung pale and distant, just a regular October moon. Nothing special.
Yet.
Locke turned to face Jack, still holding his hand, and found the deity watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Hope? Nervousness? Something vulnerable beneath the carved pumpkin face that never changed, never gave anything away.
“This okay?” Locke asked, suddenly uncertain. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe Jack didn’t want...
“It’s perfect,” Jack said softly.
And then Jack’s magic exploded outward.
He had been planning this for days. Weeks, if he was honest. Every failed courting attempt had taught him something: Locke didn’t want grand public gestures. He didn’t want his grandmother’s shop rearranged or elaborate proclamations in front of the theater troupe. He wanted something private. Something real. Something that was just THEM.
So Jack gave him what he could give in the purest form he could give it, he gave him autumn.
The transformation happened fast. Vines erupted from the ground around the fountain’s base, thick and healthy and alive, climbing the hay bales and weaving through the fairy lights. Autumn leaves sprouted in a riot of color: burgundy, burnt orange, golden yellow, deep red.
Apple trees grew around the perimeter, branches so heavy with fruit they bowed nearly to the ground. The scent hit them both: applewood burning, sweet and fruity, the way it smelled when mortals used to roast apples over autumn bonfires centuries ago. Not the acrid chemical smoke of modern fireplaces or the fake cinnamon-scented candles from dollar stores, but real smoke from real wood, crackling and alive. Mixed with something richer: clove and the earthy sweetnessof leaves decaying into mulch, the way forests smelled when autumn was dying into winter.
