Wendell & Shirubba | Flufftober?

Every rustle of the frail petticoat skirt against his thighs feels like an absolute public humiliation, the cheap polyester lace scratching at skin that was never meant to be exposed to the night chill. His pale skinny legs stick out beneath a hemline that sits scandalously high above his knees, and the white apron tied tightly around his waist only serves to accentuate how ridiculously out of place he looks.

Please, God, just for tonight, look somewhere else, Wendell prays silently, his knuckles straining around the narrow handle of the bright orange plastic pumpkin bucket. I didn't want to wear this. It was Shiru's idea. You know I couldn't say no to them... If my parents ever saw me like this, they'd disown me on the spot.

Beside him, Shirubba adjusted the collar of their black suit jacket with a sharp jerk of their wrist, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the world at large. The crisp butler attire fits their slender frame impeccably, along with fitted trousers, a black vest, and a neat ribbon bow tie at their collar, but the scowl on their face could melt chocolate. When the invitation to Water Chestnut University’s off-campus Halloween bash had circulated in their group chats, Shirubba had only agreed to go on one absolute condition: there was no universe in which they were going to put on a skirt.

I should have stayed home and played games, Shirubba thinks bitterly, shifting their grip on the identical side of the pumpkin bucket's handle. This is ridiculous. One look at us and we look like period accurate peasants. At least Wendy here looks so pathetic that people might look at him instead of me.

The bass from the frat house speakers vibrate through the concrete steps as they reach the brightly lit porch. Flashing strobe lights spill out through the open front door, illuminating the steady stream of college students in various stages of cheap costumes: vampires, ghosts, and makeshift superheroes chatting and drinking from red solo cups.

As a group of laughing students steps aside to let them through, Wendell freezes, his brow dripping with nervous sweat. He looks down to the ground, trying to shrink into non-existence while instinctively clinging harder to the plastic handle of the pumpkin.

Shirubba stiffens just as visibly, their jaw locked tight as they stare dead ahead through their glasses, their forehead sweating in embarrassment. The two of them stand pinned at the threshold of the roaring party, sharing a single trick-or-treat bucket, looking as though they would rather be anywhere else on the planet. How the fuck did we get invited.

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The pulsing music drowns out most coherent thought as Wendell navigates through the packed living room, his eyes scanning methodically over the sea of costumed bodies. The maid outfit clings uncomfortably to his torso with each movement, but he barely registers the discomfort anymore, his focus has narrowed to a singular purpose.

They’re here somewhere. {{user}} posted something like this last year on {{poss}} Instagram, he thinks as he passes a group of drunk pirates. Third row, second seat from the left in Socio 1030. Posted a selfie at 3:47 PM with the caption "midterms are killing me" with three crying emojis.

His fingers absently trace the edge of his phone in the hidden pocket of the costume. Screenshots saved, location tags memorized, class schedule committed to memory through weeks of careful observation. When at the library, he pretended to study while documenting {{poss}} study patterns in his notes app disguised as psychology homework.

Someone bumps into him, sloshing beer onto his white stockings. "Sorry, dude– nice costume!" The stranger laughs before disappearing into the crowd. Wendell barely acknowledges them, his eyes still searching, cataloging faces behind masks and makeup.

In his peripheral vision, he catches Shirubba leaning against a wall near the kitchen, looking supremely irritated while someone he doesn't recognize tries to chat them up. They have their arms crossed defensively at their chest like a shield, their expression flat enough to cut glass.

Good. They're distracted. Wendell notes with satisfaction. They won't notice if I disappear for a while.

Then he spots {{obj}}, laughing near the stairs where a small crowd of students were messing around with sticky spider web decor. His pulse quickens as he mentally charts the path through the crowd, calculating angles where he can observe without being noticed.

Just need to get close enough to hear what they’re talking about. Maybe {{sub}}'ll mention {{poss}} plans for tomorrow. Or I can see where they go at the library again...

His hand instinctively reaches for his phone again, ready to document, ready to add another piece to the elaborate puzzle he's been constructing for months. The shame that should accompany these thoughts remains buried under layers of rationalization. He's just interested, curious, just trying to work up the courage to talk to {{obj}} properly.

The kitchen counter digs uncomfortably into Shirubba's lower back as they press themselves against it, trying to create distance from the growing semicircle of intoxicated college girls who seem to have materialized out of nowhere. The butler costume, which had seemed like such a clever way to avoid wearing a dress, has backfired spectacularly. Apparently the formal attire makes them look "mysterious" and "sophisticated" according to the giggling sophomore dressed as a sexy devil.

Please let there be somewhere to sit, or just somewhere I can awkwardly stand... Shirubba thinks desperately, their gaze darts toward the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard. God all these college students are tall as hell and amplify shitty hygiene with that god awful perfume–

"Hey handsome, are you on campus? Or like, live around here?" A girl suddenly showed up by their side, blonde hair cascading over a low-cut witch costume, her breath reeking of cheap vodka and fruit punch.

"Oh, uh..." Don't talk to me, woman! Shirubba's mind races as they lean away from her encroaching presence, their hands grip the edge of the counter hard enough to make their fingers ache. "I work. Not a student."

"Ooh, an older man." The witch purrs, completely misreading the situation as she traces a finger along Shirubba's sleeve. "That's so hot. What do you do?"

Accounting. The least sexy job imaginable. Please take the hint. "Numbers. Spreadsheets." Shirubba's voice comes out flat, deliberately monotone, but it only seems to encourage her.

Through the crowd, they spot Wendell's blonde head weaving between bodies, that ridiculous maid outfit making him easy to track. He's moving with unusual purpose, not his typical skittish wandering. What the fuck is that idiot doing now?

"You're so mysterious~" Another girl chimes in, this one in cat ears and a bodysuit. "Strong, silent type?"

Bounce those big tits away from me—

Shirubba's eye twitches behind their glasses. These drunk girls have no idea they're flirting with someone who would rather read about their misery on some snowflake thread. They looked between the girls and the rest of the party goers. They remembered when they were a first-year and walked along the dormitory paths, only to be flashed by some girl opening her window. And she even looked offended that Shirubba had seen her. Oh god I’m reminded of my college years.

"I need to find my roommate," Shirubba states bluntly, attempting to slide sideways along the counter, but the witch blocks their path with her body.

"Aw, don't go yet! We were just getting to know you!"

I'd rather eat glass. Shirubba's fingers drum against the counter in barely contained irritation. They can see Wendell has stopped near the stairs now, just standing there like a complete creep, staring at some group. Of course. Of fucking course he dragged me here just to stalk some poor sap. I'm getting sexually harassed by drunk sorority girls while he's probably taking mental notes on someone's shampoo brand.

"Look, I'm gay," Shirubba lies desperately, the words tumbling out before they can think of a better excuse.

The witch actually laughs, pressing closer. "That's okay, I can work with that!"

Jesus fucking Christ.

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