Hey everyone! I'm so so sorry for vanishing for months, I had to focus on my studies for a bit, plus I was starting to really doubt this fic and my own writing ability :'). But thankfully I am out of that funk now and after chipping away at this thing for ages I think I finally have a version I don't hate! The next chapter might take a little while but I definitely won't leave you hanging for as long as I did with this one oops.
Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you so much for your continued support, it means the world to me, and I hope you like this chapter! 3
The house was eerily quiet by the time Enoch finally woke up, the rooms already bathed in sun and empty due to everyone else having left for work. He found a hastily scribbled note on his door- it told him that Emma and Millard were spending their day off in Bentham's library, and that Horace was 'acting strangely.' Enoch's stomach sank with dread and he cursed, quickly stuffing the note into his pocket before setting off to find Horace. He could only imagine what Emma might have seen.
Horace's room was empty, as were the theatre and living room. Enoch was starting to get worried when he heard a faint clatter from the kitchen, followed by the muffled sound of Horace's voice. Shoulders slumping in relief, Enoch headed towards the sound. He found Horace standing at the kitchen counter by the stove, his back to the doorway. He didn't turn around as Enoch walked in.
"There you are," Enoch said behind him, face splitting into a relieved smile. "I've been looking all over this bloody house for you."
Horace didn't reply. He seemed to be focussing on something on the counter. Enoch's smile fizzled out, and his worry started to creep back in.
"Okay, well… are you feeling any better?" he asked, then shifted uncomfortably in the silence. "Horace?"
When Horace still didn't respond, Enoch nervously walked over to him and waved a hand in front of his face.
"You haven't fallen asleep standing up have you?" he teased, his grin barely hiding the sharp worry in his voice. Horace jumped, startled, and spun to look at him.
"Ahh! Oh, its you! Hello!" he said, so quickly the words blurred together, his eyes wide but glazed with exhaustion. His body was trembling so badly he had to brace himself against the counter, and his movements were strangely jerky. Enoch blinked in surprise, taking a slight step back.
"…Are you okay?" he frowned, scanning Horace's face. Horace burst out laughing.
"I'm great!" he said too loudly, a strained grin on his face.
"You sure about that?" Enoch said worriedly.
Enoch could see his chest rising and falling far too fast, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably. Horace turned back to the counter and picked up the mug in front of him. Enoch suddenly noticed the full coffee plunger which had been brewing beside Horace while they were talking, and his eyes widened in realisation.
He put a hand on the handle just as Horace was reaching for it.
"How many of those have you had?" he asked, nodding to the mug in Horace's hand.
"Not enough," Horace replied, reaching for the coffee.
"Horace," Enoch said flatly.
"Fine. I've had…" he frowned, struggling to think, then shook his head, "…well I stopped counting after the sixth cup. Now move it will you?" Horace scolded, swatting Enoch's hands away and nearly knocking over the entire strainer in the process.
"What?" Enoch spluttered in disbelief. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"
Horace pulled a face and shoved past him, staggering on shaky legs. He picked up the coffee strainer in one hand and his mug in the other, but his hands were trembling so badly that he could barely hold them up. Coffee splashed all over the counter and onto his hands as he tried desperately to pour it.
"Hey, cut it out," Enoch insisted, trying to snatch the plunger from him.
"No! Leave me be!" Horace snapped, wrestling him for it.
"You don't need any more, stupid!"
"Yes I do! It's already wearing off, can't you see?" Horace cried, suddenly tearful. "I can't be tired like this! I have to stay awake! I refuse to have another nightmare!"
"Just give me the bloody strainer!" Enoch snapped, yanking at the handle.
"No!"
Horace tried to wrestle him for it, and in the scuffle Enoch managed to slip over in some of the spilled coffee and fell hard onto the tiles. The coffee strainer went flying and shattered on the floor, sending a wave of glass shards and boiling coffee everywhere.
Enoch and Horace stared at each other in stunned silence, both frozen. Then Horace's face split into a delirious grin and he burst out laughing, looking between Enoch and the shattered mess with his fingers knotted through his hair.
Enoch grimaced as he gingerly climbed to his feet.
"I don't see what's funny."
"Of course- of course that happens!" Horace cried, still laughing hysterically. "Why wouldn't that be added to the list of bad things the universe is punishing me with?"
Enoch screwed up his face in confusion.
"What-?"
Horace's desperate smile was starting to fall apart, twisting downwards as tears welled in his eyes. His laughter began to sound more like sobs.
"That's just great, j-just wonderful," Horace said shakily. "Just… just…"
His face dropped into his hands, shoulders shaking.
Enoch frowned at him.
"…Are you laughing or crying?" he said warily.
Horace let out a strangled sob behind his hands.
"I- I don't know! Both. I think both."
Enoch watched him nervously, not sure what to do with that information.
"Okay… well, look. We can fix this, right?" he reasoned. "It's just some spilt coffee, we'll just clean it up."
Horace shook his head.
"It's not the coffee," he choked out miserably, his voice muffled by his hands and barely understandable through his tears, "This is just the- the cherry on top of a week of absolutely awful a-and terrible things, and I just-"
The rest was an inaudible mess of tears. Enoch winced, doing his best to look empathetic and hoping he'd got the gist of it. He put a hand on either side of Horace's shoulders as Horace began to sob. "I know you're feeling bad," he said, "Just take a breath, alright?"
Horace sniffed, lowering his hands from his face and nodding, more tears spilling down his cheeks as he did so. He swallowed thickly, then forced an unsteady breath in.
"S-sorry…" he said, wiping his eyes, but he was barely holding it together.
"It's okay," Enoch said. "Just try to calm down a bit, alright? Everything's okay."
Horace's eyes widened in disbelief, and a little anger too. He shook his head vehemently.
"Nothing about this is okay," he said harshly. He was blinking fast, still desperately trying to hold back his tears, but he couldn't stop shaking and his breaths were now coming in sharp gasps. "Which part of this is- is okay?"
"Listen, you're still hopped up on caffeine and it's messing with your emotions. Once it's out of your system you'll feel better, alright?" Enoch insisted, then shook his head, a bit of judgment seeping into his tone as he added, "You never should have had that much in the first place."
Horace's expression flickered with indignation, and he laughed bitterly.
"Sure, you're right. Blame this on my bad decisions," he said shakily. "I'm sure it has nothing to with the approximately- what was it again? Oh, that's right- zero hours of sleep I've had in the past twenty-four hours!"
"I'm not saying that's not a major reason!" Enoch said defensively. "I get you're tired! I know you are! I know things are awful! But drowning yourself in caffeine has done nothing but make it worse!"
"I don't care!" Horace sobbed. "Don't you understand? I don't care if it's worse than before, because it certainly can't be worse than these nightmares!" He was shaking so badly he had to cling to the countertop to stay standing. "Do you have any idea what it's like? To be tortured with horrific images every time you close your eyes? To scream yourself awake every day and night?"
Enoch frowned, frustrated.
"No, of course not, but-"
"Its been nearly a week and I've barely slept. I- I physically can't because the moment I fall asleep I'm forced awake again! I can't take it anymore! I can't! I feel like I'm losing my mind!"
Horace had tears streaming down his face, his expression twisted with anger and pain.
"But I would have helped you!" Enoch insisted, hurt. "I wanted to! Last night I said I'd stay up with you so you wouldn't fall asleep, but you wouldn't let me!"
"Because I'm trying not to drag you down with me!" Horace cried, as if that should be obvious. "Why should you have to suffer just because I am?"
"But that's just- that's just bloody stupid!" Enoch spluttered.
"Well you're being bloody stupid," Horace countered weakly, upset. "And I didn't even want this to be a fight, the last thing I needed today was to have some ridiculous fight-"
"But you're the one who made it a fight!" Enoch snapped, annoyed.
"I did not! You're the one who decided to come in, guns blazing, and disrupt everything I was doing! I had everything under control until you showed up!"
Enoch scowled at him.
"You were shaking so bad you couldn't even pour the bloody coffee," he snapped. "I was just trying to help you!"
"Well you've done a fantastic job so far!" Horace cried, smearing his tears.
Enoch's scowl deepened.
"Fine, you're right, you'd be better off without my help," he snapped sarcastically. "Carry on trying to overdose on caffeine then, don't let me stand in your way! And in the meantime, you're completely fine to clean this mess up yourself, right?"
"Oh screw you!" Horace yelled, shoving past him and out of the room.
"That's great," Enoch grumbled. "Real classy!"
He took in the pool of glass and spilled coffee at his feet, then sighed and went to get a mop, muttering obscenities under his breath the whole way. But no sooner had he started to clean up the mess, he heard a crash from out in the hall, and a moment later Horace started to scream.
Enoch immediately dropped the mop and ran for the hallway, skidding around the corner to where Horace was writhing on the ground with his eyes rolled back in his head. Horace had knocked over a decorative table in the process, flinging to the ground the porcelain vase that had sat on it.
Enoch dropped to his knees beside him at the same moment that Horace gasped awake. He bolted upright, then saw Enoch and panicked.
"No! No! Get away from me! No!"
He was still half in his nightmare, confused and terrified. He flailed, lashing out at Enoch and trying to shove him away, cowering and screaming at him to leave him alone.
"It's me!" Enoch cried, dodging Horace's fists. "Horace it's just me, I ain't gonna hurt you!"
Horace leapt to his feet, his eyes glazed over and wide with terror. He backed away from Enoch with his fists raised, shaking with fear.
"Go away!" he yelled. "Just leave me alone!"
"Horace, you need to calm down," Enoch said, taking a wary step towards him.
Horace's face was immediately overcome with a look of utter terror, and he stumbled away from Enoch.
"Stay back!" he yelled, shaking. "I'll- I'll fight you!"
Enoch stopped in his tracks, raising his hands in front of him in a placating gesture.
"Alright- I ain't coming any closer," Enoch promised him. Horace was so frightened that Enoch could hear his stuttering breath from where he was standing.
"Who- who are you?" Horace demanded. "Why do you keep following me?"
Enoch stared at him.
"It's… it's me," he said uncertainly, frowning. "It's Enoch."
Horace shook his head, wide eyes never leaving Enoch's face.
"You're not Enoch," he spat, but his voice was small and trembling. "You're… you're a monster. You're trying to kill me."
"I ain't trying to kill you," Enoch promised. "You're confused. Just let me help you."
He stepped towards Horace again and Horace immediately raised his fists, his whole body shaking.
"Stay away!" he yelled. Enoch took another step and Horace staggered back.
"I said stay away from me!" Horace screamed at him, terrified. Enoch ignored him and kept walking.
"It's me, Horace," he insisted, reaching out to touch his arm. "It's-"
Horace flinched and swung a punch at Enoch's face. Enoch cried out, just managing to dodge out of the way before his fist connected.
"Horace!" Enoch cried, stunned. "What- what the hell!"
Horace glared back with fearful anger, tears spilling down his cheeks.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he sobbed. "Why do I keep seeing you? What do you want?"
"I want to help you! Stop bloody attacking me!"
"Answer me!" Horace cried, his chest rising and falling fast. It was as if Enoch hadn't spoken.
Enoch stared at him, perplexed, before the pieces finally connected in his brain.
"…You think I'm the faceless man," he realised.
Horace's frightened anger had faded now that Enoch had backed away from him, replaced by hurt.
"Just go away," he begged through tears. "Why won't you just go away?"
"You're hallucinating, Horace, it isn't real," Enoch insisted, hoping at least some of this was getting through to him. "You need to calm down so I can help you, before one of us gets hurt."
Horace stared at him with wide eyes, mute. He was still tearful and shaking so badly that Enoch wondered how he was still standing, but the fight seemed to have gone out of him. Hoping that was a good sign, Enoch hesitantly took another step towards him.
Clearly that was the wrong decision.
Horace frantically backed away from him, but then his heel caught on the overturned table and he fell backwards. Enoch lunged to grab his wrist and pulled him upright before he could hurt himself.
Horace immediately panicked, writhing and trying to prise Enoch's hand from his wrist.
"No! Let go of me! Let go! Don't-"
He suddenly froze, a confused frown overtaking his expression. Enoch scanned his face.
"…Horace?" he asked warily.
The glazed look in Horace's eyes finally cleared as he woke up completely. He looked first at Enoch, then at wreckage of the broken table around him in stunned horror.
"Oh my god," Horace mumbled, eyes wide and blurred with tears. "Oh my god."
"It's okay," Enoch said, releasing his wrist.
Horace still seemed shell shocked, the horror on his face growing as the memories started to flood back to him. Without the added strength his visions gave him, he couldn't stay standing. He sank to the floor, dizzy and exhausted. Enoch knelt in front of him and Horace stared at him, stricken with fear.
"I saw him," Horace said quietly.
"The faceless man?" Enoch replied, and Horace nodded fearfully. Enoch winced, shaking his head. "You saw me," he corrected.
Horace seemed confused, his brow furrowing.
"…What?"
"You were hallucinating again," Enoch said. "You thought I was him."
Horace shook his head immediately.
"No. No, you weren't there. You were still in the kitchen, and he was here, he was going to hurt me-"
"No, Horace. I'm telling you, I was right here. And you were panicking, acting like I was going to kill you."
Horace frowned, perplexed.
"But… but-"
"It was a hallucination," Enoch promised him.
Horace was silent for a moment, processing. Then he suddenly looked horrified.
"Did I hit you?" Horace asked, appalled. He scanned Enoch's face and arms for marks, but Enoch shook his head.
"Nah, I've got good reflexes," he reassured him. "You gave it your best shot though."
"Oh god," Horace mumbled, covering his face. His shoulders shook.
Enoch winced, then pushed aside the remnants of his anger and hesitantly pulled him into a hug. Horace clung to him, face buried in Enoch's shoulder.
"I'm sorry…" Horace said quietly. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. It ain't your fault."
They pulled apart but Horace still seemed upset, eyes scanning Enoch's face.
"Are- are you sure I didn't hit you?" Horace fretted. "You aren't just saying that?"
"I'm sure," Enoch insisted. "You scared the bejesus out of me, but I ain't hurt."
Horace blinked quickly to quell a wave of fresh tears, swallowing hard as his gaze fell to the ground. Enoch nudged him lightly, trying to bring him back from whatever self-hating spiral he was about to fall down.
"That was a pretty decent swing though," Enoch admitted as Horace glanced at him. "Maybe it's me who needs you in a hollow attack," he joked. Horace laughed softly through his tears.
Horace wiped his eyes and Enoch noticed his hands were unsteady. All of him was unsteady really; Horace was trembling uncontrollably from head to toe. Enoch shot him a nervous look.
"You're still shaking," he frowned.
"It's- it's just everything," Horace choked out. "The fear, the leftover adrenaline…"
"The thousands of cups of coffee you had," Enoch reminded him. Horace cringed and nodded.
"That too," he admitted. "My heart feels as though it's about to tear through my chest."
At the risk of having his head taken off, Enoch gave him a disbelieving look,
"How did you possibly think it was a good idea?"
Horace hid behind his hands, embarrassed.
"I was tired, alright?" he complained half-heartedly. "And desperate. And very stupid."
"There it is," Enoch grinned at his last confession. "He finally admits it."
Horace pulled a face at him, still trembling.
"Sod off," he scoffed, but there was no real heat behind it.
There was a brief silence as they sat together on the polished-concrete tiles of the Portman's entry hall. Horace was in no rush to move; his bones felt as though they were made of lead and his emotions were still painfully raw after all the conflict and fear. Enoch didn't seem in a rush to get up either, sitting opposite Horace and absentmindedly tapping the tiles in front of his crossed legs, his expression tired and closed off. Both waiting for Horace to recover enough to get up.
Horace slid his hands over the tiles towards him, palms up, and smiled slightly as Enoch switched to tapping over his palms and the pads of his fingertips. After a moment, Horace linked their fingers together and squeezed. Enoch squeezed back, his expression softening slightly.
"I'm sorry for yelling before," Horace said to their joined hands. "I really didn't mean for it to be a fight."
"I know," Enoch said quietly, his gaze mirroring Horace's. "And I'm sorry too. We're both just stubborn idiots."
"Such idiots," Horace agreed.
They fell into a silence far less tense than the first, but the guilt still hadn't left Horace's face.
"Do you hate me?" he suddenly blurted, letting go of Enoch's hands and looking up at him fearfully as if already dreading the answer. "It's alright if you hate me."
It was such an absurd notion that Enoch couldn't help but laugh.
"'Course I don't hate you, doofus," he snorted. "Where'd you get that harebrained idea?"
Horace frowned at him sceptically.
"…Are you sure? Even I would hate me right now."
"Pretty damn sure," Enoch grinned. "But I reckon Jacob's parents might hate you, based on all the things you've managed to smash in the last week," he teased, nodding to the shattered vase and overturned table behind them.
"Oh dear…" Horace winced guiltily. "I'll- I'll clean it up. The coffee too," he added, as if suddenly remembering the mess he'd caused. He tried to stand, but he was still too shaky from nerves and all the caffeine in his system, and he sank to the ground again. Enoch snorted.
"You ain't in a state to clean anything. Let me do it, alright? It's no big deal." He turned to Horace and gave him a serious look. "But no more coffee, got it? I think it's pretty clear it doesn't stop your visions."
Horace nodded reluctantly, and Enoch stood, reaching out to help him stand too. Horace stumbled to his feet, but even with Enoch's arm around his waist and the other hand holding tightly to his bent elbow, it was barely enough to keep him upright. Nearly all of Horace's body weight was in Enoch's hands, and Enoch grimaced, shifting his feet as he tried to keep them both from falling. Horace himself was trembling from head to foot with the effort to stay standing, knuckles white around Enoch's wrist.
"I don't think this is going to-" Enoch began, but Horace suddenly paled.
"I-I feel dizzy," he mumbled, staggering slightly, and that minute shift in balance was the final straw.
"Horace- wait- no-" Enoch yelped, grabbing at him as he lost his grip and Horace started to fall. He managed to catch him by the wrists and slow his descent slightly as Horace collapsed to the floor, nearly pulling Enoch down with him.
"Ow," Horace winced below him once Enoch had let go. Enoch took a breath, running a hand through his hair.
"I think you better sit there for a while," he said.
"I-I think so too…" Horace agreed absently, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. Even standing for a few seconds had left him feeling woozy and exhausted, and his head was starting to pound.
Grimacing at the pain in his head and the relentless drumming of his heart against his ribcage, Horace forced his eyes open as Enoch sat back down opposite him. Horace's brow furrowed. His sight had gone hazy and strange, everything distorted and swirling slightly around him like a slow ripple across a pond. He was beginning to feel confused, thoughts becoming more and more difficult to structure and hold together in his head. Horace winced and tried to shake the feeling away, deciding that if nothing else, talking might distract him.
"Where is everyone else?" he asked Enoch. He'd been wondering it for a while, and especially now after his vision. Surely someone else must have heard him screaming.
Through the fog clouding Horace's brain, he saw Enoch give him a confused look.
"They're all at the Acre already," he said, as if that should be obvious. "It's ten o'clock, Horace."
Horace stared at him. It felt like sunrise had only been a few minutes ago.
"Oh…" he mumbled, wincing at the tremors running through his body. "They, um- they all had shifts today?"
Enoch shrugged.
"Most of them did, except Em and Millard. But they've gone to Bentham's library to research for you."
"Oh," Horace said again, trembling so much that his voice caught. "Well that's… that's nice of them..." He wanted to say something more profound than that, but his thoughts were racing too much from the caffeine to form coherent sentences.
"I feel so jittery and awful," Horace mumbled, shaking his head. "I need to get rid of some of this energy or I might explode. I just want to punch something. Or go running. Or maybe-"
He made a move to stand again and Enoch quickly planted his hands on Horace's shoulders, pushing him back down.
"Not a chance," Enoch insisted, releasing him while Horace forced in a shuddering breath, shaking out his hands and clenching and unclenching his fists. "For a start, you've already done one of those things," Enoch reminded him. "And you ain't going for a run without a helmet and a metric tonne of bubble-wrap. The last thing I need is for you to trip over your own feet and break your neck."
Horace managed a laugh through gritted teeth, his expression strained. His shaking was getting worse, to the point where he was beginning to suspect the caffeine wasn't entirely to blame.
"You're funny," he informed Enoch weakly, wrapping his arms around himself as his teeth began to chatter.
Enoch made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
"Yeah, and you're a walking health hazard," he muttered.
"N-not true," Horace shivered, struggling to get the words out as he attempted to retaliate. "I-I'm…" His brow furrowed as he suddenly realised, "…I am very cold…"
Enoch frowned as the realisation hit him as well. At some point in their conversation, Horace's shaking had become shivering.
Enoch placed a hand against Horace's forehead and cursed.
"You've got a fever again."
Horace just stared at the floor numbly, hugging his arms closer to his body to get warm.
"Oh…" he said quietly.
"I'll go see if I can find something to help," Enoch said, and Horace nodded. "Horace are you listening to me?"
Horace frowned, raising his head.
"Yes," he replied, confused. "You said you'll see if you can find something."
"What?" Enoch was staring at him. "No, that was- Horace that was a while ago. I was just asking if you're feeling better now."
"But… what? I don't-"
It was only then that Horace realised a fluffy blue blanket had been draped over his shoulders, and that Enoch was holding a thermometer. Horace felt a shot of cold panic seep over his skin.
"When did you get that?" he asked, voice small and shaky. Enoch glanced down at the thermometer in his hand.
"This? It was in a drawer somewhere, though God help Portman if he ever has a medical emergency. Their 'medicine' cabinet consists of some vitamin pills and a few balls of lint. Not a first aid kit in sight. I'm lucky I even managed to-"
"No," Horace interrupted, still shivering, "When. When did you get it?"
Enoch gave him a strange look.
"Are you feeling okay? You're getting confused again."
Horace's heart was racing, and he felt sick with dread.
"I am confused," he agreed, "I don't understand how you-"
"I knew I shouldn't have left you on your own last night," Enoch said suddenly, frustrated. "That was stupid of me."
Horace faltered, feeling foggy and disoriented.
"I- what do you mean?"
"I mean, maybe I could have helped you, or snapped you out of it or something," Enoch explained as he opened the box of bandaids in his hands.
Horace frowned at him.
"I don't follow…"
Enoch looked a little worried.
"…You were just telling me about your hallucination," he reminded Horace. "About our house exploding."
Horace's heart jumped in his chest at the mention of it and his eyes widened, feeling sick with newfound fear.
"I-I was?" he asked, dazed and uncertain. "But I don't… I never- we were talking about the thermometer, Enoch. I never said anything about what I saw last night."
"The thermometer was a while ago Horace," Enoch reminded him, worry seeping into his voice as he took Horace's arm and gently pulled it towards him. It was covered in grazes. "You were telling me about your hallucination."
"…A hallucination?" Horace mumbled, frowning. "No it wasn't a hallucination, I know it wasn't… it was too real for that, it- it even made my ears bleed…"
"Then what do you think it was?" Enoch asked as he turned Horace's arm over and started opening a bandaid.
Horace's mind was in a daze, unable to make sense of what was happening. Everything felt surreal.
"A prophesy maybe?" he said. "A vision."
"What you saw ain't the future, Horace, it's the past," Enoch told him, concentrating intently on Horace's arm as he stuck a plaster over his elbow and then opened another with his teeth, sticking it on a graze further down Horace's arm. "Our old house was bombed, remember? That's what you saw."
Horace was looking between his arm and Enoch, trying to follow their conversation while the back of his mind was reeling, trying to remember when he might have hurt himself.
"No… no it wasn't a memory," Horace insisted, dragging his attention back. "It was the future, I know it was. It was so real…"
"It was just another hallucination," Enoch promised him, lowering Horace's arm back and wrapping the blanket back around him, before gently taking Horace's other arm and starting to open a plaster. "I know it's confusing and scary, but trust me, you've got nothing to worry about. Whatever stupid hallucinations your brain tries to create to mess with you, you can't let them make you paranoid."
Horace frowned, staring down at his arm as Enoch carefully placed the plaster over his other elbow.
"N-no… no, it… it wasn't a hallucination, it wasn't," Horace insisted. His grazes were starting to sting. "It was a prophecy, I know it was, I dreamt it, I-"
"Are you sure you dreamt it?" Enoch asked him. "Are you sure you were asleep?"
Horace hesitated, struggling to remember. That night was a swirling blur, and he still wasn't entirely sure how much of it was real. He thought about what he'd seen. The grass had felt so real, the night air crisp and cold against his skin. Maybe he really had been outside. Maybe he really had hallucinated the explosion. But then how had he found himself immediately back in the living room?
"I… I don't know," he relented finally. "I-" He winced as Enoch stuck another bandaid over his arm. "Why are you doing that?" he asked, unable to keep the wobble from his voice. "When did I get hurt?"
Enoch stopped, looking up at him fearfully.
"…You fell, Horace. You don't remember?"
Horace frowned, staring down at the floor.
"You mean… earlier?" he asked. "But you slowed my fall."
Enoch shook his head.
"After that. Just a few minutes ago. You tried to stand up again and I couldn't keep you on your feet." He grinned nervously, "You're light, but you're not that light."
Horace stared numbly at the ground, feeling sick.
"Well that's rather rude to say," he mumbled, but he was so overwhelmed by confusion and cold fear that the response was more of a reflex than any real offence. Enoch was watching him warily.
"Did you hit your head?" he asked. "Is that why you're acting like this?"
"No," Horace replied tersely, looking up. "No, of course not-"
He stopped. Something was different. Enoch didn't look right, or at least, he didn't look like he had before.
"Were… were you always wearing that? Or did I just forget?" Horace asked, voice tinged with fear. Enoch looked down at his blood-splattered overalls and collarless grey shirt in confusion. It was what he always used to wear back in their loop, but now Horace hardly saw him wearing anything other than modern clothes. Enoch even looked different, his skin was paler and the shadows under his eyes more pronounced.
Enoch looked back up at Horace, scowling.
"What are you on about?"
Horace blinked in surprise at the venom in his tone but continued unsteadily.
"I-It's just, you never normally wear that now, except for when you're dealing with dead things."
Enoch just glared at him cooly.
"Well, maybe you're a dead thing."
Something about the seriousness of his tone made Horace feel uneasy. He leant back against the wall as far as he could go, still shivering, and realised absently that the blanket around his shoulders was gone.
The room looked different now too, familiar in a way that he couldn't place. Something about the way the light was hitting the wooden floors. The smell of dust and Fiona's flowers in the air. Horace swore he heard Olive's laughter reverberating from somewhere in the house.
"I don't like the way you're talking to me," Horace said to Enoch, voice tight. Enoch just shrugged, glaring at him nonchalantly.
The sound of the front door opening made them both jump. Horace hurriedly looked to his right to see, to his shock, a young Abe stroll in and kick off his shoes. He looked exactly as Horace remembered him, not a day older than he had been in their loop, and very much alive and breathing. Behind him through the open doorway, Horace could just see a rolling lawn dotted with Fiona's topiaries, and among them, the rest of his friends out playing in the sun. Horace dragged his eyes back to Abe, thoroughly confused, and noticed that Enoch had tensed, his sneering confidence replaced by guarded apprehension. He was glaring at Abe warily.
Horace's head was spinning.
"Abe," he said quietly, his voice shaky and uncertain. Abe saw him and his face split into his usual smirking grin.
"Hello there Horace!" he said cheerily with a thick accent, pushing his dark hair from his eyes. Then he noticed Enoch and his expression soured. "Is he bothering you?" he asked Horace suspiciously.
Horace hurriedly shook his head, still stunned that he was here.
"N-no, no he's trying to help me."
Abe's smirk turned sharp and malicious as he walked over to Enoch.
"Aww, is little O'Connor helping?" he asked mockingly, roughly messing up Enoch's hair while Enoch protested and tried to shove his hand away. "I didn't think you knew how!"
"Piss off Abe," Enoch complained.
"Fine, fine," Abe said innocently, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll leave you to 'help'."
He nodded a farewell to Horace then turned to go, but not before grabbing the back of Enoch's collar and yanking him backwards. Enoch fell hard onto the floorboards.
"What the hell!" Enoch yelled angrily after him. He muttered curses under his breath as he sat back up, rubbing his bruised elbows. Horace stared down the hall at Abe's retreating back until he rounded the corner and disappeared.
"…Are you okay?" Horace asked Enoch, turning back to look at him before freezing.
Enoch's face was emotionless and still. His eyes were cloudy white.
The hall around them had become shadowed, any sunlight that had been streaming in dissolved and replaced by empty cold. The open front door swayed slightly in the breeze, revealing an endless darkness beyond. Spooked, Horace spun to his left to find that the rest of the hall was draped in the same blackness, save for the dim patch of floor and wallpaper that he and Enoch occupied. Beyond the darkness, he could hear eerie sounds that might have been voices, overlapping and childlike, some wailing, some whispering.
"Enoch, I don't- I don't understand," Horace stammered, frightened. "What's happening?"
Enoch didn't move, staring straight ahead with clouded, lifeless eyes. Tears welled in them and spilled down his cheeks.
"…Enoch?" Horace whispered, hugging his arms to himself as the darkness around them grew closer. "P-please, I don't like this…"
Enoch just kept crying, tears streaming down his expressionless face. Horace stared at him with worried confusion, shrinking in on himself as the darkness grew ever closer. It suddenly occurred to him that Enoch hadn't blinked in a while. His chest wasn't moving. The tears running down his face had turned murky. Then the smell hit him, and Horace realised with a sick jolt that they weren't tears at all.
Enoch's eyes were rotting, turning brown and oozing down his cheeks. The rest of his body immediately followed, flesh rippling and liquefying, sloughing off his bones. His jaw fell open and dark blood oozed down his chin.
Horace cried out in horror, lurching backwards. He scrambled to his feet to get away, hands clamped over his mouth as his churning stomach threatened to divulge its contents. He was trembling in horror and revulsion as the last of Enoch's flesh decomposed, his skeleton tumbling to the floor in a clatter of bones.
Horace shuddered. He shut his eyes and swallowed hard, shivering in the steadily growing cold.
This isn't real. It's just a vision. This isn't real this isn't real this isn't real-
The sound of approaching footsteps made Horace open his eyes. They were slow and deliberate, like a hunter stalking its prey. Coming towards him from somewhere down the pitch dark hallway, waiting to see if he would fight or run.
Hoooraaace…
Horace recognised the man's voice immediately, and it sent a shiver of dread and fear through him. His head swivelled desperately between the origin of the voice to his left and the endless darkness through the open front door to his right. Fight or run. Fight or run. The fear of what might be out there through the door was strong enough to keep him in place for just a moment, a split second of hesitation, before it was quickly overpowered by his fear of the faceless creature inside the house. He spun towards the door and took off sprinting into the dark.
Horace's feet thundered over soupy black ground. The Portman's lawn had wilted and liquefied into tar, clinging to his feet and trying to slow him down. His legs burned, his lungs ached. His sharp, panicked breaths were magnified a thousand times in the silence. He risked a glance back, but all he could see was darkness. It swallowed him whole, inky black and all-consuming. So dark that he couldn't tell up from down, couldn't tell where his body ended and the darkness began. The house had been smothered by it, gone. No returning to safety.
And still Horace could feel the man behind him, an invisible, hungry presence growing closer. So close he could feel it's fingertips at his back, trying to claw a grip on his clothes, his hair. Trying to pull him back. Horace gritted his teeth and poured on more speed, so utterly exhausted that spots had begun to dance in his eyes and his head spun.
He was running for his life now, tears streaming down his face, his gasps turning to sobs. His whole body was on fire, he couldn't run anymore. He was cold, and tired. It hurt. It hurt it hurt.
The tar below him was thickening, getting deeper until he was wading through it up to his shins, then his knees. He could barely force his legs to move. They were dead weights struggling to carry him forward. Then Horace's knees buckled and he felt forwards into the tar. He was engulfed for a moment before desperately trying to fight his way to his feet again, but it was thick and heavy and it pulled him down. He could barely pull himself above the surface before it dragged him down again. He could just raise his head enough to breathe.
Then he felt the faceless man's cold, dead fingers close into a fist around the back of his hair and he shoved Horace's face back into the tar. Horace writhed and struggled, suffocating. He tried to fight but his arms was trapped in the tar and even with all his strength he couldn't pull them free. His lungs were screaming, burning as he tried to fight for air. It was killing him. The man was killing him.
As a distant echo, warped and faint and barely there, he heard voices.
Bronwyn's. Miss Peregrine's. Tearful and pleading, but he couldn't hear their words.
It hurt so much. He was so tired. He couldn't fight this. He couldn't-
Enoch's voice, garbled and far away, screaming at him.
"Horace, breathe!"
It was enough to cut through the fog in his brain. Horace finally forced in a desperate gasp of air and woke up in a shivering mess back in the Portman's hallway. He was slumped against the wall, hyperventilating and tearful. Terrified and shaken, but glad to be safe.
But as his eyes adjusted to what was around him, Horace realised with sudden horror that this wasn't the hallway at all. The room was dark and sparse, all hard concrete and cold metal. It smelt of iron and mildew. Horace's back was pressed to a filthy cell wall and opposite him were thick metal bars. Beyond those were more cells like Horace's, filled with dirty and frightened children.
He was back in the wights' prison.
Still filled with terror and adrenaline, Horace ran to the bars and shook them desperately, looking for an escape. The faceless man could catch up to him in here any minute and he was trapped. Then Horace heard footsteps coming his way, and his heart leapt in panic. He scrambled back from the bars, looking for an escape, for somewhere to hide before the faceless man got to him.
The footsteps grew closer and Horace's back hit the wall again, his entire body shaking with fear.
No no no no please, someone help me please god someone-
But the figure who walked around to face him through the bars wasn't the faceless man at all.
He was dressed in military gear, his hair was buzzed. He hard a crooked nose and no colour in his glaring eyes.
"This is him," the wight called over his shoulder with a nasty grin. Horace heard a second pair of boots scuffing over the concrete floor towards them. The first wight leered at Horace as another joined him, leaning against the bars. "This is the one that always cries."
Horace stared at them, stunned and frightened. He couldn't stop shivering, arms wrapped around himself as his stuttering breath curled in the air before him. He didn't remember the prison being this cold.
"G-go away," he said, teeth chattering. "You aren't real."
The wights burst into uproarious laughter.
"He thinks we're not real!" the first wight mocked.
"Is that what you think, boy?" the second sneered. "Does that help you sleep at night?"
"I'll bet you think your ymbryne is coming to save you too," the first joined in, and his friend collapsed back into ugly, snorting laughter.
"She- she will…" Horace insisted.
"Oh she will, will she?" the first wight cooed, before his face turned harsh and he snapped, "Your ymbryne is dead."
"Liar," Horace muttered. The wight's eyes widened, incensed. He pressed himself against the bars, lip curling.
"What did you just call me?" he demanded.
Horace raised his head and glared at the wight defiantly despite his fear.
"Liar," he spat.
Apparently that was a mistake. The wight's face immediately twisted with fury.
"Shut your mouth!" he roared, lashing out and beating his baton against the metal bars, producing a horrendous sound that echoed and magnified in the concrete cell. Far louder than should have been possible.
Horace clamped his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut against the wall of sound and pain that hit him. The wight hit his baton against the bars again, and the sound it produced felt loud enough to burst Horace's eardrums. He fell to his knees, sobbing in pain as he desperately covered his ears, his head in so much agony it threatened to shatter.
And still the wight didn't stop; beating his baton again and again and again until Horace was screaming. His skull was shaking. He felt like his eyes were about to burst from his head. Horace collapsed the floor, writhing and screaming until his voice broke.
"Horace!"
Horace was lying on his side on cold tiles. Screaming and screaming and screaming in agony. Someone was talking, pleading with him.
"Horace what's wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt? What's wrong?"
Horace could barely think. The pain wouldn't stop. He dug his nails into his skull, writhing, screaming until he ran out of breath. Enoch was panicking, dimly through the pain Horace was aware of him rambling, eyes wide with fear.
"What's wrong?" Enoch asked, panicked. "What's happening? I don't-"
"My head," Horace managed to sob, before the pain took his breath again. He felt as though someone was hammering a hot spike through his skull.
"Is it the side effects again?" Enoch asked nervously.
Horace broke down sobbing, eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted so tight he feared they might break. He wanted to respond- Maybe? Probably? I don't care just please please make it stop- but all he managed in response was a gasping sob.
Finally, the pain subsided and Horace was left trembling on his side on the floor, seeing stars. He gasped air back into his aching lungs, barely registering the stinging tears that streamed down his face. The cold of the prison cell still hadn't left him, wracking his frame with convulsive shivers. The cold tiles felt like ice on his skin, but at least they soothed his aching head. Without meaning to, Horace began to sob, the reality of what he'd seen and felt hitting him at once.
Horace felt Enoch's hand rest hesitantly on his arm, then his back, his hair- completely lost how to comfort him. Horace managed to drag his eyes up from the floor to look at him, so utterly shattered that he couldn't even lift his head.
Enoch didn't speak, didn't have to. Horace could see the worry and pity in his eyes, in his knotted brow. He eyes never left Horace's face.
Horace shakily reached out to take his hand, not quite trusting what he was seeing. Afraid that this might just be another of his brain's tricks.
"…Are you real?" Horace asked fearfully, his voice weak from screaming.
"Definitely real," Enoch assured him, and squeezed his hand just hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to make Horace know, somehow, that he was telling the truth. Or maybe he was just too exhausted to care.
Horace let out a shaky breath and let his gaze fall again, staring at the ground until it blurred, cheek smushed against the cold tiles.
"…Are you okay?" Enoch's voice came from above him, sounding rattled. Horace couldn't muster a reply so he just nodded slightly, shutting his eyes as the tears began to dry and sting his face.
A moment later, he felt Enoch sink down onto his side to join him, and Horace tiredly opened his eyes. They were face to face, knees against bent knees, just like how they'd been in Enoch's closet a thousand lifetimes ago. Horace tired to speak but couldn't find the words, couldn't begin to express what had happened or all the awful things he was feeling.
"You don't have to talk," Enoch reassured him and Horace nodded gratefully, tears spilling down his face and onto the floor.
Enoch held Horace's trembling hands in his, watching him seriously, though that was difficult to achieve with his untameable mess of blonde hair falling sideways into his eyes. Horace felt the corner of his mouth tug upwards slightly, and he pulled his hand away from Enoch's to reach up and gently brush Enoch's hair from his face.
Enoch blinked and flinched, startled, then his cheeks flushed slightly and he managed a grin.
"That's what you're worried about right now?" he scoffed, but his voice shook a little. "You need to get your priorities straight."
When Horace didn't answer, Enoch's smile turned to concern and he tilted his head lower to scan Horace's expression.
"I'm just kidding," Enoch reassured him, and Horace smiled faintly again.
"I know," he managed to say.
The lay there in silence for a moment, with Horace trying to recover and get his breath back, still shivering terribly. Enoch sighed, trying to release all the leftover stress and adrenaline.
"That bloody scared me," he muttered, glancing at Horace. "You've never screamed like that before."
He seemed upset but was trying hard to hide it, blinking fast to stop tears, his jaw set into a hard line. Horace couldn't meet his eyes.
"I have…" Horace admitted, his voice croaky and broken from screaming. "A few times back in our loop. You might not remember…"
Enoch's eyes seemed to flood with recognition, then almost immediately looked pained and darted away from Horace's.
"No, I do…" he said. His knuckles whitened as he squeezed Horace's hands slightly, clearly upset by the memory. "That time when you dreamed about being tortured. That was-"
He and Horace both shuddered.
"I'd rather not talk about it," Horace said quickly, unable to hide the tremble in his voice.
"Oh," Enoch said, realising himself guiltily. "Sorry, I-"
"It's okay," Horace mumbled, his shivering making his voice catch.
Horace couldn't meet his eyes as they fell silent again, his gaze distant and seemingly staring straight through the floor.
"This hurt more," he whispered finally, the horror of that realisation on his face as he looked up at Enoch. Enoch's expression changed suddenly in a way that Horace couldn't read, some mix of sympathy and distress.
He sat up abruptly then pulled Horace up with him, immediately wrapping him in a fierce hug. Horace hugged him back, stunned by his reaction and a little dizzy from sitting up so fast. Enoch didn't say anything, just buried his face in Horace's shoulder and clung to him. Horace got the feeling Enoch didn't want him to see his face.
"I'm okay," Horace protested weakly and Enoch scoffed.
"No you're not."
"No, I'm not," Horace admitted.
He was still shivering badly, bones practically aching with the cold, and he hugged Enoch tighter in the hopes of warming up a little.
"You're so warm," Horace said, teeth chattering.
"So are you," Enoch replied worriedly, which was such a ridiculous idea that Horace laughed.
"I'm fr-freezing," he said incredulously. Enoch pulled away slightly.
"Yeah but you've got a fever. You're burning up."
Horace knew he was right, but it certainly didn't feel true. He shook his head and hugged his arms around himself, letting his head drop onto Enoch's shoulder.
"I'm- I'm so cold… everything's cold… I feel dizzy…"
Enoch picked up the blanket that had fallen off of him during his vision and pulled it back around his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around Horace, probably tighter than he needed to, and Horace got the impression that he was a lot more stressed about this than he was letting on. Horace wanted to say something reassuring, but his head was spinning too much and he was so exhausted he could barely string the words together.
"Thank you," he said to Enoch, who responded by tightening his arms around Horace and burying his face in Horace's hair.
They stayed like that for a while, sitting in exhausted silence until Horace's shivering became unbearable, made worse by the cold tiles below him. At least Enoch was warm, but it made little difference. Horace felt like ice was forming over his skin, and his body and head ached terribly. He just wanted to lie down.
"I don't want to stay out here any more," Horace said quietly, pulling away from him. A sudden wave of dizziness had him seeing double, and Horace held a hand to his head, slumping forwards slightly before Enoch steadied him.
"Do you want to move to the couch again?" Enoch asked. Horace would have agreed, but when he tried to move his head swam and he felt horribly nauseous. For a moment he felt confused, trying to understand where he was, what was happening, why he felt so awful- but then Enoch spoke and Horace managed to reconnect his brain to his body.
"What's wrong?" Enoch asked with a frown as Horace sank back against the wall, exhausted.
"I-I can't get up," Horace replied, teeth chattering.
"Don't try then. Stay there til you feel better."
Horace shook his head.
"It's too cold. It hurts."
It was true. His bones and sharp joints felt bruised everywhere that they touched the hard ground, and the cold of the tiles which had once soothed his head was now seeping through his skin and making him shiver.
"Unless you can walk there's no way I can get you out of here," Enoch reasoned with him.
"You could carry me?" Horace suggested weakly, his head falling into his hands as a fresh wave of dizziness hit him. Enoch snorted.
"Yeah right. And drop you on your arse in two seconds flat? That's not happening."
But Horace had stopped listening. The dizziness and exhaustion were starting to overpower him until it was nearly impossible to stay upright. Enoch's words blended together into an incomprehensible stream of sound, and Horace's sight began to dissolve. He slid sideways and collapsed back onto the tiles, feeling woozy as the blood rushed past his ears and his eyes blurred. The cold was getting worse now, coupled with a steadily creeping fear, and Horace's stomach dropped. This wasn't right. He was losing reality again. Watching it fade and swirl into his dreams and thoughts until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Tendrils of his vision were reaching out into his brain and grabbing hold, trying to pull him back in; he was starting to feel like he was back in the wights' cell again, starting to smell iron and hear children's crying voices, and it terrified him.
He felt a hand on his arm, shaking him slightly and heard a garbled and indistinct voice speaking to him. For a moment it brought him back to reality enough to find words.
"I don't want to go back," Horace stammered quickly, shuddering. His own words felt strange and unreal in his ears. "I don't want to- to go back there, I don't- I don't want to see it again, I-" He was starting get panicked, feeling the familiar cold dread pool over his skin as the voices grew louder and his senses were swallowed further by the vision. "I don't want to see bad things anymore, I don't want to, I don't, I don't, please, please…"
"Horace," Enoch said, wide-eyed with fear and confusion as Horace continued to ramble, his words slurring together more and more as his eyes began to glaze over. Enoch watched him, sick with nerves, then glanced around desperately as though someone might appear and tell him what he should do.
He shook away his momentary paralysis and turned back to Horace. Enoch slid his arms under Horace's torso and pulled him upright, but he was completely limp now and collapsed against Enoch, hands dragging on the floor at his sides. Enoch struggled to get his arms free from under Horace's dead weight, but finally managed to get a hand on either side of his shoulders and push him back, transferring his weight so that he slumped against the wall instead. Horace's head lolled back slightly as he sat shivering with wide, glazed eyes, mumbling unintelligibly under his breath. There were tears in his eyes, and every now and again he would flinch, voice breaking, and the tears would spill over.
Enoch's image was growing hazy, in Horace's sight but in his mind too. A confusing outline of a person who wasn't quite real, who was someone Horace knew but couldn't place, who might not exist at all.
"Horace can you hear me? Look at me," Enoch said, waving a hand in front of Horace's face. When that didn't work, he took Horace's face in his hands and turned him to look him in the eyes. "Look at me, you need to snap out of it."
Horace just stared numbly through him, mumbling something about cold and death. When Enoch let go of him, his head lolled against his chest.
Enoch cursed, deciding to just wait out whatever this episode of confusion was.
But then he noticed bruises on Horace's arms from when he had collapsed on the tiles, and the convulsive shivers running through him that still hadn't stopped. Horace didn't feel feverish anymore, his skin was just cold, and his lips had started to turn blue. Enoch frowned- they couldn't stay out here.
Enoch glanced around them, trying to think of some way to move him out of the hallway, but every option sounded risky or stupid. He considered trying to drag Horace to his feet again, but even if he could keep him standing there was no way Horace was aware of their surroundings enough to walk. He could wait until he'd recovered, but who knew how long that would be, and Horace was already painfully cold- he needed to get off of the ground. After a moment of deliberation Enoch looked over at Horace and sighed, grimacing. Horace was right, he'd have to carry him.
"Horace?" Enoch knelt in front of him. "I'm going to pick you up. Don't- don't freak out, or anything. I don't want to drop you."
Horace didn't respond, his eyes glazed and unseeing. Enoch hoped the message had still gotten through.
"Okay," Enoch muttered with a frown, trying to figure out how the hell he was gong to do this. He took Horace's arms and looped them around his neck, then placed one hand behind Horace's back and another under his bent knees. Enoch shifted his feet. "Right- you've got to hold onto me, okay?" He wasn't sure Horace had even heard him.
Enoch braced himself, then with some difficulty managed to rise unsteadily to his feet. He cursed, staggering a little. Horace wasn't excessively heavy, but Enoch would be lying if he said he was strong, and carrying someone the same height as him wasn't easy. Not to mention Horace was barely conscious now; his head had fallen onto Enoch's shoulders but his arms were loose around Enoch's neck, slipping.
"Shit. Okay- okay," Enoch muttered through gritted teeth, trying to readjust his grip without dropping Horace on his head.
Slowly, he began the treacherous walk to the living room. He'd never considered just how long that walk was until now, but with the extra burden of another person the hallway seemed to stretch on for miles. Horace was barely holding onto him and Enoch's arms were shaking already; he was beginning to regret all the times he'd made fun of Abe for doing push-ups back in their loop.
Enoch crossed the threshold to the living room, his brain filled with a cacophony of don't drop him, don't drop him, don't drop him- before he finally made it to the couch and rather unceremoniously set Horace down onto it. Enoch sank to the ground beside him, raking a hand through his hair and trying to get his breath back. Internally, he cursed Jacob's house for being this damn big.
After a while, Enoch glanced back at Horace and saw that he was still shivering terribly, curled up on his side with vacant eyes, mumbling quietly to himself. Enoch sighed and climbed to his feet, setting off to get the blanket from the hall before returning to Horace's side and draping it over him.
"Horace?" he said as he wrapped the blanket tighter around him. He lifted Horace's head to place a couch cushion under it, then squeezed his shoulder, trying to get his attention. "I need to go clean up the coffee strainer and the vase. Okay? But I'll be back, I'm just down the hall. Yell if you need me, yeah?"
Horace didn't respond. His eyes were wide and glazed over, staring past Enoch as he mumbled numbly, a constant stream of frightened words that Enoch couldn't understand.
Enoch sighed again, running a hand over his face.
"You're okay. You'll be okay," he said to no one in particular. Then he stood and headed back towards the mess in the hall.
…
Enoch was just throwing the last of the shattered glass into the kitchen bin when something caught his eye through the window. He turned back to look and his stomach sank; his friends were walking up the back lawn towards the house. Enoch quickly glanced at the clock, but it was only a quarter to one. None of them should have been back yet.
Enoch thought of Horace, barely conscious on the couch, and his dread deepened.
He hastily tossed the dust-pan and brush into the cupboard then threw the back door open, rushing over the lawn to meet them before they could go into the house. The last thing he needed right now was for them to see Horace in this state.
Hugh was the first to notice him as he ran headlong at their group. His grin turned to alarm as he looked Enoch over.
"What's wrong?" he asked immediately as Enoch skidded to a stop in front of them. Enoch gaped at him in startled confusion, out of breath from running.
"Nothing," he insisted quickly, a little stunned that that was Hugh's first reaction.
Then it dawned on him that he had raced out of the house without even wasting time to put on shoes, with his hair wild and expression tense, his wide eyes betraying his panic at them being here. He must look like a madman. Enoch hastily flattened his hair and steadied his breathing.
"Nothing," he repeated, possibly an octave lower than the first time he'd gasped it out. "Just- why are you lot back already? You ain't meant to be back so soon."
"We're having our break!" Olive beamed excitedly.
"What- here?" Enoch turned to the older peculiars for answers. "I thought you all researched in the library in your breaks."
"Normally we would, sure," Hugh said, as the group set off walking again towards the house. "But it's been days and days, and none of us have had a proper break in all that time. We're burnt out."
"Plus the little ones were getting antsy," Bronwyn added as the two girls giggled and raced each other over the lawn. "There's only so long they can concentrate on boring old books before one of them justifiably has a meltdown."
Hugh made a face.
"Claire didn't have to be so loud about it though," he griped, and Fiona shushed him before Bronwyn could come rushing to the girl's defence.
"I would like to state for the record that not all of us are burnt out," a voice said from Enoch's right, and he glanced over as Millard's floating cap sidled up next to him. "I happen to enjoy research as an intellectually stimulating pastime. I can assure you it's far better for you in the long run than wasting your time with pointless rest."
Emma rolled her eyes.
"Millard had his nose so buried in books that it was a chore just convincing him to leave his desk," she told Enoch. "In the end we had to drag him out the door."
"Because I thought I nearly had something!" Millard huffed indignantly. "Just because you lot are giving up-"
He stopped abruptly when he saw Emma hurriedly shaking her head, wide-eyed and trying to shut him up.
"Millard!" she hissed. "I told you not to-"
Her voice fizzled out and they both nervously glanced over at Enoch. He was frowning at them.
"What the hell does that mean?" he asked, his tone sharper than he'd intended.
"Look, don't take that the wrong way," Millard insisted quickly.
"We aren't giving up," Emma assured him. "We would never give up on Horace, you know that. It's just that… well, it isn't as urgent anymore is it?"
Enoch stopped walking, glaring at her, and the others petered to a stop too.
"What? Why?" Enoch said, trying to keep the frustration from his voice.
"Well, it's like what you and Miss Peregrine said, isn't it?" Emma replied. "Horace is fine, he'll just get better with some time and rest."
Enoch gritted his teeth, forced to agree with the lie.
"Yes," he muttered. "That's what we said."
"Well there you go," Emma shrugged, and she set off walking again. "There isn't some great rush to find a cure or a name in a book anymore. If we find out what his sickness is, then fantastic. But if we don't, then there's no harm either."
Enoch didn't trust himself to respond, so he bit his tongue and shoved his hands into his pockets, continuing to glare at her and refusing to move. Emma sighed, coming to a stop again and turning to face him.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," she complained. "It's not as if we're going to stop trying! It just means that maybe we won't spend all of our lives reading from dusty books, and that we're going to have a decent lunch break for once, instead of spending all our free time in the Acre."
"If I spend one more second in that horrible place, I'll choke to death on smoke!" Claire piped up, upset. She and Olive had rejoined the group, winded from running. "My backmouth is filled with soot already."
That caused an immediate wave of winces and dread through the peculiars- some poor sod would have to be on backmouth teeth-brushing duty that night. Already Enoch could see them all glancing at each other as they walked, silently competing over who would be sacrificed. It was bizarre to him that they had the mental space to worry about something so stupid, when all his brain could do was cycle through the same thoughts, over and over.
Horace is sick.
Horace is sick and he's getting worse.
He's getting worse and there's nothing you can do.
He's sick and it's bad and-
Emma stopped in front of the screen door and Enoch nearly crashed into the back of her. He dragged himself back to reality as she started speaking again, seemingly unwilling to go inside until her point was made.
"What I'm saying is, we're tired, Enoch," she said. "We've been spending all our days working in the Acre or researching for Horace, and it's exhausting. You have no idea what that's like. You just get to stay home all day, you couldn't possibly understand."
Enoch really wanted to throttle her, but that didn't fit with the whole everything is fine facade, so he just nodded, his jaw tight.
"You're right," he said, barely hiding the bitter sarcasm in his voice. "I couldn't possibly understand being tired like all of you, since I've just been relaxing here all day. You should definitely have your break here."
"Thanks for being so understanding," Millard said cheerily, and Enoch winced as he felt an invisible shoulder brush past him and walk inside.
"Come on then, someone help me put some lunch together," Emma said, following Millard through the screen door and setting off down the hall towards the kitchen. The rest of Enoch's friends trailed in after her, and Enoch suddenly found himself glad that he'd cleaned up the shattered coffee plunger so soon.
He followed them into the house with a slight scowl, feeling annoyed and on edge. How the hell was he supposed to hide Horace's sickness from them if they all just showed up unannounced for a front row seat? Enoch had half expected Olive and Claire to go running straight into the living room to talk to Horace, and who knows what he would have said back; at the moment he seemed so frightened and out of it that he might not even recognise them.
Feeling nauseous, Enoch was about to head to the living room just in case, when Bronwyn suddenly walked past him at the back of the group.
"I need to talk to you. Now," Enoch said, and before she could respond, he had grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her back around a corner. By the time she'd spun around to face him, stunned, he was glaring at her.
"We're meant to be keeping them out of this!" he hissed furiously, glancing quickly to his right to make sure that none of their friends were listening. "Why didn't you stop them from coming back here?"
"I know! I tried!" Bronwyn whisper-shouted back defensively. "But they just kept insisting, and besides, don't you think it's better that you and Horace ain't completely alone? What if something happens?"
"That's the problem!" Enoch snapped, his volume rising with his annoyance. "What if something does happen, what if he has another episode, and they see? There goes trying to keep it from them, there goes our promise to the Bird. Poof! Gone!"
"Horace knows better than that," Bronwyn reassured him. "If he starts to feel a vision or hallucination coming, he can just make an excuse to leave the room. Then no one will have to know."
"What?" Enoch spluttered, dumbfounded. "It doesn't- why would-" He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "It doesn't bloody work like that," he said, annoyed. He looked up at her. "And even if it did, Horace doesn't know we're keeping it from everyone else. So that doesn't help us."
Bronwyn tilted her head, her brow furrowing.
"Hold on a moment. Horace doesn't even know?" she asked. Enoch winced, suddenly wishing he hadn't brought it up.
"No, he doesn't. And I'm doing my best to keep it that way," he said, glaring at her and hoping she wouldn't argue, but Bronwyn just frowned back suspiciously.
"You said we were just keeping this from our other friends," she said, her tone accusatory. "You didn't say anything about hiding things from Horace. He already knows he's sick- why would you try to lie to him?"
Enoch looked uncomfortable under her scrutiny, but his glare held firm.
"Because I know Horace, that's why," he said. "You can't go making a big deal out of things around him, cause then he'll start overthinking and panicking and suddenly the problem is twice as big as it was before you started. That's just how his brain works. And if he finds out that you and me and the Bird are all so scared for him that we're hiding how bad he is from everyone else?" He shook his head. "He'd take that as all of us signing his death warrant."
"I just don't know how I feel about all this lying," Bronwyn fretted. "Wouldn't Horace prefer to know the truth?"
"It's not like I feel good about it!" Enoch said defensively, his frustration growing. "But believe it or not, some of us have bigger problems right now- and some bloody white lies are at the very bottom of my list. I'm just trying to keep his head above water- which is damn hard at the moment, if you haven't noticed. You get the easy job- all you've got to do is keep your mouth shut and not spill the beans to everyone."
Bronwyn looked down.
"You don't have to be cruel you know," she said, sounding a little hurt.
"I'm not," Enoch insisted. "I'm being honest. There's a difference."
"Not really," Bronwyn said.
Enoch sighed, running a hand over his face.
"I'm sorry, alright? I'm just bloody exhausted," he muttered. Then he smiled bitterly. "Though who knew that was possible for someone who just stays at home all day?"
Bronwyn made a face.
"It was wrong of Emma to say that to you," she said guiltily. "I wish I'd corrected her."
Enoch shrugged.
"Nah, she didn't mean anything by it. It just means she has no idea what's really happening, which is good. If you'd corrected her then you would have messed up our promise to the Bird."
"Oh, right," Bronwyn said, realising. "Then that would be it. Poof."
"Gone," Enoch completed.
Bronwyn smiled slightly and Enoch returned a half smile that looked more like a grimace. There was silence for a moment, before Enoch uncomfortably cleared his throat.
"Look, maybe your plan wasn't so bad," he admitted. "Except we leave Horace out of it. If we notice the start of a vision, then we run interference. I'll try to get him out of the room while you… I don't know, cause a distraction, make a scene. Something."
"That doesn't sound particularly fool-proof," Bronwyn frowned.
"Then just don't be a fool," Enoch pointed out, before grimacing. "…It's the best we've got."
"It'll be fine," Bronwyn decided. "Horace will be fine."
Enoch didn't respond, his gaze trailing to his feet. He could feel Bronwyn's eyes burning a hole in his skull as she watched him worriedly.
"What about you?" she asked him after a moment. "…Are you okay?"
Enoch let out a sharp laugh, but he couldn't meet her eyes.
"Let's just get through lunch."
Thank you for reading! :)
