Nightmares (Enorace Fluff)

Chapter 8

Enoch sat in his room, replaying their conversation over and over in his head. Horace had called him gorgeous.

He could picture him saying it, they way Horace had looked at him, the smile on his face.

"God you're gorgeous."

Enoch blushed and buried his face in his hands, grinning uncontrollably.

He got up and walked over to the mirror, looking at himself. He frowned, tilting his head slightly.

"...Gorgeous," he mumbled, trying the word out for himself. "You're gorgeous."

He stared at his reflection doubtfully, trying to work out what Horace had seen in him, but of course there was nothing to see. He had no idea what Horace was talking about.

"This is stupid," Enoch muttered, turning away from the mirror.

But it didn't matter what Enoch thought because Horace had said it. And meant it, as far as Enoch could tell. He grinned and fell back on his bed.

Horace Somnusson thought he was gorgeous. Horace who made him laugh and who actually seemed to care about him and whose smile was the cutest thing he'd ever seen and-

Enoch's face went slack.

I... I like him, he realised.

His elation drained out of him.

He's a boy, he thought. He's a boy and I like him.

Oh God.

What would the others think? What would Miss Peregrine think?

And if he liked Horace, if he liked a boy, that made him...

No.

No, he didn't like Horace. He couldn't. Obviously he was just confused, or he'd been tricked somehow. He'd never like boys before, barely even noticed Horace before.

Maybe he liked him because Enoch, as much as he hated to admit it, was lonely, and he'd wanted to be close to someone. Or maybe his brain had been subconsciously letting him ignore Horace's gender, or think of him as a girl, and that's why. Maybe it was because Horace was so feminine that he'd tricked Enoch into liking him.

But Enoch could see his face whenever he closed his eyes, could smell Horace's cologne on his clothes from all the times they'd hugged, and realised that Horace was undoubtedly a boy, and that Enoch undoubtedly had feelings for him, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise. Even his stupid brain knew it.

Enoch cursed, head falling into his hands. So much for just friends.

...

Just go talk to him. It's not that hard.

Enoch paced his room, trying to think of what to say to Horace, but his mind was blank.

"You know what? Bugger it," he muttered eventually. Enoch jumped up from his bed and marched out of his room to find Horace. He'd improvise something.

But Enoch's impulse confidence was short lived. After twenty minutes of searching the entire house and garden, even turning down an invitation to play football with the others again, Enoch was clueless.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe he should just give up. He'd probably say something dumb anyway.

Enoch was about to give up and go back to his room when a grey cap floated over to him.

"What's wrong with you?" Millard asked.

"Nothing," Enoch muttered.

"Are you sure?" Millard asked. "You look... I don't even know. Perplexed? Angry? Unhappy, whatever the case."