The Castling Quartet

horace

Four days and seven hours before

Enoch baulked at the dress that Horace presented in front of him.

It was beautiful, with a huge, flared skirt of satin fabric that shimmered in the light, looped off-the-shoulder sleeves covered with lace designs of vines; delicate trim; a loose corset to provide a little shaping while still being comfortable enough to run in.

Horace was stock sure that the scowl on Enoch's face was because it reminded Enoch far too much of Cinderella's silver dress. (And also, it was a dress.)

And he knew that he had on the biggest, most stupid smile ever.

Enoch scowled. "Wipe that smug look off your face, I'm not wearing this."

"Oh, but Enoch," Horace said, a hand splayed across his chest. He batted his lashes to appear more demure. "I spent so long on it. And there's nothing else for you to wear." He stuck his bottom lip out. "I'm afraid we've no other choice."

Enoch glared at him. "Is this for landing us the mission?"

Horace's mood completely turned from cheeky to spiteful. "Yes, you dumb whore. Now we have to put out lives on the line for literally no reason."

Enoch rolled his eyes. "That was two months ago."

"And I started working on this two months ago. Your point?"

Enoch grimaced at that. Horace would've thrown the dress at him, but he had spent far too long on it to let it fall to the floor, so instead he shoved it into Enoch's arms. "Go get changed. We've an hour before they force us into dangerous situations."

Enoch rubbed some of the material from the arm between his fingers and thumb. "It is quite nice."

"Yeah. I had Millard go out and steal some of the fabrics."

Enoch snorted. "I bet he went into each store trying to figure out if you'd prefer this type of lace or that."

"I can only imagine."

There was a silence, sudden and uncomfortable.

"Are you still mad?" Horace heard Enoch say softly.

Horace looked back at Enoch to find his face downturned and arms crossed. He'd taken enough psychology classes to recognize that Enoch was subconsciously making himself appear smaller. He noticed Enoch's fingers drum themselves on his arm.

Horace felt himself frown. "I-can I hug you?" he asked. Enoch nodded.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him, immediately noticing how warm Enoch was. He always seemed warmer. Enoch returned the hug and they swayed a bit.

"I'm not actually terribly mad," Horace said softly. "I'm just scared. I'm always scared and worried with the war."

"I know," Enoch said. "You're not wrong to be scared."

Horace chuckled. "How far you've come." Enoch shot him a questioning look. "I mean, just a few years ago and you would've called me a coward, or ridiculed me and said I should be more of a man."

"And then you'd respond that we're still kids. And we'd bicker about it. I remember."

"And I just feel proud of you."

The silence that hung around them was hollowed out and stuffed full with cotton. Pure, white cotton.

"So, uh, how's Council?"