Chapter Text
There were many things Horace Somnusson had observed while he still lived with his parents, but none were more obvious than how superstitious they’d always been. They believed in ghosts, ghouls, and spirits of all kinds, seeming to have a love-hate relationship with the idea. Spirits could exist wherever they wanted, but any interaction with them was explicitly out of the question. Horace had been raised to do everything in his power to avoid them at all costs: he wasn’t even allowed in certain buildings growing up if people claimed they were haunted.
When he discovered his peculiarity was not in fact as coincidental as he’d hoped, he thought it was ironic that they weren’t more accepting of it. They took him to a circus, found a random woman they’d seen performing, and left him there with her to never return for him. Luckily for Horace, that happened to have been Miss Peregrine, who gladly took him in and helped him learn about his prophecies. Occasionally he wondered if his parents wouldn’t have abandoned him if his powers involved seeing ghosts instead. When he first got that idea, he spent a good minute or so laughing bitterly about it.
He’d only been living with Miss Peregrine and the peculiars for a few months before people started leaving and new people came to replace them. An invisible, a seedsprout, a girl who could float, even an auto-apiarist came to live with them, but then there were the incidents with Salvador and poor Charlotte and Marcie. Horace found it hard to tell who would stay and who would try to leave, but after a couple years or so, everyone seemed to settle into place. But just when Horace was finally getting used to his new home and loopmates, one last resident was brought in.
Enoch O’Connor. A boy who came to the loop with muddy overalls, the biggest suitcase Horace had ever seen, and a rumor that he was what the other kids called a dead-riser.
Horace had never even imagined he’d meet people as peculiar as his loopmates. He was still getting used to the fact that Olive could very frequently be found running around on the ceiling, and that Emma was known to light her fingers on fire and play with it, and that sometimes you couldn’t figure out where Millard even was until he spoke. But if what the rest of the peculiars had said was true, that Enoch could raise the dead? That would be unbelievable.
Did the idea creep Horace out a little bit? Yes. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.
He also thought it was the most interesting thing in the world.
Miss Peregrine introduced him the day he arrived and told the rest of the peculiars not to bother him too much, saying that she hoped this loop would suit him a bit better. Horace wasn’t exactly sure what that implied, but upon asking later, Miss Peregrine only encouraged him to ask the new boy himself.
“He’s likely going to be a bit cautious for a while,” she’d told him, “but it’d be good for both of you to have companionship in each other. He’s your age, and I have a feeling he needs a friend more than you or I know.”
So, fifteen minutes later, Horace was standing anxiously at the top of the basement stairs, trying to convince himself to go down and say hello. He’d prepared a short letter for him on a notecard, though now that he was thinking about it he’d never seen anyone give someone a card to be friends with them and now he was second-guessing the whole thing. He’d already fidgeted with it enough to bend one of the corners, and that combined with his nerves was almost enough to make him cry. He didn’t talk to people; he didn’t start this kind of thing. He didn’t know how his loopmates could do this every time they met someone new without being terrified.
A rustle from behind Enoch’s door pulled Horace out of his own head. After a few deep breaths, Horace very timidly walked down the stairs and stopped at the door, knocking as softly as he could. His anxiety made half of him hope that Enoch hadn’t heard him so he could go back upstairs and tell Miss Peregrine he wasn’t ready to talk to anyone yet. But then there was more movement, and Enoch opened the door ever so slightly, peeking through the crack with an eyebrow raised and a scowl.
“Who are you?” he asked, very quietly. He had a bit of a cockney accent, Horace noted. He also realized that this was the first time since Enoch arrived that he’d heard him speak.
“My name is Horace Somnusson, we met earlier when Miss Peregrine introduced you,” Horace replied, speaking slowly so he wouldn’t trip over his words. “I wanted to come say hi.”
Enoch gave him an odd look, then opened the door enough to let Horace in.
Immediately a strong stench of something bad hit him and Horace nearly gagged. He stepped back and coughed a few times, and Enoch glared more.
Horace looked at his feet. “My apologies, I forgot how bad it smelled down here. We tried to clean it up for you, but it appears we missed something—”
“Formaldehyde,” Enoch mumbled. “I make formaldehyde. To keep the organs fresh. You didn’t do anything.” He sounded both guilty and offended, and Horace immediately felt bad. Then what Enoch had said fully sank in.
“…did you say ‘organs?’”
Any guilt was immediately replaced with hostility as Enoch took a step forward and slammed his hand on the doorframe to keep himself in place, making Horace jump from the sudden noise.
“Yes, you dolt, I said organs. I use organs to play with dead things and make them little puppets or talk to corpses for a few minutes before I pass out from doing it too long, and I make formaldehyde so nothing happens to them or infects me when I play with them!” His voice was slightly raspy, as if he hadn’t raised it like that in a while. Enoch took a few breaths, then narrowed his eyes back into a glare and slunk back into his room. “Any other problems you have with me and my stupid peculiarity?”
Horace started panicking. “No, not at all, I don’t have any problems with y—”
“Good.” And Enoch slammed the door in Horace’s face.
And Horace stood there, silently wondering what went so wrong and how on earth he was going to fix it.
Horace sighed, turned around, and slid down with his back against the door, knocking gently again when he’d sufficiently curled into a ball.
“What do you want?” Enoch sounded a little like he’d started crying, and that made Horace feel worse.
“I have something for you,” Horace replied softly, pushing the now even more crinkled note through the crack at the bottom of the door. “I slid it under the door, if you want it.”
He heard rustling, then the sound of a chair scooting across the floor. Footsteps coming to him and stopping just at the doorway. Horace thought what he heard next was Enoch sitting on the other side of the wood, but he wasn’t actually sure.
After a long pause, Enoch spoke again. “Did you write this? And draw the little picture at the bottom?”
“Yeah,” Horace mumbled. “I thought maybe you’d like it. I don’t really know how to make friends.”
“…I’m not good at making friends either,” Enoch said, sighing.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Horace said. “Your peculiarity sounds amazing. I was always taught never to even think of having anything to do with the dead, but you can talk to them? That’s astounding.”
“It is?”
“Of course it is!” Horace laughed a bit, then sighed and started playing with his hands. “I don’t think I’d ever be brave enough to use it if I could do that myself. I’m scared of too many things, and my family was very strict about ‘no ghost stuff under any circumstances’ growing up.”
“It’s not exactly ‘ghost stuff,’” Enoch said.
“I know, just the closest thing I have to make my point.”
Enoch didn’t respond.
Horace sat for a bit before asking, “Are you still mad at me?”
A soft thump came from the other side of the door, close to Horace’s head. He assumed that was Enoch resting his on the door as well.
“You don’t really get it, do you?”
“Get what?” Horace asked.
“This,” Enoch said. “Me.”
“Not particularly, no. But I’d like to, if that’s okay.”
Enoch sighed, then Horace heard him pick up the notecard again. “You’re really bad at drawing.”
Horace scowled. “That’s not very friendly.”
“What gave you the impression I was friendly?”
Horace just curled in on himself tighter. “If you don’t like it, you can throw it away.”
“I never said that,” Enoch replied. “I like it. It’s nice.”
“Then why did you insult it?”
“I wasn’t trying to insult you,” Enoch said defensively. “I was trying to make a joke. I’m sorry. I don’t make good jokes.”
“What do you mean?”
Enoch sighed again, and Horace began to worry he was only frustrating Enoch more. “Not a lot of people like me. I’m rude, and I don’t say nice things, and when I do try to say nice things I always mess everything up.”
When Horace didn’t respond, Enoch continued. “I try to joke with people. Say things I think are funny. Most of the time it’s not actually funny and people just get mad at me.”
Horace slid his fingertips under the door, keeping them pressed to the floor to avoid splinters. “I don’t think you’re rude,” he said reassuringly.
Enoch was silent for a second, then Horace felt Enoch’s fingertips momentarily brush his. “Thanks.”
“If I may ask, what happened in your old loop? What brought you here?”
“…I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Oh.” Horace unfolded his legs, stretching one out in front of him. “Well, I’m here if you ever do. We all are.”
The door opened, and Horace jumped a bit at the absence of wood behind him. Enoch stood on the other side, looking down at him. “I opened the window. To try to get some of the smell out.”
He was holding his hand out to Horace, offering to help him up. Horace took it, and Enoch led him to the desk Hugh and Millard had put together earlier that day. Enoch pulled over an extra chair from the worktable in the middle of the room and gestured for Horace to sit down. Horace obliged, and Enoch grabbed a small lump of clay from his desk and… something out of a jar in his suitcase.
“What’s that?” Horace asked, slightly leaning to get a better look.
Enoch stepped in front of it defensively, blocking Horace’s view. “Do you actually want to know, or are you just going to get all disgusted again?”
“I won’t. Promise.”
Enoch gave him an unsure look, but took the jar out anyway, revealing a collection of tiny hearts in homemade formaldehyde. The jar was still open, and one of them was in his hand, his fingers fidgeting with it nervously.
While Horace stared at the jar of hearts and tried to figure out what the hell he was supposed to be thinking about that, Enoch held up the clay he’d grabbed, keeping an eye on Horace’s reaction. Gently, he molded the clay into the shape of a small human figure, then held up the heart in his hand for Horace to see. The heart started to convulse in Enoch’s fingers and he slipped it into a hole he’d made in the figure’s back, sealing it in with a little more clay. The clay man stood up in his hand and immediately started trying to climb Enoch’s shirt.
Horace stared in awe. A million thoughts were swirling around his head, overwhelming him to the point he didn’t have a clue which one to voice, when Enoch started laughing. Horace blinked, snapping out of it. “What?”
“You look half like that was the coolest thing ever and half like you’re gonna puke.”
“Well forgive me for being a little unsure how to respond,” Horace said, a nervous smile creeping onto his face.
Enoch shrugged, smiling back. “Honestly, I expected you to be out the door screaming. That’s how most people react to it, anyway.”
Horace laughed, relaxing a little. “I daresay we have worse than playing with disembodied organs here. You ever seen a whole swarm of bees fly out of someone’s mouth?”
Enoch raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Talk to Hugh. He’ll be in the garden playing with them, if he’s not off somewhere hidden making out with Fiona.”
Enoch laughed again, plucking the clay man off his arm and setting it down on his desk. The figure walked over to Horace almost curiously, holding its arms up like it wanted to be held. Horace held out his hand and the figure climbed up and sat calmly in his palm. Enoch pulled the desk chair out and sat down, staring at Horace and the figure and resting his chin on his hand.
“Do you make these a lot?” Horace asked.
“Yeah. Usually I make armies and I make them fight.”
“Why on earth would you make them fight?”
“I get bored.”
“But they’re so little!”
Enoch snickered. “You feel bad for them?”
“A little bit, yes!”
Enoch sighed and rolled his eyes, but not without a small smile. He gently picked up the clay figure and set it back down on Horace’s shoulder. “You can keep this one. If you want.”
“Are you sure?”
Enoch waved his hand towards the figure, who was sitting and kicking its feet in contentment. “He likes you.”
Horace smiled, leaning on the desk carefully so as not to knock the clay man down. “Perhaps I’ll have to make him a little suit.”
“You make clothes?”
“I made the suit I’m wearing, actually. Do you like it?”
Enoch stared at Horace’s suit for a second before looking at the ground. “It looks okay. I guess.”
“…oh.”
“It’s not bad!” Enoch put his hands up in a motion that said please don’t take this the wrong way. “I just… suits aren’t really my style? I guess?”
“Well then maybe I’ll make your little clay man something else,” Horace said. “What do you think he’d like?”
Enoch thought for a second. “Do you think you could make little army uniforms?”
“Like what the British Army wears?”
“Just any uniforms, really. For when I make them fight. I won’t make you fix them when they get torn, I just don’t know how to make any myself, and I’ve wanted to for a while. If that’s okay.”
Horace smiled, taking the clay figure off his shoulder to examine it. “I think I could make that work. And I wouldn’t mind fixing them if they rip, so long as you help me. I’ll teach you how.”
Enoch smiled back. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I can do that.”
Horace set the clay man back on the desk and asked it politely to sit and wait, then told Enoch he’d be back and ran up the stairs to grab paper and fabric. As he looked through his stash of spare fabric for the right shades of brown, he thought about Enoch. The boy who could not only talk to the dead—he could bring things to life. He replayed Enoch’s demonstration over in his head as he headed back down the basement stairs, and when he returned to the boy in overalls smiling at him through the door, he felt a sense of exhilaration. He’d never succeeded at making a friend before, not on his own, anyway. Thinking about it, this boy was the last person he’d have ever normally befriended. But then again, wasn’t everyone in this house?
“You know, my family would’ve hated you if I’d stayed with them,” Horace said, gently picking up the clay man to trace on the paper he’d brought. “Not that their opinion matters. They abandoned me with an old woman I’d never met. Some parents, right?”
Enoch laughed. “I think those are the best friends you can make, the ones your shitty parents hate. Don’t you?”
Horace grinned. “Without a doubt.”