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Jake is staring. And yes, he knows. He just can’t help the way his eyes follow those long, dark eyelashes that flutter with every languid blink of inky black eyes. After days of following the vindictive, elusive Enoch O’Connor with his eyes, he’s come to know two main emotions of the boy.
One is of spitfire, when his eyes are narrowed and cruel words spill out of his (pretty) mouth. Following suite, the homunculi duel each other, mechanical arms swiping and little hearts pumping with adrenaline. Jacob typically only witnesses this emotion directed at him through dark glares and biting remarks. For a middle class boy from the 1900s, he knows a lot of cheeky swears.
The other, seldom seen, consists of a softer, sweeter Enoch, who looks fondly at his creations as they parade around him. Sometimes, a small, sincere type of smile turns his lips up and reveals delightful dimples (different from the smirk he likes to wear). He’s saw it first after an exhausting day chasing away hollows; it caused his brain to temporarily malfunction, heart beating at an erratic pace as his breath hitched. Then once again, at Olive and Horace who spent the night digging up little rodents and stealing their hearts to gift him on his birthday. Quietly elated and very affectionate.
He doesn’t know when it began, perhaps from the start when he met the dark haired boy, but ever since, Jake has been smitten, maybe obsessed. Just taken by the morbid humour and craftiness, or perhaps the caramel skin and pink lips. He’s a sight.
That’s why it pains him so much more that the shorter boy ignores him, leaving for his own entourage of robotic fiends instead of the invisible boy and fiery girl who he keeps as company. So he begs the airy Olive to take the boy out, in exchange for futuristic sweets.
He is determined, unlike he has ever been before following a series of strictly part time jobs and average grades. Jake is left gazing at the other in the dimly lit living room, that he misses the way his blonde friend inches closer. His lovely brow furrows, and the American wonders why, wanting nothing more than to smooth it out.
An image stutters to life on the wall, as Horace stares through his monocle. They all watch as exciting scenes play out, of petticoats and revolution. Then it cuts to a small, cluttered room without windows, toy pieces scattered about; Jake recognizes it as the room of his affections, a place he’s been permitted into once with Miss Peregrine who was showing him around. Enoch is laying on the bed, content, and there is someone beside him, with dark hair who strokes his head softly. And the image fizzles out.
He feels instantly peeved.
If that figure isn’t him, then it could only be one other person with a larger build. But that person is technically dead. He’s heard from the long haired Fiona, that his inky eyed boy was very close to the strong boy, Victor. He’s seen the pictures of a beautiful smile pointed at the boy with brown locks. It fills him with jealousy.
Enoch himself, burrows into the couch, the tips of his ears red. The airy girl whispers to him, causing her to giggle and him to redden. Now. Jacob Portman isn’t an extroverted and rambunctious fellow like his father who would chase whatever he wanted (that’s how he met grandma), but neither is he the mellow, bystander type like his father. He’s a smart boy born as a millennial, making him cynical and reclusive.
If that dream was destiny, then he is going to make it his own.
So for the next few days, he makes it a point to try and initiate contact, despite the other fleeing from anywhere he goes. Jake waves and smiles and looks around the backyard for any creatures that he might like. But unfortunately being brought up in an urban city means he has no affinity for grass and woodland animals. Dirtied and bruised (he took an awkward tumble on the root of a tree) he compliments the boy’s simple attire, who gives him a monotonous stare from the heels of his sneakers to his black hair. “Thanks.” And its enough for Jake to virtually melt.
Finally, his real chance comes, when the keen Miss Peregrine hands him a tray of steaming soup and English tea, telling him to take it up to the dark boy who’s gotten himself a cold. “Take it slow, Jacob.” She winks playfully.
His heart is thudding against his chest in anticipation, standing before the old wooden door. He knocks gingerly, resisting a grin when he hears a meek ‘come in’. It’s as he imagined, filled to the brim with jars of small organs and a work table of mix matched homunculi. On a soft, springy bed lays a surprised Enoch, draped against white sheets, quite the contrast to his dark hair and tan skin.
“Jake.” He’s blunt, and his Irish drawl is enticing. Jake gulps.
He nods, sheepishly, feeling nervous in front of those soft features. “I got you some soup. How are you feeling?”
“Just rubbish,” Sitting up as the American gently places the tray in his lap. Taking notice of the lack of seats, he sighs, waving his hand lazily, “Get him a chair.”
At the command, the homunculi pull out a chair from seemingly nowhere and pull it up beside the bed. Jake eagerly takes a seat, but not without a murmur of thanks. Its mostly silent as the pretty boy practically inhales the food, munching happily. It’s endearing. Looking close he has a smattering or moles on his revealed collarbones and one under his pouty lips. For an Irish boy (he assumes because of the O’Connor) he looks quite a bit more exotic.
“Why’re you staring?” Enoch asks, somewhat offended. He can’t help blushing, being caught looking for too long.
It’s now or never, he thinks.
“You’re very pretty.”
He burns holes into the ground, not daring to see the expression Enoch will wear. He was born in the old times for goodness sakes, who knows if he’ll accept him as a queer. There is no vulgar remark or shocked noise. After what feels like a century, he peeks up.
Enoch is red down to his neck and into the slip of his nightshirt (and how farther down, he would like to find out), lips pursed.
“Enoch?” He questions softly, putting a hand on the bed as he inches forward. The boy stutters in response, but doesn’t move. Nor are his creatures poised for attack, instead staring wordlessly. Jake takes it as permission to move closer. The dark haired boy smells like raspberry (probably from the berry picking in the morning that got him sick).
Enoch looks up shyly behind long eyelashes, midnight pupils wide. He’s strikingly pretty. And Jake wants to kiss him. There is no bite in his voice. “Do you mean it, ye American?”
“Yeah. You’re beautiful.” Jake admits, bringing a pale hand over a softer one. “I like you lot.”
“And Emma?” he whispers.
“what about Emma?” He asks confusedly as Enoch turns his head, looking sad and pitiful and perfect for cuddling.
“They always like her. She’s a pretty girl with the perfect hair and eyes. Bright and happy. Nothing like the dark and moody me.” He whimpers sadly.
Jake pulls the boy into his arms, nosing at the boy’s soft scalp. He’s not a small boy, but he fits so seamlessly against his taller self.
“I like you the most, Enoch.”
He hums lowly, as the other returns the embrace by pulling up his arms around his neck. Jake can feel a splatter of wetness at his shoulder, and he feels nothing but adoration. Yes. He adores this boy more than anyone he ever has before (sorry Abe), peculiar as it is.
This time he doesn’t fight his urges, and pulls the boy back who looks dazedly up at him, eyes moist and plush lips parted. Jake kisses him, and it is electric. It’s his first kiss, and it couldn’t be more wonderful. In the back of his mind, he’s curious if this is the other’s first as well, feeling the boy soften under him, open and willing as he deepens the kiss.
When they part, it’s with great reluctance. Enoch looks plenty sleepy, smiling wistfully, dimples out and eyes crinkled up, this time at him. It all feels like a fantasy come true. The cheeky boy he is clambers up and gives him a peck on the cheek before hiding under his sheets.
It seems like that dream is coming true, both Horace’s and his. All that’s left is a stroke on the head, but he can’t, not when Enoch slightly opens the blanket, inviting him in. And he can’t resist the warmth.