MPHFPC: Enorace Oneshots

Authentic Trash

A blue curtain twitched slightly to reveal the falling morning snow that was beginning to blanket the world surrounding. Olive struggled to climb down from the windowsill and began sprinting around the hallways screaming, "IT'S SNOWING, IT'S SNOWING!!!" Her high-pitched voice echoed down the hallway as she bolted past each closed door with someone occupying the room. Claire and Horace each stirred uncomfortably in their beds and pulled the blanket over themselves to block out the little girl's shouts. Millard, who was awake at the time; paused from scribbling notes in his notebook to listen to Olive's frantic footsteps down the stairs before shaking his head and returning to his work.
Olive, not forgetting Enoch, leapt down two flights of stairs to the basement and skidded in her socks to Enoch's closed door. She banged on the door with both her fists and boomed, "ENOCH HOW ARE YOU NOT AWAKE?!? IT'S SNOWING!!" She hopped around excitedly and bellowed a loud "whoop" until the entire house was shaking.
Beyond Enoch's door there came a loud grumbling mutter. "Olive, I hope you know that I am aware of the weather."
"Whatever, you grump!" Olive kicked Enoch's door on the last word for emphasis. She skipped up the steps to the kitchen and pulled out butter, eggs, flour, milk, and sugar from the cupboards and the fridge. Olive, with great effort, yanked some pots and mixing bowls out from the cupboards with a loud clatter. She set them all onto the counter before tying an apron around her waist. She dusted off her hands and set to work.
...

About an hour or two later, a scolding hot tray of sugar cookies appeared on the counter. The sweet aroma floated to all corners of the house, followed by the faint creak of the floorboards above. As the footsteps sounded toward the kitchen, a pair of glasses were raised and adjusted.
"Olive are you sure we should be having cookies for breakfast?" Millard stated.
"And Millard, are you sure you should be coming downstairs in the nude?" Even though Millard's features weren't visible, Olive could feel the disapproving look burn into her skull after she said that. "I'm just kidding, Millard! Of course we're having cookies. It's snowing, anyway." Olive sighed and pulled off her apron, dusting the flour off of her hands.
"That seems... rather innutritious..." Millard's glasses were pushed up.
Olive shrugged, arranging the cookies onto a colorful plate. "If you want to have something different, suit yourself."
Horace emerged from the staircase, adjusting his suit. "Ah, good morning Olive, Millard." He paused to fidget with his tie. "Lovely weather we're having today." Horace took a seat at the counter.
Olive set the plate of cookies onto the dining table. "I know, right? I baked cookies to celebrate! It doesn't snow around here often." She picked up a cookie between two fingers and offered it to Horace. "Cookie?"
Horace politely shook his head. "No thanks, I'd rather not get crumbs on my new suit."
Olive pouted, sticking her tongue out at the blonde-haired boy. "Loser. You wear the same thing everyday."
Millard glanced at the time. 7:30 A.M., the clock hands read. He grabbed a geography novel off the shelf in the living room and started to read quietly at the couch.
"Olive?" Millard called from the couch, softly thumbing through the yellowed pages. "Could you prepare some hibiscus tea with a teaspoon of honey for me, please?"
Olive, who had just begun to relax at the dining table, let out a groan of frustration. "I just finished working my arse off to bake these cookies that you won't even eat, and now you expect me to make you tea??" She let out a long, exasperated sigh, tying her blond curls up into a messy bun. She took a moment to peek from the doorway leading to the living room to grumble a faint "I hate you" with a pout.
Millard nodded, his glasses were pushed up the bridge of his nose. "Love you too, Olive." He continued to focus on his novel as Olive grumbled. A loud clatter from the cupboard and something metal clanging to the ground echoed from the kitchen as Olive yanked a kettle out from the pantry.
"They make me work like a slave around here." Olive muttered to herself, pouting while filling the kettle with tapwater and setting it onto the stove to heat.
Horace rolled his eyes and chuckled lightheartedly. Olive complainingly groaned once again, this time hurling a wooden spoon towards Millard's direction. It bounced off Millard's head and landed in his lap. Oddly silent, Millard slowly closed his book and stood up from the couch. He removed his glasses and gently placed them on the coffee table, rendering him completely invisible to the eye. He silently opened the window a crack, just enough for him to stick his hand outside and grab a handful of snow. Olive could no longer see him, unaware of Millard sneaking up behind her, snow in hand. He tenderly pulled back the collar of Olive's nightgown and shoved the snow down her back.
He bolted away, snickering gleefully while Olive shrieked and writhed in the kitchen. She clawed at her back, gasping at the cold. "MILLARD, I WILL SO GET YOU FOR THIS." She screamed after Millard's evil giggles and running footsteps up the stairs. Horace cackled, clutching at his stomach and nearly toppling off his stool.
"SHUT UP, OLIVE!" An annoyed yell came from the basement. Tch, Enoch.
"Enoch, don't be mean!" Horace called, cupping both his hands to his mouth, still laughing. Olive pouted even more, crossing her little arms as the kettle began to steam on the stove.
Bronwyn zoomed down the stairs like there was a fire. "What is going on? I heard screaming! Is everything alright?" She stood there, in her baby blue nightclothes. Horace began to snort, covering his mouth. Olive was pouting and pouring tea from the kettle into a mug.
Enoch finally emerged from the dark dungeon that was his room, trudging up the stairs with his signature black circles accompanying his brown and blue eyes. "Oh, I'll tell you what happened. Olive and Millard just won't shut up, that's what."
Horace cast Enoch a quick glare. "Hey, don't be so harsh. I'll get you some coffee." He stood up from the counter stool and began to prepare a mug of coffee for the dark haired boy.
Enoch sighed heavily and sank into a chair at the dining table. He folded his hands and laid his forehead down onto the table in exasperation. Bronwyn plopped down in the seat next to Enoch and comfortingly rubbed his shoulder, trying to ease the tension out of him that was winding him up tightly. Enoch flinched and leaned away from Bronwyn's touch.
"Don't." He grumbled, his words laced with poison. His eyes flickered with a combination of exhaustion and building frustration. Bronwyn retracted her hand swiftly, her expression clearly appeared hurt. Her eyebrows knitted together like wet laundry, and Horace flashed Enoch a warning look.
"Jerk." Olive muttered under her breath just loud enough for Horace to hear. She padded past with the mug of tea, climbing up the stairs to deliver to Millard. Bronwyn hesitantly rose from her chair and quickly shuffled away after Olive, casting her eyes downward and her short hair hanging in front of her eyes.
"Well that was unnecessary," Horace poured cream into the coffee, making an intricate design in the dark liquid. "I know how you get in the mornings, Enoch, but you didn't have to snap at Bronwyn." Horace sauntered over to Enoch, white porcelain mug in hand. The dark-haired boy groaned, running his fingers through his hair and covering his face with them.
"Ugh," Enoch rubbed his eyes. "I really should come out later when I actually get more than an hour of sleep." He removed his pale hands away from his face and rested one of them against his cheek. He outstretched a finger and traced it along the rim of his mug. His eyes, which usually were devoid of any emotion, appeared defeated. Hurt, even. Enoch knew better not to show vulnerability in front of others, but Horace was different. That look in his eyes appeared for less than two seconds, before vanishing and shifting back to the normal, stone-cold stare. To Horace, this was a sign that Enoch definitely wasn't thinking straight when he snapped at Bronwyn. He could tell that the other boy regretted it deeply.
Horace learned to read Enoch's emotions through his eyes. That could be quite difficult for others, since Enoch's eyebrows were permanently furrowed and arched downward. Enoch eternally had that signature mix of sarcasm and exasperation on his face. Horace learned to perceive that when Enoch's eyebrows were slightly wrinkled and the ends were raised upwards, he was angry. Another example was how Enoch's left eyelid would twitch slightly, indicating that he was hurt or upset. These details would be overlooked by others, but Horace always was able to tell.
Enoch attempted to hide the slight twitch of his upper lip with his hand. Horace unfailingly paid keen attention to others' body language; no matter how subtle they were, he habitually picked up on the smallest things.
Enoch regretted snapping at Bronwyn, he genuinely did. However, expressing vulnerability or weakness on his own behalf would've made him soft. Hell, who knew that the slightest arch of the brow or the tiniest glimmer in the eye could give away so much? Enoch was aware of how Horace was always able to tell when he was distressed, and that set him on edge. Most would call him selfish and egotistical, but building high walls and burning bridges is a defense mechanism.
Horace was so kind, so caring and concerned for Enoch's well-being. It almost seemed surreal, since Enoch himself had never received such heartfelt affection in his life. It was quite overwhelming for him.