Horace Somnusson has a bad peculiarly, anxiety, and a good big sister- A one shot
Horace Somnusson was not having a good night. Now, this wasn’t uncommon, frankly it was more common than he would have liked. However this night wasn’t awful due to what was happening in his dream, but more WHO it was happening TO. Abe. Abraham Portman was in his dream, sitting on the roof of a house next to a boy with green (yes GREEN) hair. The dream was horribly uneventful, other than the fact that dreams about his friends were very rare, especially ones as clear as the one he had just had. Emotion clouded his vision. He shook off the fear that he was seeing Abe, it wasn’t unheard of for him to have dreams about his friends, so he shook it off, got dressed, tamed his curls, and went downstairs. It was an unremarkable dream, and he quickly forgot about it.
What was remarkable, however, was the fact that he had different dreams every night, of Abe. Completely mundane dreams, unlike the terrifying warning dreams that featured his friends. Completely clear, unlike the fuzzy view of his friends he saw at night sometimes. After the fourth night of Abe dreams (Abe, trying a truly ghastly orange jacket with a blue lining and then trying on and PURCHASING an equally unfashionable brown jacket with a fur collar and cuffs) he opted out of sitting in the kitchen too early with tea, waiting for someone to wake up like usual, and instead sobbed softy into his pillow. He was dreaming about Abe like he was a perfect stranger! Had he really stopped caring about Abe so quickly? Sweet Abe with bright eyes and good stories. Abe who protected him from wights and nightmares. Abe who Emma still cried over because of how much she missed him. Horace hated himself, how dare he stop loving Abraham Portman, practically his older brother, so stupidly fast. Horace Somnusson decided then and there he was no longer sleeping. He couldn’t bear facing his own heartlessness every night.
The first few nights were worryingly easily, he was used to not sleeping for nights on end. Honestly it was usually harder to fall asleep than stay up. Instead he waited up, sipping tea sometimes, sewing often, hating himself always.
By the fourth night his hair was constantly in its natural state of disastrous bed head instead of slicked back and his hands shook, which concerned the more observant of his friends. “I’m fine” he lied when Bronwyn asked, looking down to avoid accidentally looking Millard in the eye (he knew he was there) because Mill was good at reading facial expressions. If he told his friends they’d hate him. They’d throw him out of the loop. He was vile and careless, and he didn’t want them to realize. He couldn’t deal with losing the only true family he’d ever had. By the sixth night he hadn’t bothered changing his suit from the previous few days and more than just Millard and Bronwyn were nervous.
By the eighth day of silently watching her little brother destroy himself, Emma had had enough.
“Alright, what’s wrong?” She said barging into Horace’s bedroom that night.
“Wh-what?” He asked, blinking his tired eyes quickly to stay awake.
“Stop that,” she said plopping down on his bed, “We’ve all noticed. Why haven’t you been sleeping?” Horace shifted uncomfortably, tensing when she pulled him next her.
“C’mon dummy, why aren’t ya talking?”
Horace was panicking: this couldn’t be happening. Emma was the worst person to confront him. She’d never speak to him again once she found out that he’d involuntary stopped caring about the man she loved and missed and cried over when she thought no one could hear.
“You’ll hate me.” He mumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest and curling into himself.
“I doubt it, but if you aren’t gonna tell me at least try and s l e e p.”
“Nightmares?” She asked softly, ruffling his messy blonde fluff and warming up her side (which always made him sleepy)
“Sorta” he mumbled, ducking his head between his knees.
“That’s not an answer ‘race. I promise I’m not gonna hate you, I think it’s physically impossible to hate you. You’re too tiny, the ability to be hated only applies to people 5 foot and over.”
“That doesn’t seem factually accurate.” He giggled.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me.” She said. Horace gave an world weary sigh so deep that Emma needed to remind herself that Horace was an 11 year old kid.
“I’ve been dreaming,” he hesitated, “‘bout Abe.”
“Oh.” Emma’s voice shook, “Is he hurt?”
“No… that’s just it, I’m dreaming about him like… like he’s just… like he’s just ANYBODY!” And that’s when Emma realized and Horace burst into tears.
“I’m- I’m sorry! I don’t wanna stop caring about him! I’m so- I’m s-so sorry!”
“Oh, oh Horace.” Emma pulled into a tight hug, smoothing his hair and rubbing his back in quick circles.
“I could never hate you, especially for your dumb peculiarity.” Horace hiccuped, and for the second time in minutes Emma was struck by how little he was. He was older than most would think, sure, but he was still mentally a child. They all were. Horace was the third youngest, right behind Claire and Olive, but it was easy to forget, because he was under the impression he had to be a “gentleman”. But watching him now, sniffling, eyes pouring, freckles prominent against his pink cheeks, it was obvious he was just a kid. A sad, scared, exhausted kid.
“Hey-hey, ‘race look at me. I don’t blame you for dreaming about Abe, and he wouldn’t either. If you feel this bad, you clearly still care about him.” His tears slowed and she squeezed him tightly again.
“So y-you don’t hate me?”
“No. I don’t. Now, when’s the last time you slept?”
“Almost nine days.” He said so quietly she almost didn’t hear.
“WhaT? Yeah you’re sleeping now.”
“You heard me” Emma flicked off the lamp, pulling her surrogate little brother close and hugging him tightly, letting him doze off against her chest.
That night Horace did not dream about Abraham or Jacob Portman.
Horace Somnusson was having a very good night.
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