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When Enid first met her roommate, she thought she was a serial killer.

“Howdy, roomie!”

She’d gone in for a welcoming hug, and the tiny girl who showed a startling resemblance to a Victorian child in a black-and-white photograph glaring at the camera like it would take her soul if she smiled took a stiff step back.

Not a hugger, Enid concluded as she let her arms drop. Got it.

She’d swapped her welcoming hug for a welcoming smile, but the goth version of the Wendy’s logo seemed to have no inclination to return it. Then a man that looked more like a sentient stack of pale bricks than an actual human being started bringing the girl’s things into the dorm room, which consisted of exactly one black suitcase and a cello.

The suitcase made the most sense, and honestly so did the cello until Enid asked, “Are you a music major?” and monochrome-Anne-of-Green-Gables said “no” as her abnormally large bell boy laid the instrument gently in the corner of their small room and left again for what Enid assumed to be another armful of colorless things. But he only came back with one.

And it was a typewriter.

So Enid concluded that this girl was either a miniature serial killer or a time traveler whose list of priorities included cello-playing and platform boots. Considering she looked as though her body had consumed the soul of a murdered gothic era teenager, the time traveler theory was a logical choice. 

On the other hand, she’d brought nothing to decorate her side of the room, all of her clothes were in exciting shades of black, white, and gray, she brought special black hangers to hang her black shirts in order of what Enid could only determine to be most to least black. And she brought a fucking typewriter.

So… serial killer. For sure.

(On the other other hand, even though Enid was almost surely the next victim of Beetlejuice’s super pretty cousin, she had to admire anyone who went to such lengths to achieve their desired aesthetic. Seriously, was the girl allergic to color or something?)

Eventually, after Enid could no longer stand the silence of the room that was only interrupted by the occasional clink of hangers and rustling of dark clothing, she introduced herself.

“I’m Enid.”

Because on the off chance she wasn’t a serial killer—and especially if she was—Enid wanted to get on her roommate's good side. They’d be living in very close proximity for nearly six months and interactions consisting only of glares and foreboding silence simply would not do. Also, Enid didn’t do silence.

The girl, who had been in the middle of re-folding a pair of black jeans, laid the pants on her bed and turned around. All of her movements were unnervingly smooth and deliberate. Almost mechanical.

“My name is Wednesday Addams.”

“Like the day of the week?”

“Yes.”

“Let me guess, your middle name is Thursday?”

Wednesday didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink, and now that Enid thought about it, had Wednesday blinked since entering the room?

“It’s Friday, actually.”

Enid snorted. Wednesday still didn’t blink.

Okay, Enid thought as her roommate went back to unpacking her suitcase. Wednesday Friday Addams.

Between sorting out the rest of her own belongings, Enid searched Wednesday’s name on Facebook and got no results. She then tried instagram, and still got nothing. She tried again and again, the social media platforms getting more and more obscure as she went on, but Wednesday apparently didn’t exist anywhere else in the world except for the left side of their dorm room. 

Later she asked Wednesday if she’d like to go to the dining hall for supper, then went by herself when all she got was a flat “no” in response. She didn’t know what Wednesday ate that night, or if Wednesday somehow survived on nothing but the fear of her enemies, but it was late when she got back and Wednesday was already in bed, and Enid discovered she slept with her arms crossed over her chest like the dead and decided to gloss over that little fact for her own sanity.

When she returned from the bathroom, Wednesday’s eyes were wide open and glued to the ceiling. Enid wouldn’t be surprised if Wednesday just slept like that, so she turned off the light and pulled up the covers. She laid in silence for a bit until she glanced over and still saw the whites of her eyes. And Enid decided to speak anyway. 

“I think your name is cool, you know.”

And there was something fitting about Wednesday’s voice appearing unexpectedly from the dark. “Why?”

“It’s… unique.”

“Are you implying something must be rare to be considered interesting?”

“No, but I am saying things you haven’t seen before are usually pretty cool. ”

There was a long silence in which Wednesday was likely plotting Enid’s gruesome disembowelment, and Enid thought, that’s enough of that, and turned on her side to go to sleep (if she could even get to sleep with Miss embalmed-corpse-in-a-coffin laying four feet to her left). For a while there was only the soft inhale and exhale of their breaths in the inky black of the room.

Then Wednesday said, “I’ve never met anyone else named Enid.”

And Enid slept okay, all things considered.

.     .     .

Over the next couple of months, Enid made a few discoveries about her roommate.

The first was that Wednesday hated her.

Admittedly, this wasn’t a groundbreaking revelation. Even if Enid had the emotional intelligence of a particularly dull rock, there was no other way to take the near constant glaring and silence as anything but negative. Not to mention on the rare occasions Wednesday actually decided to grace Enid’s ears with a response, the condescension in her tone was about as subtle as a grenade. 

But even if all this failed and Enid still somehow deluded herself into thinking she was welcome in Wednesday’s presence, her roommate was courteous enough to drop a few larger hints here and there (i.e. at least four times per day) to make absolutely sure she got her point across.

“Your pop music will make my ears bleed, and not in a fun way.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would stop talking on the phone during my writing time. Your voice is grating.”

“Every time I look at your side of the room I want to gouge my eyes out.”

“Enid, what the fuck?”

The last one had come when Wednesday came back from class just as Enid finished sticking some super cool decals on their window. When Enid came back from her class later that day, Wednesday’s half of the window was clear again, and a colorful heap of carefully removed plastic stickers was pushed to her side of the room.

Oh, and also, their room now had sides, separated by a perfectly straight line of black duct tape down the middle. This struck Enid as an uncalled-for level of bullshittery since Wednesday literally could’ve expressed her need for boundaries like a normal person. And Enid wasn’t a petty person, but she did often poke the other side of the room with the toe of her shoe when Wednesday was gone, and it brought her immense amounts of satisfaction.

The next discovery was that Wednesday was extremely smart, which was also not a shocker since serial killers often were. She was majoring in criminology and minoring in biology, but Enid assumed she was doing the latter purely for the dissections.

Discovery number three?

Wednesday Addams owned a tarantula.

Enid still didn’t know exactly how it got there. All she knew was that it had been a Saturday and she’d been studying in their room all day and took a five minute bathroom break only to come back to Wednesday having a heated conversation with an arachnid that had suddenly appeared on her bureau seemingly out of the void. Its fluffy body and legs were a dark brown color and served to be the first thing on Wednesday’s side of the room to not be some dreary shade of black or gray. 

“Um… Wednesday?”

“I am aware that there was not a tarantula in this room before you left and now there is a tarantula. If it comforts you, I also didn’t know there would be a tarantula.”

“That’s actually the least comforting thing you could’ve said, but I appreciate the effort.”

“My parents got him delivered without telling me because they feared I was lonely.” Wednesday stared flatly at the animal and Enid swore all of its eight eyes looked guilty. “They made an error.”

Enid perked up. It was probably too hopeful of her to think Wednesday considered their relationship to be anything beyond ‘coexistence,’ but she still asked, “You’re not lonely?”

“No, I was. It was perfect. They’ve ruined it.”

“Ah.”

Even though Wednesday’s face’s default setting was ‘post rigor mortis emptiness’, Enid still attempted to read her. She usually relied on Wednesday’s tone, the shifting of her eyes, or just general vibes when attempting to discern her emotions (if Wednesday even had any, which a lot of people would assume she didn’t, but Enid thought otherwise. Wednesday might’ve been the human embodiment of a ‘do not enter’ sign written in blood, but she was still human). 

Right now she was directing what Enid interpreted as a mildly scornful expression down at the spider, but then she turned to Enid and her coal eyes were back to their usual empty stare. 

“Enid,” she said, gesturing smoothly from her roommate to the tarantula, “this is Thing. Thing—“ Tarantula to Enid— “this is Enid.”

Enid gave Thing her best polite smile and fluttered her fingers in a little wave. “Nice to meet you, Thing.”

She couldn’t remember taking any hallucinogenic drugs that day, but that was the only explanation she could think of when the tarantula lifted one of its legs and waved back.

Wednesday said, “Enid, please close the door. If Miss Thornhill sees him she will request for him to be sent home, and I do not wish to endure the headache of shipping an exotic animal across several states. So many regulations these days…”

Miss Thornhill was a university staff member assigned to keeping an eye on their dorm house. Enid heard they’d tried student reps for years, but they were always a little too lenient on the rules. Either way, Miss Thornhill struck Enid as the type of woman that wouldn’t appreciate a big hairy spider anywhere in her vicinity, so Enid closed the door while Wednesday gingerly placed Thing in his glass enclosure and turned on a heat lamp, adding a warm burst of color to her side of the room.

And that was that.

The most shocking discovery Enid made about Wednesday came on their second week of classes, when extracurriculars were starting up. Enid came back from her afternoon classes in a rush to change into her shorts and tank top before grabbing her running shoes and heading out the door, where she saw Wednesday returning from the bathroom wearing a loose t-shirt tucked into gray sweatpants. She still had her signature pigtails, but the day Wednesday did her hair in any other style would be the day Enid died of shock.

They both paused at the sight of the other. The door clicked shut behind Enid and still they both just stared, Enid’s face displaying a steadily increasing level of curiosity, and Wednesday’s displaying—hold onto your pants—absolutely shit all.

Enid didn’t want to speak first. There was no competition going on that she was aware of, but showing interest in Wednesday’s life when Wednesday had never showed an interest in her’s felt too much like letting her win. But, Enid already had a veritable mountain of unanswered questions about her roommate piled high in her head, and she’d be damned if she had to add ‘performs mysterious activities that require sweatpants’ to the list (which would go in a tidy bullet point right above ‘how does she look good in sweatpants?’).

So Enid asked, “Where are you going?”

And Wednesday said, “Fencing practice.”

Enid blinked. 

After a pregnant pause and a dart of Wednesday’s eyes to the bag over Enid’s shoulder and back, Wednesday asked, “Where are you going?”

“You’re in fencing?”

“Yes. Where are you going?”

“Are you good?”

“Yes. Where are you going?”

“How good?”

“I’m excellent. Are you going to tell me where you’re going or keep wasting my time with repetitive questions?”

Enid swallowed another question as it was about to fly out of her mouth. It wasn’t her fault she was curious—she didn’t even know the school had a varsity fencing team until now. But since this was a very rare occurrence in which Wednesday actually seemed interested in anything but herself and her typewriter, Enid tamped down her curiosity.

“I’m going to track practice.”

Wednesday gave her exactly one emotionless nod. “Okay.”

Then she slipped past her and disappeared into their dorm room. 

After practice and showers and dinner (Wednesday still gave her a stoic “no” when Enid asked if she wanted to go to the dining hall together, but Enid noted that it took her half a second longer to answer that night, and she liked to think Wednesday had used that time to seriously consider the proposal), Enid resumed her questioning. She found out Wednesday was a New Jersey state champion fencer and was nationally second in her age group only to Bianca Barclay, who also attended their university. Enid made a mental note to keep a check on Bianca’s social medias to make sure she didn’t suffer an untimely and mysterious death in the near future. 

When she joked about this to Wednesday during her writing time—which she’d been ordered not to speak during but frequently ignored that order in favor of regaling Wednesday with various internet scandals—the clacking of typewriter keys immediately stopped, and her roommate’s response was quick and sharp with… offence?

“I would never do that,” Wednesday said.

Enid rushed to amend herself. “Oh, I know! It was only a jo—“

“I need her alive so I can face her again and confirm I’m better.”

The clacking of typewriter keys started again. Enid did not interrupt.

Discovery five was that Wednesday was abnormally interested (see: fucking obsessed) with true crime. She listened to podcasts on her laptop, which would have made her typewriter obsolete if she used the piece of technology for anything other than checking emails and listening to those murder podcasts.

Once she even set up a black poster board in their room, gruesome pictures pinned on it along with grainy mugshots and crime scene photos, all connected with different coloured strings. And the fact that Wednesday didn’t have a printer and had to pay to print those images off on the public printer in the library didn’t scare Enid as much as the fact that Wednesday was just standing there with Thing on her shoulder acting as some eight-legged parrot. Staring at it.

In her defense, she clearly put a lot of work into it, so she had a right to look at it for as long as she wanted. In Enid’s defense, walking in on your roommate engaging in passionate eye sex with various pictures of random people’s severed limbs is gonna make a girl fear for her safety. 

And maybe faint. Just a little.

Her last memory before gravity took over was the back of Wednesday’s head as she rambled on about the grizzly details of the case, then Thing crawling across Wednesday’s back prior to a dramatic fade-to-black. Enid awoke on her bed with Thing on her pillow beside her and Wednesday searching for smelling salts.

The murder board was gone the next day, Wednesday claiming it was because continuously having to pick Enid up off the floor would be a strain on her back.

Enid next discovered, through no fault of her own, that Wednesday’s birthday was on the thirteenth of October. It was through the fault of Wednesday's parents video calling her (a third thing to add to the extensive list of reasons for Wednesday to use her laptop).

Admittedly, Enid was an excellent eavesdropper. She’d always had an ear for gossip, able to pick her way through a room full of conversations until she found the one with the most secretive scandal. It was absolutely not her fault her ears were trained to zone in on even the quietest of voices if there was some drama to pick up. Wednesday knew Enid absorbed a lot of little details about people that nobody else would bother with, which was probably why Wednesday always plugged in earbuds when on a video call with her parents. 

And as mentioned before, Wednesday was smart. Wednesday was a brilliant person who knew a lot of things, including calculus, how to play the cello, a plethora of obscure topics in biology, how to properly dispose of a body, seven different languages, the names of almost all known opening strategies in chess, how to cook a killer lasagna, etcetera, etcetera…

Enid would reiterate: Wednesday knew a lot of shit.

One thing, though, that Enid was absolutely, irrevocably, dead sure Wednesday did not know how to do was properly plug earbuds into her laptop.

Wednesday clearly had the knowledge of a 115 year old grandmother when it came to using twenty-first century technology, and likely the same amount of hearing loss if the ear-busting volume her laptop speakers were set to was any indication. Enid had a theory she just didn’t know how to turn the volume down, but she wasn’t about to show her how when it made information about the university’s most mysterious student fall right into her lap (along with gruesome details from her crime podcasts, but Enid could tune that out with her own earbuds on ear-busting volume so it wasn’t a problem). Wednesday clearly thought whatever audio she was hearing from her laptop was playing privately through her earbuds, when in reality all of her conversations with her parents were broadcasting loud enough to be heard from outside the door.

Between track and classes and studying, the hilarious phenomenon in which Wednesday sat oh-so-seriously with her useless earbuds in while her father called her his “little storm cloud” at full speaker volume was Enid’s greatest source of entertainment.

It was through one of these video calls that Enid heard Wednesday’s mother, Morticia (or affectionately called Tish by Wednesday’s father, Gomez), ask what she wanted for her birthday that coming Sunday. Enid had checked her calendar and, sure enough, Wednesday’s birthday fell on the thirteenth of October. She then scrolled back to the year Wednesday was born, just to see and—yeah, Wednesday was born on Friday, October thirteenth. That tracked.

Another thing Wednesday didn’t know was that Enid was accomplished in the art of crocheting. She’d done socks, hats, mittens, scarves, and sweaters, and used a wide variety of bright colors in her handmade clothing. Since she couldn’t picture Wednesday being appreciative over something that took as little effort as a gift card, Enid figured she’d crochet her something.

(The worry was there that Wednesday might actually have a violent visceral reaction to being on the receiving end of a thoughtful gift, but Enid would rather take her chances with that than let Wednesday’s birthday fly under the radar as she undoubtedly had planned)

Wednesday was at the gym early Sunday morning, which was perfect since it gave Enid time to go down to the cafe and pick out the most dark and depressing cupcake she could find—a chocolate one with unfortunately white icing, but the person working at the counter gave her a weird look when she asked if she could have it switched out for black, so it was whatever. She did manage to get a black birthday candle and some black sprinkles at the university gift shop (which apparently had everything because what the fuck were sprinkles and birthday candles doing next to packs of loose leaf ?), so she just smothered the cupcake in sprinkles and stuffed the candle in and waited until Wednesday got back.

Wednesday returned carrying a package from her parents that must’ve gotten delivered that day. It turned out to be a book about obscure murder cases of the early 1900’s, and Enid thought it was sweet that Wednesday’s parents seemed to know her so well. 

(Enid’s parents had given her a rugby ball for her birthday once even though they knew her interests lied far from chasing a ball around a field and tackling sweaty people into the dirt. She would’ve actually preferred the murder book.)

Wednesday didn’t hesitate to open the book, not even bothering to sit down before she did so. But before she could get completely absorbed, Enid pulled the cupcake from behind her back. Wednesday’s eyes darted up at the flick of the lighter, then seemed to widen a fraction in either confusion or dread as Enid lit the candle. Her eyes stayed threatening and unblinking the entire six seconds it took Enid to sing a significantly sped up version of the birthday song (since she figured Wednesday wouldn’t tolerate joyful singing for long before she covered her ears or cut out Enid’s tongue or something). Even after Enid was finished, Wednesday stared at the cupcake like she was waiting for it to turn into a knife and stab her.

Enid would have let her take her time, but the candle was dripping wax onto the icing and she would not have her brilliant sprinkle job disrupted just because Wednesday was taking too much time to plot Enid’s grizzly demise. 

“Just make a wish and blow it out,” Enid said.

Wednesday’s eyes briefly flicked to Enid’s before falling back to the cupcake. She stayed still and quiet for another moment, then blew out the candle with a soft puff of air. Enid grinned because Wednesday had actually taken the time to make a wish, although she didn’t dare ask what she’d wished for in the fear that her next birthday wish would be to unhear it.

Enid held out the cupcake to Wednesday, who took it with all the careful precision of a doctor performing open heart surgery. “How did you—?”

“Thing told me.” She winked at the Tarantula, who seemed to be watching them with great interest from the corner of his enclosure. 

Wednesday looked particularly unamused at this. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

“I won’t.”

“Why did you do this?”

Enid shrugged. “I believe everyone deserves to be celebrated on their birthday.”

Wednesday’s eyebrows pinched in just the slightest amount. “I didn’t ask to be celebrated,” she said coldly. “You should have done nothing.”

Thing seemed to be actively attempting to sink into whatever crumbly material his bedding was made out of. 

Enid took a breath in. Patience. 

Yes, she’d just put a fuck ton of effort into celebrating a girl’s birthday who would literally drink a glass of water in front of her while she was burning to death—and yes, Wednesday being unappreciative of Enid’s continued attempts at friendship was 100% the most expected outcome. She shouldn’t have been upset.

But she was. She was kinda sorta pretty fucking pissed, actually. She knew Wednesday was Wednesday and she’d probably wither up and die if she displayed even, like, a quarter of a normal human emotion (seriously, it didn’t even have to be happy, any emotion would do), but holy shit Enid had tried with this girl. For more than a month she’d invited her to activities, ignored countless snide remarks and glaring for the sake of keeping the peace, showed an interest in her life and tried to relate with her, let her go on with her murder boards and creepy comments and psychotic habits and never called the police even once, and she’d bought her a fucking birthday cupcake! 

And she wasn’t asking for Wednesday to do these things for her. She wasn’t asking for payment. She wasn’t asking for a Facebook post or acknowledgement or—god forbid—friendship, and she wasn’t even asking for gratitude. All she wanted was for Wednesday to treat her like she was anything except an insignificant speck of dust the world would forget.

Because she’d had enough of that in her life already.

“You didn’t have to ask, Wednesday, it’s just what people do,” Enid snapped, stepping right over that line of tape separating their halves of the room until her world became a kaleidoscope of dim black and gray. “I’ve tried to be friendly and welcoming so you didn’t feel like you were alone here, and I defend you when other people talk about how weird as shit you are because I’m a little weird as shit too, but at least I don’t use it as an excuse to treat people like garbage!” 

Wednesday’s emotionless eyes never left Enid’s, even as she prowled closer, but she could’ve swore her throat bobbed with a swallow. 

“Listen, I know emotion might be a difficult concept for you, but typically when someone gets you something, the least you can do is act like you give a shit.”

Enid stopped just a foot away from Wednesday and looked down at her. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but a pinch of disappointment stung her chest anyway when Wednesday continued to unblinkingly stare back. The silence between them was thick and icy, and for once Enid didn’t care to break it.

So she just turned around, dug Wednesday’s wrapped gift out from under her bed and tossed it to the other half of the room before grabbing her gym bag and heading out the door.

Sundays were usually Enid’s rest days, with the exception of a bit of yoga in the early afternoon. Today though, Enid was fueled by a rare rage, and she couldn’t decide if it was directed at Wednesday or the knowledge that her mother would be proud that she “showed some teeth”. Either way, Enid hit enough weights, cardio, and stretches to keep her sore for the next few days. 

By the time she wobbled back to the room, both her body and her mind were too tired to keep fighting. She could still feel a spark of irritation if she really thought about it, but she now didn’t have the energy to turn it into a flame. She figured it was easier to just let it die and believed Wednesday would agree given her morbid fascination with all things dead.

She got back in the late afternoon half expecting Wednesday to round on her as soon as she opened the door, or, at the very least, be hiding behind it with a knife or a rope or any other weapon that could keep her imminent death the most quiet. But Wednesday was just sitting at her desk, stone still, staring at the cupcake Enid had given her.

Enid closed the door softly behind her. Wednesday didn’t move.

“It’s not poisoned,” Enid said flatly.

“What is this?” Wednesday asked, and Enid realized she was holding her crocheted gift in her lap.

“A snood.”

Wednesday definitely didn’t know what a snood was, but she didn’t ask. She just dropped her head a little and rubbed the soft yarn between her fingers. “I regret not showing my appreciation for your gifts more adequately,” she said… softly? 

Enid blinked.  

“It will not happen again.”

Then she stood from her chair, and Enid watched, frozen with shock, as she went to her nightstand, opened the top drawer…

And produced a large knife. 

Even though Enid definitely should’ve been running or scrounging up her own weapon to fight for her life, all she could think as Wednesday moved closer with the knife was a satisfying  called it. After all, this whole exchange made a lot more sense now that she knew Wednesday’s plan to prevent hurting Enid’s feelings again was not to start being kind to Enid, but instead to murder her with a knife. Classic Wednesday.

But she didn’t rush Enid, or hold up that knife to stab her, or do any of the things Enid thought any seasoned serial killer that had the athleticism and skill that this specific serial killer possessed would do. In fact, Wednesday didn’t even go near Enid (and Enid thought not being in the proximity of your victim was a bit of an inefficient way to kill them, but who was she to question Wednesday when it came to the art of murder).

Instead, she approached Enid’s cupcake, and for a moment Enid honestly thought Wednesday was going to make her watch as she demolished it just to have her suffer that extra bit before she died. But Wednesday just carefully cut the cupcake in half. Then she put down the knife, took a half in each hand, walked up the very edge of the black tape in the middle of their room, and reached across, offering one of the halves to Enid.

“I’d like to extend an olive branch. If you’d accept it, that is.”

And Enid promptly realized that scaring the shit out of her with the implication of murder then offering her half of a cupcake Enid had purchased herself was Wednesday’s version of an apology.

Wednesday waited patiently, eyes locked on Enid’s as Enid’s eyes darted back and forth between her unmoving gaze and the offered “olive branch”. 

Silently, Enid took her half. Wednesday’s shoulders seemed to relax a fraction. 

Enid’s lips tugged up at the corner as she said, “How can I be sure you’re not just waiting for me to take the first bite to make sure I didn’t poison it?”

“I wouldn’t need to do that. I built up my immunity to most of the common poisons when I was a child.”

Enid hadn’t been aware that was something a person could do, but she just smiled tightly in acceptance anyway. There seemed to be another moment where Wednesday hesitated, almost apprehensively, as if she was waiting for Enid to tell her that accepting her apology had just been some cruel prank and she could go shove her olive branch up her ass. Of course, Enid didn’t do that—number one because she knew how hard it must’ve been for Wednesday to swallow her pride and actually take accountability, and number two because Enid really liked chocolate cupcakes and she’d been secretly hoping Wednesday would share.

So Enid said with a level of serious formality that she’d never used in her life, “I accept and appreciate your olive branch.”

“Thank you,” Wednesday nodded with all the grimness of a soldier about to sprint into heavy gunfire. “I appreciate the… snood you made me. It is skillfully crafted.”

And that was the end of Wednesday’s apology. She went back to her desk, pulled out some homework, and snacked on her cupcake as she did it. And Enid thought Wednesday might just tolerate her.

Wednesday started acting differently after that. Not kind, per say, but definitely… less cold. But also not warm. But definitely not… frigid. Like the coolness of a glass surface in an otherwise warm room. 

(And yes, Enid was describing Wednesday’s temperament in terms of temperature , but describing anything about Wednesday in terms of actual emotion proved difficult, so it was the best she could do with the resources she had.)

Wednesday still wouldn’t accept Enid’s invitations to go to the dining hall, but she did often invite her to eat with her instead. And thus, Enid finally found out that Wednesday Addams’ diet mostly consisted, not of the blood of her enemies, but of instant fucking ramen. 

“Is something funny, Enid?” Wednesday asked the first time Enid had witnessed her pulling two packages of instant noodles from the top drawer of her nightstand and cackled.

“Is that all you keep in there?” Her voice was breathless and still threaded with giggles from the sight of big bad Wednesday Addams reaching into her drawer with all the steady seriousness of someone disarming a bomb, only to retrieve ramen. “A billion packs of Mr. Noodles and a huge knife?”

Wednesday looked confused. “The essentials, yes.”

Enid laughed so hard Wednesday left the room to make their ramen without her.

Wednesday also made them actual supper sometimes, with fresh groceries she seemed to procure through secret solo ventures Enid never knew she had time to take. The grocery store wasn’t that far away from campus, but she was never gone long enough to warrant the time it would take her to walk there and back. Maybe she jogged or something. Whatever, Enid wasn’t about to ask questions or complain when Wednesday had made them the best paella Enid had ever tasted one night in the student kitchen with a cooking dish she’d told Enid her mother insisted she bring from home for that exact purpose.

Wednesday also started doing things with Enid. Like, activities. It was never anything huge—a trip to the on-campus convenience store late in the night here, and a morning commute to the gym there—but it was enough to make Enid appreciate that the enjoyability of hanging out with someone didn’t always hinge on flowing conversation. Of course, Wednesday would talk to her, and Enid liked that too, but she started to enjoy their little quiet journeys simply because silence was comfortable with Wednesday in a way it had never been for Enid with anyone else.

Yet another discovery about Wednesday was that she was talking to a boy. His name was Tyler and he worked at the coffee shop on campus that Enid frequented to get her daily frozen hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and sprinkles.

(“It can’t be a frozen hot chocolate. It’s illogical,” Wednesday had said the day Enid convinced her to come to the coffee place with her, to which Enid‘s reply was an immature “you’re illogical” before forcing Wednesday to take a sip and watching as her eyebrows lifted just a millimeter in surprise. Then, after a lengthy pause, Wednesday finally said, “I’m extremely logical,” and went to the counter to order her own.)

Enid saw them sitting together at one of the booths during their first week, and while it didn’t exactly look like a romantic interaction, it didn’t not look like a romantic interaction considering he was one of only a few people Enid had witnessed successfully hold a conversation with Wednesday. While he’d looked semi-terrified, Tyler had smiled a few times and Wednesday hadn’t retreated at the sight of human emotion. Enid figured it had to be love.

Then came the night of the Rave’N party—a halloween mixer that almost all of the freshmen attended. Enid had pestered Wednesday about it the whole week leading up to the event, and Wednesday’s answer was always a flat ‘no’. Again and again Enid asked, and again and again Wednesday shot her down without so much as sparing a second to consider it. Wednesday made it clear to Enid, multiple times, with increasing degrees of annoyance, that she was absolutely not going to that party…

Until, suddenly, she was.

Until Enid saw her walk through the doors in a black gown that would look odd and eccentric on anyone else but on Wednesday looked so perfect Enid thought she might’ve actually gotten it custom designed by some mind-reading seamstress. Around the room, heads turned in her direction and stayed on that pale girl that was elegant macabre and midnight stars. Wednesday looked beautiful that evening in a way only Wednesday could. And, shit, she could.

Less noteworthy was Tyler walking beside her, his suit white but not shining nearly bright enough to contend with the woman beside him. He looked like an accidental fingerprint on an otherwise pristine work of art. 

The rest of the night was uneventful, save for Wednesday having a cool dance moment to some random grunge song Enid wasn’t familiar with. And Wednesday knowing how to dance might’ve been discovery number eight if not for the fact that it was the most Wednesday dance to ever exist and Enid couldn’t even find it in herself to be shocked. Also, Enid talked a little bit to a cute boy named Ajax. 

Enid found Wednesday at the end of the night saying goodbye to Tyler. After he left, she caught up to her and waggled her eyebrows, which Wednesday must’ve interpreted as an insult to her entire self and extended family if her warning glare was any indication (really, it was just one of her regular calculating stares, but the slightest pressing together of her lips made it not regular at all).

“So…” Enid hedged as they began walking together. “Tyler seems to like you.”

Wednesday hummed in grim agreement. “How unfortunate.”

“For you or him?”

“Both.”

“Do you like him?”

“I tolerate him.”

“Well, for you that’s the same thing. But anyway, onto other matters…” 

Wednesday’s eyes shifted to Enid, and although it was the most muted expression of curiosity ever displayed by a human being (or whatever creature Wednesday was), Enid could somehow translate it for what it was.

Tell me.

Enid said, “I have a date.”

Wednesday made another one of those noncommittal hums as she shifted her gaze forward again. “When?”

“Sunday! Isn’t it so exciting?”

“I can hardly contain myself.” Enid grinned, bumping their shoulders and Wednesday gave no reaction as she went on with her questioning. “Who?”

“His name is Ajax. You know the guy I was talking to that was wearing the white beanie?”

A nod. “Location?”

“Well, we haven’t exactly ironed out all the details yet. What’s with all the questions?”

“I’d like to account for possible witnesses in the event he hurts you.” 

At first Enid didn’t understand. Did Wednesday want people to see Ajax hurting her feelings? Was this some sort of plan to publicly humiliate her? She didn’t get to voice these concerns however, because Wednesday shrugged and added, 

“It’s not a problem. It would be best to take him to a more isolated location anyway.”

And Enid made an underlined mental and verbal note to not tell Wednesday where they were going. Wednesday didn’t care. She said she’d easily be able to track them down anyway, and Enid tried not to think about a deathly calm Wednesday showing up to the diner they’d decided on with whatever weapon of choice she’d undoubtedly brought from home, all because Ajax forgot to open a door for her or something.

The night of the date came, and Enid got back from track practice, had a shower, and did her makeup and hair. On her way out she told Wednesday to wish her luck, and Wednesday, who was in the midst of her writing time, did not stop her typing even for a moment to tell Enid ‘if he breaks your heart I’ll nail-gun his’. And Enid’s heart had never fluttered over the threat of gruesome murder, but it did then and Enid chose not to think about what that meant. Thing “waved” to her as she left and she winked back at him before clicking the door shut.

Ajax ended up doing much worse than forgetting to hold open a door.

He forgot to come.

Enid waited on the bench they’d agreed to meet at for 45 minutes. It had been dusk when she arrived, and the moon was out in its full glory by the time she made her glum walk back to her room. And if she walked past Ajax’s dorm house on the way back and trailed a sharpie along one entire side of the pale brick building, that was nobody’s business but her own.

She told herself she wasn’t sad about it. She barely knew the guy after all, had only talked to him for a couple days. Yet, she came from a family full of stars and never felt like anyone had even the slightest bit of faith she could measure up, so… it had been nice for someone to show some interest in her for once. And she figured the tears in her eyes were probably more because of that being taken away than the boy.

She knew Wednesday would be finished with her writing time by the time she got back to the dorm so there was no hope of her entering unnoticed, and the idea of a girl who didn’t even know the word ‘weak’ seeing her with mascara lines running down her cheeks because of a boy she barely knew made her insides twist into a nauseating pile of absolutely not. But while she didn’t want Wednesday to see her cry, she didn’t particularly care much about the passerby in the hallways glancing at her with questioning eyes that skirted away every time she looked back. 

The thin wood of their dorm room door appeared quicker than expected, then she didn’t have anywhere else to go and didn’t fancy taking a long relaxing walk around campus in four inch heels and a skirt in the dark. Yet, she couldn’t convince herself to go inside either.

Luckily, the decision was made for her when Wednesday opened the door from the inside.

It was a swift, creaking motion that made Enid jump. Then she was looking at Wednesday, and that bottomless, dark gaze looked back at her—from her eyes, to the tear tracks on her cheeks, down to the sharpie stain on the sleeve of her sweater and right back up.

“Where is he.” It wasn’t a question. 

Enid sighed. “Wednesday—“

“Where.”

“It’s fine.”

“Yes, clearly. Tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know.”

“You do. Enid, I will keep asking until you tell me what hole that fish-eyed imbecile crawled into and I will—“

“I don’t know, Wednesday, he never came!”

Silence washed over them both. Enid’s eyes began to fill with tears again with the admission, and Wednesday blinked. 

A male voice from somewhere down the hall called “that’s what she said”, which was followed by a few snickers. Wednesday’s head snapped in the direction of the noise, her mouth opened, and what followed was something the best prophets in the universe would have been unable to foretell.

“Your father should have never come.”

Enid’s jaw dropped.

A chorus of ooooh ’s and raucous laughter rang through the hallway, followed by jeering likely directed at whichever poor guy had just gotten demolished by Wednesday’s retort. Enid couldn’t help the bark of surprised, watery laughter that fell from her mouth too, and even when it was followed by a pathetic sniffle, Wednesday didn’t look at her like she despised the fact that she was able to break. If anything, Wednesday seemed like she despised what had broken her.

But when Wednesday grabbed her arm and tugged her into the room, Enid thought that maybe Wednesday didn’t see her as broken at all. 

Wednesday shut the door and turned to face Enid again. “I’m aware that you have a preference for… peace in this situation,” she said, and the way peace came out was significantly tight and significantly not her usual flat-as-the-equator tone. It was like it took her an enormous amount of effort to fathom such an idea, let alone say it.

Enid sucked up an extremely attractive and wet sniffle. “Yeah.”

There was a brief pause. “I disagree.”

“I know.”

“I would like to take action.”

“C’mon, think about it. How embarrassing would it be if I had to send my roommate to talk to him?”

“Who said anything about talking?”

A huffed laugh, then, almost on instinct, Enid’s hand reached out. She didn’t exactly know what she was reaching for, but her fingers found more fingers and wrapped securely around them, not even hesitating at the shifting of Wednesday’s eyes down to their joined hands. And Wednesday’s skin was cool and soft.

Enid’s lips tugged up gently at the corner, like a tiny little shrug of a smile. “It won’t make it better, Wednesday.”

A muscle flickered in Wednesday's jaw as she stared at their hands. The silence between them was full and endless—a graveyard and a blue summer sky.

Finally, eyes unmoving, Wednesday asked, “What will make it better?”

Enid sighed dramatically and let go of Wednesday’s hand with a gentle parting squeeze, and Wednesday’s eyes only lifted when their fingers lost contact. “Not much, honestly. I’ll be over it in a couple days. Although, I would kill for a 7-Eleven slurpee. I used to swear those could fix everything.”

“Let’s get you one.”

“Ugh, I wish.” Enid sniffled and wiped under her eyes for the last time. Talking about slurpees was not a time for crying. “I don’t feel like walking that far tonight, and figuring out the bus routes would be—“

“I have a car.”

Enid’s completely logical excuse froze in her throat, then, after her initial shock, twisted and transformed until what came out was an insultingly disbelieving, “Really?”

“Yes.”

“And… you know how to drive it?”

One of Wednesday’s eyebrows raised an unimpressed millimeter. “We can waste time debating my driving credentials or we can leave. Your choice.”

So… discovery number nine: Wednesday had a car. 

Enid asked a lot of questions as they made their way to Wednesday’s car, both bundled up in their snoods (because it’s chilly out, Wednesday had said defensively as she wrapped it around her head and Enid didn’t even try to tamp down her giddy grin as she grabbed her own so they could match). Questions like, do you seriously have a car, or are you just fucking with me? (I’m always serious), why do you have a car? (to get groceries for myself and supplies for Thing), where do you park it? (my parents bought a parking permit for the store across the street), and have you used it since we’ve been here? (yes, at least once a week).

“But, you couldn’t have driven yourself here. That tall butler dude brought your stuff up to the room. How’d he get back?” Enid asked. She was following Wednesday’s breakneck pace up the sidewalk, which was less likely due to any sort of rush and more likely due to Wednesday attempting to put physical distance between herself and Enid’s endless verbal assault.

“Lurch isn’t a butler. He’s a family friend,” Wednesday replied, and Enid almost smacked into her back when she stopped abruptly at a crosswalk to wait for the walk signal. “I would’ve taken my belongings myself, except he had some.. business to attend to in Vermont anyway, so we drove separate vehicles. His had more space so he took my things.”

Both of them seemed to have an unspoken agreement that whatever business Lurch had to attend to was better left a mystery. 

Wednesday’s car turned out to be sitting in a dark corner of the store parking lot—the very type of spot a woman who frequently walked to and from her car alone in the dark would not want her car to be. Enid knew, though, that Wednesday had thought out that decision like she thought out every other minute detail of her life, and somehow came to the conclusion that dim-graffitied-corner-with-a-flickering-streetlight was the safest parking spot for her vehicle. 

And Wednesday’s car was surprisingly… normal. This whole time Enid was convinced they’d get to the parking lot only to find an elegant black hearse honking to life when Wednesday clicked the unlock button on her keys, but Wednesday’s car was apparently just a regular black sedan with tinted windows and dark interior. 

“It’s a hybrid,” Wednesday explained in response to Enid’s bewildered expression at the quiet hum produced when she pressed a button to turn it on. 

“Oh, fancy.”

“Yes, well the planet is dying.”

“Right, yeah. Shit.”

Enid google mapped the nearest 7-Eleven while Wednesday pulled out of the parking space. And watching Wednesday drive was… an odd experience for Enid. 

It’s not like she didn’t expect Wednesday to be a good driver—Wednesday was, to Enid’s knowledge, excellent at almost everything except for being emotionally all there, so the fact that she was a safe and confident driver wasn’t surprising in the least. But this was a girl who Enid witnessed clacking away at her centuries-old typewriter for a specific hour of the day every day. This was a girl who made murder boards and had in-depth conversations with her pet tarantula named Thing who may or may not display some level of conscious understanding and human-like responses. This was a girl whose wardrobe was completely devoid of color and she engaged in a niche sport like fencing for a pastime. 

Simply put, the sight of Wednesday behind the wheel of a car was unnervingly… normal.

It made Enid antsy.

Then again, Enid wasn’t sure how else she expected Wednesday to drive if not for, you know, the normal way with her hands and stuff. Maybe by muttering unsettling threats to the car until it drove itself.

They made it to 7-Eleven with minimal mishaps, save for Wednesday having to take a couple detours due to Enid getting lost in whatever topic of conversation she was rambling on about and forgetting to tell her when to turn. It wasn’t Enid’s fault that she was so talkative—she was a talkative person anyway, but pair that with the fact that Wednesday didn’t listen to music while driving and Enid just could not shut the fuck up. She simply couldn’t be riding in the passenger seat of someone’s car without some other form of stimulation to keep her from dying of boredom. Without the option of singing along to some tunes, Wednesday had left her no choice but to talk both their ears off.

To Wednesday’s credit, she didn’t complain once. In fact, sometimes, between long spurts of talking when Enid was pausing to take a much needed breath, she would even respond. And it was probably because Enid was pathetic enough to accomplish the impossible task of squeezing an ounce of pity from Wednesday Addams, but if she didn’t know better… it kind of seemed like Wednesday was enjoying their outing.

But probably not.

All in all, the trip to the store that should have taken seven minutes ended up taking twenty-five, and when they finally stood in front of the slurpee machines, Wednesday spent at least another two minutes staring at the swirling colors in contemplation.

Eventually, after they’d stood there for a socially unacceptable period of time in silence and the furrowing of Wednesday’s eyebrows was becoming dangerously close to looking like an actual emotion, Enid leaned over and said, “If you can’t decide on one, you can mix them up.”

“Mix them up,” Wednesday repeated.

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“No.”

Enid just shrugged and grabbed a plastic cup, filling it up with a little bit of each vibrant color available. By the time she put on a cover and stuck a straw in, Wednesday was still glaring at machines like they’d personally shot her tarantula.

Enid poked her arm with an empty cup. “You need to pick.”

“Half of these aren’t even real flavors,” Wednesday said, absentmindedly taking the offered cup as she went on. “For example, ‘Frog Water’ is abstract and tells me nothing about the actual composition of—“

“It’s watermelon lime.”

“And ‘Blue Shock’—“

“Basically just Mountain Dew but blue instead of green.”

“Well, they should label them appropriately if they want—“

Enid plucked the cup from Wednesday’s hand and left her mildly affronted roommate behind as she unceremoniously filled it to the brim with the blue slurpee flavor. She then got a cover and a straw, and made her way to the counter with both their slurpees.

She was digging in her pocket for the cash she’d brought when Wednesday appeared next to her and flashed a debit card. There was a beep, the printing of a receipt which Wednesday made very clear she wanted to keep for some reason, then they were heading back outside into the chilly autumn night. Wednesday wordlessly followed as Enid led them to a park across the street she’d noticed when they pulled in and they found seats on a squeaky swing set.

They sat in silence for a long time, the scraping of straws in plastic cups the only sounds to break the dull rush traffic in the distance. The only sources of light in the park were the warm glow of a few street lights dotted around. One of them must’ve been broken because Enid watched the shadows on Wednesday’s face change with every flicker.

Wednesday’s voice came after a while. Its suddenness should have startled Enid, but there was something about Wednesday’s voice being right at home in the cool dimness under the stars. It was a sound twisted in with the night air and rustling leaves that just belonged, and Enid couldn’t possibly be surprised at that tone of soft indifference finding its way effortlessly through the dark. 

“Enid, may I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why didn’t you change rooms?”

“What?”

Wednesday was staring into her slurpee that she’d finished two minutes ago, and Enid noticed when she opened her mouth to speak that her tongue was stained blue. “There’s a form you can fill out to request a room change. It’s on the website. I gave you every reason to request a room change and you didn’t.” She tapped her index finger against the rim of her cup. “Why?”

Enid thought about it. Wednesday had been kind of an ass to her those first few weeks. Her laptop on full volume and clacking typewriter alone could have been valid grounds for a noise complaint, and just the mere mention of her tarantula to the right person might’ve even gotten Wednesday kicked out of the dorms permanently. Wednesday was right—Enid did have every right and opportunity to get a room to herself. 

“Because… we work,” Enid decided. Wednesday’s eyes darted up to meet her’s, the flickering streetlight reflecting in their darkness like a strike of lightning in a cloudy night sky. “We shouldn’t but we do. It’s like some sort of weird, friendship anomaly.”

Wednesday seemed to think about this for a moment. Finally, she nodded. “Okay.”

Even though it wasn’t the sweetest response, it was a Wednesday response, and Enid couldn’t help but smile anyway. Playground pebbles scattered and crunched as she used the toes of her sneakers to twist her swing around, winding up the chains, and when she looked at Wednesday again Wednesday was looking up at the sky. Enid’s eyes stuck to her—her steady gaze, the way her snood had fallen down from her head to reveal the curve of her jaw—but only for a few seconds before she looked up too. She found she couldn't care less about the view, and immediately deemed the stars dotting the sky a pale sight in comparison to the one before.

“You ever make a wish on a star?” Enid asked. Her voice was a whisper, like she was afraid to disturb the new peace they’d found.

“No, because I’m not a Disney Princess,” Wednesday said flatly. “Or five years old.”

Enid scoffed. “Oh, well excuse me, Miss ‘I’m dark and mysterious and drive a fucking hybrid, I’m too cool to make wishes’.”

She couldn’t help but look at Wednesday then, and with the warm flicker of the street light scattering across her cheeks, there was no denying the tug at the corner of her lips as her eyes shifted to the ground. “Wishes are a foolish concept created by people who believe that you can reach your goals simply by wanting to.”

“You made a wish, though.” Enid couldn’t stop grinning as she twisted to face the stoic girl beside her, tilting her head so it leaned against the chain of the swing. “On your birthday.”

Wednesday made a hum that she somehow managed to make sound regretful. “I did.”

Enid let out a smug hmph and lifted her feet off the ground, setting the swing in a slow spin back to its original position. “Can I ask you a question?”

“I suppose that would be fair.”

“Why did you apologize that day?”

Even though Wednesday hadn’t actually said the words, I’m sorry, she didn’t point out this technicality and Enid was forever grateful. She also didn’t flatly spew the textbook reason she’d apologized—because she’d hurt Enid’s feelings—because she must’ve known that wasn’t the answer Enid wanted. 

Wednesday thought in silence for a few long moments, but despite her hesitancy, her voice was steady and certain when she finally spoke.

“I like to be alone. I always have.” 

Shocker, Enid thought.

“I tried to make that known during the first month, however I quickly came to realize that you have an equally demanding preference to be around people. There wasn’t a way I could continue to stay in our room and get the privacy I wanted, but I didn’t have grounds to lodge a complaint against you, so I was hoping you would eventually lodge a complaint against me. You would either change rooms as a result or I would get expelled from residence, both of which would have been suitable.”

“You would rather be homeless than room with me?”

“No, I would’ve rather been homeless than room with you. My sentiment has changed.”

Right, so now Enid could rest easy with the confirmation that Wednesday’s attitude toward her had shifted from burning hatred to some halfway point between disgust and resignation. Incredible. Roomie goals achieved.

“Wow,” she muttered flatly. “I’m touched.”

Wednesday used the hand that wasn’t holding her empty cup to flap dismissively. “Anyway, when I didn’t react appropriately the day you gave me the cupcake and you left, I was alone for longer than I’d been since I arrived.”

Enid often wondered what Wednesday had done with all those hours alone. Maybe she’d worked on a few of her murder boards and gazed at them for indeterminate amounts of time before hiding them wherever she deemed suitable to keep them safe. Maybe she’d tried on a few pieces of monochromatic clothing to prepare a line of outfits for the coming week (because Wednesday was actually pretty fucking fashionable for a person who would derive great pleasure from setting fire to the entire color wheel, and Enid had to believe that it took some absurd level of planning to put together those outfits). Or maybe she’d simply used the extra time to continue writing her novel or playing her cello. 

There was also the possibility that Wednesday had just sat at her desk and stared at the cupcake that whole time, but the self control she would have to possess to refrain from eating a cupcake that was sitting right in front of her for hours would just be proof that Wednesday was indeed a terrifyingly human-like robot, and that was simply not a realization Enid was prepared for. 

“My parents refuse to accept that I can survive alone. It’s why they insisted I live in residence instead of an apartment off-campus. They wanted me to have the full social experience. To make friends.” 

Wednesday’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, an expression Enid has secretly taken to calling ‘Sprinkle of Resentment’ simply because—

“I resented them for it.”

—Wednesday almost always stated that she resented something after making it.

“I was content with the fact that I was destined to be alone,” Wednesday continued. “But when you left that day and didn’t come back within a couple hours, I began to think the next time I saw you may be when you returned to pack your things and move out. And for once…”

Wednesday trailed off as her eyes shifted—from her cup, up to the night sky, then straight ahead in a blank type of way that made it clear she wasn’t looking at anything in particular. Enid let her take her time, didn’t say anything when she took a breath in and let it out in a sigh, soft like a midnight breeze. For a long moment Wednesday looked through the darkness like the end of her sentence might be written in the moonlight. 

Then, finally, she looked at Enid. 

“For once, being alone didn’t feel good.”

Enid stopped counting discoveries about Wednesday after that, not because she stopped making them, but because none of them seemed to matter as much as the one she’d made that night.

Wednesday Addams definitely didn’t hate Enid. 

Wednesday might’ve actually considered her a friend.

Chapter Text

The snow started in late November. 

Unsurprisingly, Wednesday always had an affinity for winter over the other seasons. She had many reasons for this, and likely to the shock of anyone who’d ever looked at and/or met her, most of them weren’t death-related. In winter there were the short days and long nights, the solid stability of frozen ground, the satisfaction of seeing your breath unfurl in a cloud of fog. Winter was a season most people disliked because it was uncomfortable, but Wednesday had always seemed to find contentment in all the little “uncomfortable” parts of life—or, at the very least, a level of fascination with them that sent most people backing away with tight, wary smiles or an expression of fearful judgment. Regardless, Wednesday knew how people looked at her when they never planned to speak to her again, and she had only been disappointed once so far by the prospect of being left alone.

Yet another reason Wednesday liked winter: it was the loneliest season.

Animals burrowed away and fallen leaves left trees barren. The unnecessary colors of the world were stripped down to shades of frosty white and slate, and clutter was buried under sheets of snow. In a perfect world, life would be like winter—it would be silvery moonlight and silence, icy footsteps that crunched and the biting chill of gray solitude. Wednesday would be a ghost in this life until the next as was intended by whatever powers were at play.

But Wednesday, in all of her cynicism, knew that life wasn’t perfect. She knew this because nothing was perfect.

And also because on the day of the first snowfall as Wednesday was heading to the gym, the human equivalent of a rainbow crossbred with a golden retriever came running across the quad shouting her name.

Wednesday stopped, put her hands in the pockets of her vest, and waited for Enid to jog her way over, eyes bright and cheeks rosy from the cold, and say, “It’s snowing.”

There were snowflakes in her hair and gathered on Wednesday’s clothes. The ground was covered in half an inch of snow. Everything—sidewalks, grass, trees—was completely white with snow. Thick flakes of snow were currently falling between them as they spoke.

Wednesday said, “I had no idea.”

“Do you know what this means?”

“I was wise to have my winter tires put on last week.”

“No.”

Wednesday furrowed her eyebrows. “I disagree. It was a very proactive decision.”

“Wednesday—“ Enid grabbed her arm over the sleeve of her gray hoodie and gave it an excited shake— “we have to build a snowman!”

Wednesday watched a flake of snow land delicately on Enid’s nose. “Why? Is someone making us?”

Enid rolled her eyes. Another shake on Wednesday’s arm, this one hard enough to bring the rest of her body into the movement. “It’s the first snowfall of the season. So yes, I’m making us.”

Even though the idea of someone trying to make her do something would usually result in Wednesday putting all her effort into doing the opposite, she did think about it. And if she was honest with herself, she’d been thinking about a lot of Enid-related things lately—what she might like for supper, the stupid pop songs she listened to that Wednesday sometimes found herself humming when she was alone, her stuffed unicorn collection that had made multiple appearances in some of Wednesday’s duller nightmares. Lately, it seemed that everywhere Wednesday turned, Enid was there in some metaphorical way (and, about half of the time, also in a physical way since Enid seemed to have a strange talent for finding her in places she had no reason to look, like out in the quad during a snowstorm).

It was odd because she didn’t typically allow anyone to take over her mind unless they’d wronged her in some way and she was planning subsequent revenge. And despite a lot of unfavorable things that arose from being close to Enid (the eye rape that was the assault of bright colors present on her side of the room for starters), Wednesday didn’t have a reason to seek revenge on her, but Enid seemed to have made a nice cozy home for herself in Wednesday’s frontal lobe anyway. Like a parasite with a pink fluffy jacket and dyed hair.

Even more startling than thinking about Enid, however, was the sinking feeling Wednesday got in her stomach when she had to decline doing something she wanted.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”

“Why?” Enid challenged, and that was something she’d started doing since that night with the slurpees. Challenging Wednesday. “Because it’s childish and a waste of time?”

“Yes.” Enid’s thumb brushed back and forth over Wednesday’s wrist, but her eyebrows raised in a way that was probably meant to be threatening. And Wednesday obviously wasn’t threatened (because… rainbow. Golden retriever. Enid) but something compelled her to add, “Also, I have fencing practice in fifteen minutes, and I refuse to sacrifice the structural integrity of our snowman for the sake of rushing.”

Enid seemed to study her for a moment. Then, finally, she let go of Wednesday’s arm. “Fine, I’ll let you out of it. But only because you have your gym bag with you so I know you’re not lying.”

“Your hands would have gotten cold anyway,” Wednesday reasoned. “You’re not wearing gloves.”

Enid hmphed and promptly put her hands in the pockets of her absurdly puffy and pink jacket. It seemed to be the only thread of clothing she had on that was even partially made for the cold—the rest of her colorful attire was better suited for summer, right down to the sneakers on her feet, now covered in a healthy coating of snow up to the ankle. Enid apparently didn’t have any interest in silly concepts like not getting hypothermia.

“Well, not all of us can just be magically prepared for random dumps of snow,” she defended.

“Enid, it’s called a forecast.”

“Whatever. It’s a short walk back to the dorm anyway.”

It wasn’t a short walk. It was halfway across campus in a snowfall that was predicted to heighten dramatically within the next hour. And Enid wasn’t even wearing a hat.

Wednesday didn’t really know what she was doing until her hood was down and she was pulling off her own hat and saying, “Here.”

Enid blinked at the black beanie like Wednesday was offering her a grenade with the pin pulled. “What?”

“Take it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“But then you won’t have it for your walk back tonight.”

“I have a hood. You don’t.”

Enid raised her eyebrows expectantly. “And…?”

“If you catch a cold your voice will be nasally and I’ll be forced to find other accommodations to avoid listening to it.”

(This was a valid reason to give away a hat, and anyone who thought otherwise clearly didn’t know that the magnitude of illness required to stop Enid from regurgitating useless celebrity gossip would also be the magnitude required to put her into a coma)

Enid grinned and bounced a little on her toes. “All I heard is that you don’t want me to catch a cold, which is very sweet of you.”

Wednesday’s fingers clenched around her hat. “Enid, if you don’t take the hat I will consider it an insult and prepare my revenge accordingly.”

“Oh yeah? And what would this revenge entail?”

And that was a new, strange thing about Enid that made a niggling thought in the back of Wednesday’s mind grow ever stronger, a thought that told her Enid’s role in Wednesday’s life was more than a passing roommate. Because Wednesday had never met anyone yet that she couldn’t threaten. But then there was Enid, who seemed to show a startling lack of concern for her own life.

Then there was Enid, standing in front of Wednesday after she’d just threatened her. Smirking.

Usually someone not taking her threats seriously wouldn’t bother Wednesday. Everyone made mistakes from time to time, and Wednesday was a very understanding person who was all too happy to make them realize their error by following through on her threat (she was nothing if not an advocate for a useful learning experience). 

But Enid not taking her threats seriously put Wednesday in the uncomfortable situation of being… passive. Because again and again she’d threatened Enid about various minor infarctions, and again and again Enid would just smile and challenge her back and Wednesday would always find herself immobilized and in the unfathomable circumstance where she was unable to think of anything to do about it.

Which was… curious.

However, in this specific situation, there was something Wednesday could do.

She could reach up and tug that stupid hat onto Enid’s stupid head herself, and when Enid’s stupid fucking laugh (that made Wednesday so fucking stupid) followed her as she resumed her walk to the gym, the corner of Wednesday’s lips might’ve tugged into a smile.

Until a snowball hit her in the back.

Wednesday stopped dead in her tracks. Turned around. Slowly.

And that blond-haired, blue-eyed puppy dusted off her hands and winked at Wednesday Addams.

“I’ll be expecting your revenge, roomie.”

Wednesday watched her skip away for longer than necessary while one eloquent thought cycled around and around in her mind. 

Fuck.

Because there would be no revenge. Wednesday made Enid ramen that night for supper and didn’t even think about poisoning it. 

.     .     .

If there was one good thing to come out of that interaction, it was that Enid in fact did not get sick. If there was one bad thing about it, it was that Wednesday did. 

Not having to listen to a symphony of sniffles and coughs coming from the other side of the room was only a minor plus now that Wednesday herself would be making all those sounds. And having a cold was already impressively high on Wednesday’s ‘things to loath’ list, but add a doting roommate to the ordeal and she was already thinking about where she could get a dose of sleeping pills strong enough to render her unconscious for the next few days.

Luckily, she only had a headache and a scratchy throat the first day, so she was able to go about her business as usual and fly under Enid’s radar. But on day number two, when Wednesday woke up on her stomach with a clogged nose, sore throat, a head that felt like it’d been stuffed with cotton, and her flaming cheek pressed into her uncomfortably hot pillow… she knew the torture would start. And she didn’t mean the cold.

“You’re sick,” were the first words she heard that morning, moments after opening her eyes. 

It was still dark outside and Enid was sitting on the edge of her bed, the warm glow of the lamp casting her face in orange as she stared at the nearly dead (very much and unfortunately alive) girl on the other side of the room. Upon Wednesday’s grunt of reluctant affirmation, she stood and stepped over the black tape separating their halves without hesitation. Wednesday had the urge to burrow her face into her pillow and pull the blankets over her head in the hopes Enid might think she disappeared, but her head was too groggy and her muscles too much like molten jello to do anything but eye her roommate suspiciously as she approached. Enid came right over to the side of the bed and reached a hand towards Wednesday’s face, who found enough of her mind intact to jerk away from the offending appendage. Her warning glare would’ve sent most people scurrying for cover.

Enid glared back. “I’m checking to see if you have a fever. Don’t make it difficult.”

Wednesday absolutely would make it difficult. In fact, she had big plans to make it difficult. It was just a little cold, and if Enid thought for even a second that Wednesday needed anybody to take care of her, or check her for a goddamn fever, she was sorely mistaken because—

Enid pressed her hand to Wednesday’s forehead. 

Her cool hand. 

And it felt so good against Wednesday’s flaming skin that her eyes fluttered closed.

“Shit, you’re burning up, Wens.”

The hand disappeared and Wednesday immediately wanted it back. She almost even reached forward to snag it before it could escape too far, but when she opened her eyes next all she saw was Enid shutting the door behind her as she left. She respected her fleeing of course (Wednesday would’ve done the same), but the loss of her cold hand was disappointing (the loss of Enid herself was, you know… super neutral. Wednesday definitely couldn’t care less). 

She blinked at the bleary assault of colors on Enid’s side of the room for another moment as her mind, still clouded with morning confusion, snapped into a singular, brief moment of clarity.

Wait… Wens?

It turned out Enid did not resign Wednesday to recover in sniffling solitude after all. She returned shortly, came right back to Wednesday, and Wednesday didn’t flinch this time as she draped a cold cloth across her forehead. 

Wednesday didn’t know what to say, but she opened her mouth anyway, and what came out was a scratchy, “Wens?”

Enid pressed the back of her hand to Wednesday’s burning cheek. “Sorry, it just slipped out.”

Her eyes shut again as a sleepy response fell from her lips in a mumble. “S’fine.” 

And Enid’s soft laugh was warm in a way that felt so much better than the fever. 

“Is this it then? The thing that’s finally going to defeat the big scary Wednesday Addams?” The bed shifted and creaked as Enid sat down by Wednesday’s hip. “A cold?”

Usually Wednesday would rush to defend herself at the implication that she could be defeated, but Enid’s voice was teasing and light like a snowflake fluttering to the ground, and Wednesday’s head, admittedly, wasn’t all there at the moment.

“I prefer spooky,” was her groggy reply.

She knew Enid was grinning. Could hear it in her voice as she flipped her hand and gently pressed another burst of cool bliss onto Wednesday’s cheek, who seemed to melt even further into the mattress in response. 

“So spooky.”

Wednesday hummed her agreement and Enid snorted.

“I think you should stay here today,” she said, her thumb brushing softly back and forth over Wednesday’s skin like a tingling winter breeze. “Take some meds and sleep it off. I can bring you breakfast before my classes and—“

“No,” Wednesday grunted. In what took a colossal amount of willpower, she shook off Enid’s disgustingly perfectly-temperatured hand and pushed herself up with a pathetic sniffle, crossing her legs under her on the mattress. “I’m getting up. I’m getting a midterm back this afternoon and I need to—“ sniffle—“go to the gym.”

“I don’t think—“

“You should also leave. As soon as possible, actually.” Wednesday’s voice was nasally and disgusting enough to make most people debate touching her with a ten foot pole, but when she turned to Enid, all her roommate did was arch a brow that read are you serious? so clearly she might as well have said the words out loud. “Maybe room with Yoko for a few days.”

Enid didn’t even pretend to consider it. “I’m good. I have a really strong immune system.”

“Enid—“

“Save it, I’m not leaving,” Enid said resolutely. Then she leaned in a little, and her eyes were like sunlight piercing murky water. “You’re stuck with me, Addams.”

Wednesday held her gaze, took in her messy morning curls and the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. And she had never felt so content with being stuck.

“It would seem so.”

In the thirty minutes it took Wednesday to peel herself out of bed and get ready, she was told at least thirty times to put her ass right back in that bed and go back to sleep. Enid’s warnings became increasingly more direct and assertive, but Wednesday had long since come to terms about her problems with authority, so when she grabbed her gym bag and Enid said, “If you leave now you are directly disobeying doctor’s orders!” it came as no surprise when Wednesday’s scratchy, congested voice shot back, “You’re not a doctor, Enid.”

And the slamming of their door as Wednesday left the room cut off Enid’s next protest. 

Wednesday thought spite would fuel her throughout the day, but she was proved horribly wrong within her first fifteen minutes of entering the gym. Every rep made her head pound and her stomach lurch, and by the time she came to the end of her warm up, sweat was running down her back and she was taking in gulps of air like a desperate fish out of water. She couldn’t even get halfway through her first set of weighted lunges before her spinning head forced her to take an unwilling seat on the floor. She promptly gave up and got in the shower. If Enid were to ask, though, she had the best workout of her life.

As she went to her first class of the morning, slightly rejuvenated from her shower, Wednesday was determined to show Enid and that horrid cold that there wasn’t a lousy virus in existence that would render her incapable of doing exactly what she wanted to do.

And as she dragged her feet to her second class after almost passing out in the first, Wednesday thought that maybe she should have put more stock into what Enid and her made-up medical credentials had to say. 

After fifty minutes of sniffling and blinking the blurriness from her vision and nodding off between sputtering coughs that she attempted to muffle into the crook of her elbow, Wednesday had an hour break until her next class. She decided to go to the library. She’d work a little bit on an English essay that was due next week and use the rest of her time to eat a quick lunch before heading off again, undoubtedly feeling rested and prepared for the hour-and-a-half lecture she had in the afternoon. 

At least that was her plan as she sat at one of the desks in the library and pulled up a word document on her laptop.

Her reality , however, was waking up to someone shaking her shoulder and the imprint of her keyboard on her forehead, her award-winning essay a poetic “In the short storyyyyuujkmlmlm” followed by 133 pages of lowercase h’s. 

“Let’s go, Wednesday.”

In the cloudy confusion that followed being suddenly and unwillingly woken from a fever-induced coma, the only thing that Wednesday knew was that Enid owned the voice that was speaking to her and the hand that was gently squeezing her shoulder. 

“I—no, I gotta… I have a class,” she mumbled, squinting and blinking hard and trying to bring her mind into a state of consciousness where something—literally anything—made sense. “I have a class at twelve and—“

“It’s two o’clock.”

“No. No, I gotta get to—“

“You’ve got to get back to the room. Let’s go.”

“Enid—“

Another squeeze on her shoulder and a soft but undeniably amused, “C’mon, Wens.”

Enid closed her laptop and put it in her bag, then held her hands out to Wednesday, who grabbed them almost on instinct in her daze and let Enid pull her to her feet. Enid slung Wednesday’s bag over her shoulder, where it hung awkwardly due to her own bag being on the other one, and led Wednesday out of the library like a lantern in the dark. They took the underground walkway back to the dorms and Wednesday’s mind, though still spinning, cleared considerably along the way.

“How’d you know where I was?” she snuffled at one point to Enid, who was walking beside her, all too happy to adhere to Wednesday’s snail-like pace.

“Yoko texted me saying she was pretty sure a girl was dead in the common room. I figured it had to be you.”

Wednesday sniffed and blinked blurriness out of her eyes that were somehow too wet and dry at the same time. “Oh.”

“Also,” Enid continued brightly, “you got 100 percent on your biology midterm. Good job.”

“How—“

“I picked it up from your prof’s office on the way. Told him that you were sick in bed, which you obviously should’ve been… but I digress.”

Wednesday appreciated the digression. She also appreciated Enid’s silence the rest of the way back to the room, where she immediately left Wednesday to get into her “comfy clothes” while she went to the store on campus and picked up some cold medicine and cough drops. When Enid returned, Wednesday was sitting in front of her typewriter, hands on the keys, blearily staring at a blank page. As she’d been doing for the past twenty minutes.

“No,” Enid said.

“It’s my writing time.”

“No writing time today. Only sleeping time.”

“I did enough of that at the library. It’s no longer productive.”

“And sitting at your typewriter and not writing anything is productive. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Wednesday silently looked away from her blank page. She looked at Enid. And Enid looked back. And for a few long moments they stared at each other, neither willing to make the first move in whatever strange standoff was occurring. Wednesday was trying really hard not to sniffle and ruin the tense silence.

Finally, Enid chucked her reusable bag of cold remedies at Wednesday and said, “I’m going to the dining hall to grab some dinner for both of us. If you’re not in that bed—“ an aggressive point at aforementioned bed—“by the time I get back…” 

Wednesday could tell Enid didn’t often make threats by the way she hesitated. She still had that wide-eyed, supposed-to-be-threatening look on her face though, so Wednesday assumed she planned to go somewhere with it (and, if she was honest with herself, she was curious to see what kind of threat could leave Enid Sinclair’s mouth without tearing a hole in the space time continuum).

So she waited patiently.

Enid finally finished with, “I’ll dye my hair rainbow.”

She stormed out the door in a flurry of swishing pink fabric and curls, and Wednesday was left… unsettled. It was a threat she knew Enid would have no trouble following through on given her frequent musings about which color she should dye her hair next (Wednesday always suggested black, and Enid always suggested no). And if Wednesday had to be around Enid—which, for some reason, she decided she did—she refused to give her any reason to expand the already-overwhelming array of colors present on her body at any given point.

So when Enid came back with two takeout containers of spaghetti in her hands, Wednesday was sitting cross-legged on the bed with her typewriter on the mattress in front of her. Her back was hurting from leaning over it and she still hadn’t typed a single letter, but when she saw Enid’s expression shift from smug triumph to surprise then lastly to flat annoyance, it had all been worth it. Wednesday even let a tiny smile of victory pull at her lips as Enid roughly deposited the spaghetti on her nightstand in defeat. 

It wasn’t until later that night that Wednesday realized she hadn’t actually won. At least not according to her usual standard of winning, which specifically stated that she had to leave the other party’s ego or body so significantly bruised they would never attempt to challenge her again. What happened with Enid hadn’t been a victory. It had been a compromise.

Wednesday didn’t compromise.

Unless it was for Enid. Apparently. And that seemed to be a running theme with most things related to Enid. 

Wednesday didn’t allow anybody to touch her (unless it was Enid). 

Wednesday didn’t allow unnecessary noises or talking during her writing time (unless it was Enid’s unnecessary pop music or gossipy ramblings). 

Wednesday didn’t apologize (unless it was Enid’s feelings she’d hurt)

And Wednesday most certainly didn’t let anything or anyone stand in the way of her delivering deserved revenge (unless, of course, Enid was standing in her way, holding her hand, begging her not to go after the boy who’d made her cry).

Wednesday also didn’t see herself allowing, let alone purchasing, a Christmas tree with bright lights that shifted between different arrays of colors every ten seconds. But there she was in the first week of December, tapping her payment card against a Walmart debit machine to not just buy the tree, but also a set of warm, twinkling lights to hang around the inside of their tiny dorm room window.

In her defense, at least half her reasoning for getting the Christmas decorations was spite (the other half was the increasingly common reason she did most things nowadays, which was to appease the spirit of a rainbow trapped in a human vessel that lived in her room). It happened while Wednesday was on a video call with her parents. They’d been going on with their usual “how is school” and “have you made any friends” between spurts of losing themselves in each other's eyes, then they started talking about Christmas.

“You know you can always come home, my little scorpion,” her father said affectionately. “I’ve missed that judgmental glare of yours terribly.”

“Gomez,” her mother chided, “Wednesday has decided that she would be more productive at school over break. As much as your absence pains us, darling, we respect your decision.”

“Thank you, mother.”

“We will be sending your gift by courier, so I do hope you have some free space in your room for a Christmas tree.”

Wednesday said, “We will not be getting one.”

And Enid said, “What? Why not?”

Wednesday froze. Wednesday’s parents froze. And when Wednesday finally recovered enough to slowly face her roommate who was sitting on her bed supposedly absorbed in her phone, she found that Enid was frozen too. She was staring at Wednesday with these wide eyes like a deer in front of the headlights of a speeding car. 

Curious, Wednesday removed her earbuds to see if the volume really was that loud—

“Darling, is that Enid?”

Wednesday’s head snapped around again. The volume somehow seemed louder than before even though that was impossible since her earbuds were clearly plugged—

“Oh, how terrible! We never get to talk to the brave soul that’s befriended our little viper!”

She looked at the part of the cord plugged into her computer, but it was soundly connected. Why were her parents’ voices broadcasting through her speakers?

Wednesday hardly noticed Enid hesitantly get off the bed and make her way over, her own earbuds tucked into the neck of her shirt. Wednesday was still investigating where the cord met her laptop.

Then Enid was bending down so her face was in view of the camera. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Addams!”

“Oh, no need for such formality, Enid. Anyone who wins the favor of our little deathtrap is family. We’ve heard so much about you.”

Wednesday roughly shifted her laptop to see the plug-ins better.

“Really?”

“Of course we have!”

“You’re the only person Wednesday speaks fondly off.”

What the fuck was wrong with—

“Really ?”

“Enid,” Wednesday said, “why aren’t my earbuds—”

“Yes! We’ve heard all about your miserable adventures together,” her father went on. “We can never repay you for bringing our little storm cloud out of her shell.”

“Oh, it’s totally fine!” Enid replied. “Me and Wens have tons of fun together. It’s been great.” Wednesday felt a poke on her shoulder, but she was busy bringing an earbud up to her ear to see if any sound was transmitting through the device. “It would be more great if we could get a Christmas tree.”

“Ah,” her mother chimed in, “but I’m afraid our daughter has a stubborn streak. Try as you might, loup courageux, Wednesday is simply incapable of changing her mind once it’s been made up.”

Wednesday’s eyes finally snapped up to the laptop screen and met the gaze of her mother. Morticia was smiling the type of gentle smile she wore when she thought there was nothing about her daughter she didn’t know. 

“Aren’t you, darling?”

It made Wednesday eager to prove her wrong.

Enid sighed. “Well, that’s—“

“It’s been horrible talking to you, but I must go,” Wednesday interjected suddenly. She nodded at the laptop screen. “Farewell, Mother. Father.”

Then she shut the laptop in the middle of their smiling goodbyes. Wednesday quickly stood and went to her closet, Enid staying behind and blinking at her in confusion as she rifled through the hangers.

“Well… that was abrupt.”

“Enid, how long have you been eavesdropping on my conversations with my parents?”

The silence that fell in the room was heavy. Then, voice quiet and unsure, Enid said, “It’s technically not eavesdropping if the neighbors can hear.”

“Fine.” Wednesday selected a black vest and turned around to face her sheepish roommate. “How long have you watched me use earbuds that you knew did not work and neglected to tell me?”

Enid’s eyes were wide as her fingers played nervously with the hem of her sweater. “Since September.”

“And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I—you just…” Enid sighed. “You barely tell me anything about yourself. If it wasn’t for your video calls with your parents, I wouldn’t have known that you had a little brother or that your parents are super rich CEOs of their own company, or what your novel is about or that your favorite author is Mary Shelly. And I wouldn’t have found out about your birthday.”

Ah, so that’s how Enid knew when her birthday was. She figured Thing wouldn’t have snitched.

“You know almost everything about me and I don’t even know what your favorite color besides black is.” Enid shook her head, then seemed to notice she was still on Wednesday’s side of the tape and took a hasty step back. Her shoulders raised and fell with a breath. “I’m sorry for intruding on your privacy, I really am. I just… wanted to get to know you better.”

Enid pressed her lips together and looked down at the floor, resembling a guilty puppy resigned to the fate of getting a hard tap on the nose for her misbehavior. 

“It’s okay,” Wednesday said. Enid’s eyes lifted to hers again, bright and hopeful, and Wednesday was relieved. Remorse and self-disgust were two expressions she usually didn’t mind seeing on people’s faces, but Enid wasn’t people. Enid was her person.  “And besides black, I find red the most tolerable.”

“Good to know.”

“Also… I will try to be more forthcoming in the future.”

“Thank you.” Enid clasped her hands behind her back and inclined her head in a formal nod of acknowledgment. “I’ll try to be less nosy.”

Wednesday nodded back. “Thank you.”

A beat of silence fell between the two of them. Finally, the grin that Enid must’ve been holding back since Wednesday’s ‘it’s okay’ finally spread across her face, and she bounced excitedly on her toes. “We totally just had a good communication moment. I’m so proud of how healthy we are.”

“Yes. Very healthy.”

Enid raised her eyebrows and slowly lifted her arms to the side. “Healthy enough for a hug?”

“No.”

Though she dropped her arms, Enid’s proud smile didn’t so much as flicker at the dismissal. “Yeah, that was a long shot.”

Wednesday hummed in agreement. “Now, if we’re done discussing the health of our relationship, get a coat on. We’re heading out.”

Enid’s eyes lit up with intrigue. She was already moving toward her pink winter coat hanging off her desk chair as she asked, “Where are we going?”

“To Walmart,” Wednesday replied, and grabbed her credit card out of her desk drawer. “To get a Christmas tree.”

Enid, one arm through the sleeve of her coat, gasped and spun around, her outerwear hanging awkwardly over one shoulder. “I thought you said we weren’t getting one.”

“That was before my mother said that she knew I wouldn’t get one. She knows nothing about me, and I intend to prove it.”

Her roommate didn’t so much as question her reasoning as she rushed to get her other arm through her sleeve. She just grinned, shoulders bouncing in a cheerful shrug. “Well, a spiteful Christmas tree is way better than no Christmas tree.”

She skipped for the door. 

“Enid, your hat.”

She skipped back and took the crocheted hat that Wednesday was holding out (and assumed she made herself if the somehow seamless mix of pink, purple, and blue wool were any indication).

So yes, Wednesday got a little three foot tall, color-changing Christmas tree with some tinsel and ornaments besides and helped Enid set it up in their room. And yes, as a headache built behind Wednesday’s eyes from looking at the thing, she could comfort herself with knowledge that she’d proved her mother wrong and that’s why she did it.

But when she looked at Enid, her smile lit up by the shifting colors of the tree and her eyes like a clear winter sky looking at Wednesday in a way nobody else did—like she saw the darkness in her and didn’t wish for it to change—Wednesday knew the truth. 

“What did your mom call me earlier?” Enid asked when they were settling down for the night, the room dark except for the warm light of the tree. For a second, the planes of Enid’s face existed in a smattering of red and gold before shifting to teal. “I don’t know much French, so…”

“Loup courageux,” Wednesday said. Enid tilted her head curiously, the curled ends of her hair brushing her shoulder. “It means, brave wolf.”

Enid’s eyebrows shot up, then a grin began to tug at the corners of her lips. She looked down at her bed sheets, almost bashful.

Wednesday said, “It suits you.”

She clicked the button on the floor with her foot and the light of the Christmas tree flicked off, leaving the room in darkness, but not before she saw Enid’s head jerk up again. 

“Really?”

Wednesday climbed into bed. “Goodnight, Enid.”

And she could hear the teasing grin in Enid’s voice as she said, “Goodnight, my little storm cloud.”

“Enid…”

“What? I like it.” There was the creaking of a bed frame and rustling of sheets as Enid got under the covers. Silence fell over the room except for the quiet whistling of wind outside. Then, “It’s cute.”

Wednesday didn’t say anything, only blindly fired a pillow to the other side of the room, and Enid’s laughter lit up the inky darkness like the sound was threaded with moonlight.

.     .     .

Wednesday concluded shortly after the Christmas tree incident that Enid and her could not go on as they were without suffering some type of mental consequences. She didn’t have knowledge about what universal laws existed to create human life, but she was certain that Enid and herself truly lay on opposite sides of the spectrum—the question wasn’t if they would drive each other mad, it was when. Their mutual insanity was inevitable, like the falling of the night or death. 

Her best course of action would have obviously been to avoid Enid and her nausea-inducing color scheme for the sake of her own sanity, but Wednesday had decided that if she was going to go insane, it would be best to just get it over with. At least that’s why she told herself she spent so much of her time with Enid. 

That’s why she started going to the dining hall with Enid for supper, not because the room was far too empty on the evenings Wednesday was there alone without her roommate’s chattering and music. Enid would still eat with her in their room half the time, but the other half consisted of Wednesday sitting in a noisy dining hall with Enid and her friends, minimally engaging in bland conversation about sports and various extracurricular activities.

(She also had to repel pitiful advances from a boy named Xavier, who’d deluded himself into thinking Wednesday was there for any reason other than to eat mediocre food and make sure Ajax didn’t come within fifty square feet of the premises)

After a few days, Enid accepted that these social gatherings were not Wednesday’s preferred way to spend her evenings, and made a suggestion in an effort to help Wednesday get through the hour without fantasizing about choking and dying on her own food.

“Why don’t you ask Tyler to come?” she’d asked one night as they were walking to the dining hall, the winter air icy and fogging in front of their mouths whenever one of them broke the peaceful silence. 

Wednesday said, “Tyler and I stopped seeing each other in the beginning of November.”

Enid’s crunching footsteps grinded to a halt, and, as a result, Wednesday’s did too. She was only going to this social gathering because of Enid, after all (along with the hastening of her inevitable insanity, of course), and she’d be damned if she moved even a millimeter in the direction of that incessant noise pit if there was any indication that her roommate was no longer going to join her.

But Enid wasn’t just having second thoughts. She was having all the thoughts, and judging by her wide eyes and her mouth that was numbly opening and closing like a fish, she was having difficulty organizing them enough to voice one. “Wha—you and… I mean, how did—why didn’t you—what ?”

“Full sentences, Enid.”

“You’ve been broken up for over a month? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“First of all, there was nothing to break up. We talked to each other and spent time together, and now we don’t. Second—“

“C’mon, Wednesday, don’t act like there wasn’t something between you two.”

“Yes,” Wednesday said bitterly. “That something was a misjudgment of character on my part.”

Enid didn’t say anything, but her eyebrows furrowed and she cocked her head like a confused puppy.

Wednesday’s sigh was punctuated by a cloud of fog that unfurled in front of her mouth. Footsteps crunched behind them, and they both looked to see someone coming up the pathway they were currently blocking off. Enid took Wednesday by the wrist and tugged her to the side to make room. They ended up near the trunk of a barren tree, a nearby light on the path causing half of Enid’s face to be casted in shadow and the other half in a warm orange-y glow. Blond and pink and blue curls poked out from beneath the black beanie she was wearing—Wednesday’s since Enid had forgotten hers again.

“Tyler was in wrestling,” Wednesday said. “He was barely good enough for varsity, so when he finished second in one of his competitions, they did a drug test and he came back positive. He got expelled.”

“Shit.” A gentle squeeze on the wrist she hadn’t realized Enid was still holding until now. “I’m sorry, Wens.”

Wednesday huffed what might’ve been a scoff if she tried harder and if she wasn’t, for some reason, so focused on the warmth of Enid’s fingers through her sleeve. “I’m not. He would rather cheat than lose honorably. That makes him a coward, and I don’t associate with cowards.” 

“Still, it has to suck.”

Wednesday shrugged and flatly added, “I also found out his father arrested my father for murder back in the 90s and still has a vendetta against him, so family suppers would be awkward.”

“Oh.” Enid’s eyebrows shot up. “Shit, yeah. That would do it.”

Wednesday hummed in agreement, finding her eyes darting down to Enid’s hand without her control. Her fingernails were painted white and baby blue. 

Enid seemed to suddenly remember where her hand was and pulled her fingers away like Wednesday’s wrist had burst into flame, mumbling a quick apology as she shoved it in her pocket. Like a reflex, Wednesday found an absentminded “it’s okay” falling from her lips, but Enid rushed on with something else and Wednesday’s whispered words were swallowed away like their breaths in the winter air. 

“Well, that settles it then,” Enid said resolutely. “We’re having a belated post-breakup girl’s night.”

Wednesday studied Enid, looking for signs that this so-called ‘girl’s night’ may lead to more unwanted social interaction. “Does this mean we don’t have to go to the dining hall?”

“No, we still need to eat.” Wednesday pressed her lips together in distaste, but Enid just started backing up toward the path again and grinned in a way that Wednesday knew meant she had something disgustingly warm and cozy planned for the evening. “Don’t worry, we’ll make it quick.”

True to her word, Wednesday only had to sit through twenty minutes of agonizing conversation and good-natured joking before Enid stood from her chair and declared that they had “very important matters to attend to” before hooking her arm through Wednesday’s and leading her out of the dining hall like a cordial gentleman. Wednesday let herself be pulled along, and didn’t bother asking any questions about what Enid was up to since she’d find out soon enough anyway.

They ended up going to the store on campus, where Enid led them to a freezer with tubs of ice cream inside and asked Wednesday what her favorite flavor was.

“Cookie dough,” she replied, and Enid turned to her in shock.

“Really?”

“Yes. Why?”

“That’s just… such a normal answer.”

Wednesday arched an eyebrow, and Enid quickly seemed to decide she didn’t want to stick around to find out what it meant. She grabbed a small tub of cookie dough for Wednesday and a tub of rainbow for herself, ignoring Wednesdays complaints about the ambiguity of calling an ice cream flavor ‘rainbow’ as she brought them up to the counter. On their way back, Wednesday commented that a whole tub of ice cream each was far too much to eat, but Enid informed her that the purpose was less about the amount of ice cream and more about the unparalleled level of catharsis received by sticking your spoon into a full tub of it (apparently this healing process could simply not be accomplished by consuming a reasonable amount of ice cream out of a regular bowl, and who was Wednesday to argue with that unshakable logic?).

When they got back to their room, Enid’s rush for them to both get in their pajamas (or, in Wednesday’s case, gray track pants and a black hoodie) before their ice cream melted was communicated through an abundant amount of hand flapping and nudging toward her closet. Wednesday still didn’t know exactly what Enid had planned for the night until she returned from the bathroom to find her sitting on her bed in pink unicorn pajama bottoms, her laptop sitting on her crossed legs. 

And Enid, one hand tapping on the mousepad, didn’t look up from her computer when Wednesday closed the door. She only used her other hand to pat the space next to her and said, “Here. Now.”

The only part of Wednesday that moved were her eyes. They scanned the length Enid’s bed, from the crocheted blanket that was folded at the foot to the frilly pillows at the head, each dart of her eyes marking yet another vomit-inducing burst of color in what already had to be the most vibrant six feet cubed area to ever exist. Then her eyes shifted to Enid. At the small space next to her.

“Then what?” Wednesday asked.

Enid didn’t seem to notice Wednesday’s hesitation. “Then ice cream,” she replied brightly. There was the prominent click of an enter button after she’d finished typing something. “And Netflix.”

“I don’t use Netflix.”

“And I’d be surprised if anyone else said that, but it seems very on-brand for you.”

“I find engaging in fictional narratives a waste of time.”

“Says the girl who spends an hour every day engaging in a fictional narrative about a detective named Viper.”

“The written word enriches the mind.”

“And the spoken word doesn’t?” Enid’s eyes finally lifted to meet Wednesday’s, and for some horrible reason, Wednesday now didn’t know what to do with her hands. “You’re really going to tell me that putting a story onto film instead of paper negates it of value?”

And there it was again—that challenge. It was in the raise of her eyebrows, the lift of her chin, the way she seemed to stand just as tall even though she was the one sitting down. In the few moments of silence that swelled in the space between them, it occurred to Wednesday that whatever hesitation and wariness Enid had held around her when they first met was gone, replaced with an unwavering gaze that was bold and sought out her own. 

Enid was completely unafraid of Wednesday, it seemed. And Wednesday didn’t know why she wasn’t more determined to change her mind.

“No,” she said finally. Quietly. “I won’t tell you that.”

Enid’s lips quirked into a knowing kind of smile that made Wednesday want to squirm. “Great. Now get your ass off that nineteenth century high horse and put it on the bed. We have a movie to watch.”

Wednesday did indeed put her ass on that colorful bed with all its colorful pillows, and to Enid’s credit, she removed most of them, leaving only a couple each for support between their backs and the headboard. She put the laptop between their legs and passed Wednesday her ice cream with a spoon already stuck into it. Then she quickly got up and turned off the lights, leaving the room in nearly complete darkness except for the glow of the laptop. Then they played the movie. 

It turned out to be a horror movie—one of those boring ones where a family moves into a house and realizes later that it’s haunted. It was predictable, and so were the jump scares, but Wednesday didn’t complain, just sat there, silent, squeezed together with Enid on that twin bed. Despite the tight fit, they weren’t touching. There was at least a centimeter between them, and she knew Enid was mindfully aware of it by the way she kept glancing at the space between long spurts of anxiously chewing her lip at the screen. Wednesday appreciated Enid’s continued efforts to respect her boundaries. After all, Wednesday didn’t tolerate being touched (except for the brief, baseline instances of hand-holding and reassuring arm squeezing that she did tolerate since it came with the territory of spending as much time with Enid as she did).

And Wednesday considered herself to be a reasonable person. She knew that some things came more naturally to certain people than other things—a fact of life that set the stage for that ever-convoluted paradox between Enid and herself to become apparent once more. Physical contact came natural to Enid, easy and absentminded like breathing, never really knowing she was doing it until she really thought about it or until those bright eyes darted down and caught her own hand traitorously clutching someone else’s. And, like breathing, it couldn’t be stopped. For a short time with conscious effort, yes, but to deny one’s nature was a tiring process that couldn’t go on forever, and, despite Enid’s continued efforts to not touch Wednesday to make her comfortable, there always came a point where resisting instinct became too much, and Enid needed to… take a breath.

Wednesday was no stranger to the struggle of resisting nature either. Being around Enid had given her enormous experience in that regard.

So it would have been unreasonable for Wednesday to get angry with Enid when she flinched at a jump scare and their arms ended up brushing together. The bed was small, after all, and Enid almost always accommodated Wednesday's dislike for touch despite Enid’s seeming need for it. 

For this reason, Wednesday could also forgive when Enid leaned over her to put her empty ice cream tub on the nightstand, their shoulders touching almost imperceivably when she settled back again.

She was running thin when Enid jumped at the sudden slamming of a door from somewhere outside, fingers flying to Wednesday’s arm and squeezing until she was certain a ghost wasn’t trying to force its way into their room.

And when Enid leaned closer to point something out on the screen through a yawn, Wednesday swore that would be the last instance she’d allow. Their shoulders pressed together and Wednesday stiffened. She blinked at the screen as Enid pulled her hand back, waiting for her to sit up and put that centimeter back between them that Wednesday so desperately needed to function.

But Enid stayed. And Wednesday forgave her for that too. 

Mostly because she suddenly couldn’t move or speak or breathe, and telling Enid to get off of her became a task that would’ve been impossible to do even if she wanted to.

The movie went on. Ghosts moved furniture and broke glass and there was screaming and Latin. Images flashed across her eyes of crosses and fire, but Wednesday couldn’t think of anything but the steady pressure of Enid’s arm against hers—a pressure that got heavier and heavier until it was joined by blond hair tickling pale skin and a head flopped on a shoulder.

Enid’s breathing was even and steady, which was fortunate since Wednesday’s was a series of shallow inhales that were barely enough to satisfy. Her heart was beating so hard she could hear her pulse in her ears. Feel it in her fingers. She didn’t dare look down, because if a slight bit of contact was already putting her close to cardiac arrest, she didn’t want to imagine what would happen if she threw sight into the mix.

So she stayed, stock still, staring wide-eyed at the screen as the climax of the movie played. Then the resolution. Then the end.

And as she numbly watched the credits roll, and Enid nuzzled tighter in her sleep, Wednesday’s heart threw itself against her rib cage as her stomach twisted and flipped and fell, and she was struck with a petrifying, horrible, undeniable truth.

Enid may have been unafraid of Wednesday, but Wednesday was terrified of Enid Sinclair.

Usually Wednesday faced what she was afraid of head-on, but this was a different type of fear. It was one that made her want to run, to push it away, to make it disappear like a black hole swallowed the light. But she couldn’t. Reversing whatever hold she’d been ignorant enough to let this girl have on her would be like drowning in water that was no longer there, being forever stuck in the frozen eye of a storm.

Enid was warm against her, fleecy softness and sleep. Pastels melted into inky sky, and Wednesday let it happen until the laptop screen was black and her bones were leaden with something heavy and sweet.

Wednesday melted back, and it came natural. 

Easy and absentminded like breathing.

.     .     .

“Wednesday.”

“Enid.”

“Are you actually upset about Tyler? Like, did you really like him?”

“I tolerated him.”

“Right. But for you that’s the same thing.”

“No it’s not.”

“Really? Because it seems like—“

“It’s not the same. Trust me.”

Chapter Text

Christmas came gradually. One day the dorms existed in their normal, boring shades of gray, ancient rock… then the decorations started. One by one, windows were lined with strings of lights ranging from rainbow to flickering gold, Enid and Wednesday’s own window being one of the first to start the trend. 

Enid thought it was beautiful. Wednesday thought it was a plague slowly infecting the campus—a theory that she made a point to voice every single evening when she noticed yet another tiny window fall into festive rank with the rest of the army. But on the nights when they walked back from the dining hall in the dark, Enid always caught Wednesday’s eyes glancing upward, bright shades of red and green and gold sparkling in her irises, and she didn’t see any resentment in that gaze.

It didn’t matter if Wednesday was looking up out of disgust or awe, though. Either way, the lights reflecting in her eyes looked like a smattering of midnight stars, and Enid couldn’t help but stare.

Other than that, there was no evidence pointing to Wednesday being anything but an absolute Scrooge about the holidays; a conclusion that was not the least bit shocking considering this was the same girl who physically squinted when she caught sight of strangers smiling. And, fitting to their usual paradoxical dynamic, Enid loved the holidays. The season was colorful, and there was no denying the magic in the air around Christmas (except that Wednesday did deny such a thing with great exasperation, but Enid was certain Wednesday always needed to be in some baseline state of annoyance to be content anyway, so it was probably fine).

So, all of this being what it was—that is, Cindy Lou Hoo and the Grinch’s significantly-less-hairy-but-significantly-more-grouchy cousin having to share a living space during the Christmas season—it came with a negative amount of surprise that some mild conflict arose between them.

The first was the Christmas tree situation, but that was quickly remedied by Wednesday’s spiteful need to get one over on her parents. So that was perfect. Problem number one solved. 

(But Enid had a sneaking suspicion Morticia had known that telling her daughter she wouldn’t do something would result in Wednesday immediately going out and doing it, because she seemed much too pleased to see the Christmas tree in the background of their next video call and the only reason Enid could think of for her satisfaction would be that it was her plan all along. And Enid had wondered before where Wednesday had gotten her deviousness from, so the fact that Morticia was every bit as scheming and clever as her daughter was a satisfying point for genetics.)

The next issue was Enid’s Christmas music. Or, more accurately, the playlist of pop covers of Christmas songs on her phone, plus some essential holiday classics. She’d created the playlist way back in June in anticipation of spending Christmas at college alone, because surely whoever she’d be rooming with would spend the holidays at home like a normal person who didn’t have a family with the type of toxic pack mentality that would give a cult a run for its money. 

At the very least, Enid had figured if by some chance her roommate wasn’t going home over break, they could both enjoy the sounds of musical holiday cheer together. But, again, this was back in June, before she knew she’d be rooming with the lesser known, fourth spirit of Christmas—not the ghost of Christmas past, present, or future—the ghost of Christmas absolutely the fuck not.

Wednesday made it pretty clear where her opinion on Enid’s Christmas music stood the first time she’d come back from fencing practice to her roommate bobbing her head to the tunes as she did her homework. 

Enid had looked up at Wednesday. Wednesday looked at Enid. Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas is You hung in the air like a noose made of tinsel and festive ribbons.

Wednesday said, “No.”

“Just hear me out—“

“It is the first day of December, Enid.”

“I think you mean it’s the first day of the holiday season.” 

“There is no holiday season. There is one holiday, and it’s not good enough to be glorified for the twenty-four days leading up to it.”

“Well, the rise of Mariah Carey and Michael Buble from their comas would disagree with you. They’re all over the radio, Wednesday. You can’t escape them.”

“I could’ve escaped them if they weren’t also in our room.”

For the benefit of not having to watch Wednesday knock herself unconscious with the nearest blunt object (which happened to be her typewriter, so, yeah, that would’ve been traumatic to witness), Enid reached forward to pause the song. “When would you deem it acceptable for me to start playing Christmas music?”

Wednesday’s eyebrows lifted a surprised millimeter at Enid’s attempt to compromise, and Enid bit down on the smug smile of satisfaction that always threatened to surface whenever she managed to accomplish the nearly impossible feat of dragging a recognizable emotion out of Wednesday Addams. 

Although, she didn’t know why Wednesday was surprised. Surely she’d shown her capacity to abide by an exuberant amount of boundaries by now.

“Christmas Eve,” Wednesday suggested.

Enid raised her eyebrows and hoped her internal Really? was effectively communicated. “Be realistic.”

“December twentieth.”

“December tenth.”

“The seventeenth. Final offer.”

Enid leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee then her head not-so-delicately in her hand. Her cheek was squished into her palm, making her narrowed eyes about 110% less threatening than they could have been. “Fifteenth.”

“Sixteenth.”

“On the fifteenth,” Enid said, “I can play Christmas music.”

Wednesday hesitated. Of course, Enid didn’t actually care whether Wednesday lifted her jolly music ban on the fifteenth or the sixteenth. She just wanted to see how far her roommate would let her take it.

“Fine,” Wednesday said finally. “The fifteenth.”

And in the same way that Wednesday shouldn’t have been surprised by Enid’s compromises, Enid shouldn’t have been surprised by Wednesday’s steadily increasing leniencies when it came to her boundaries. Because Wednesday’s boundaries used to be like mountains—solid, immovable, probably existing for centuries and standing up to the constant wear and tear of the elements. 

(The so-called elements , in this case, were the suffocating societal pressures to fit into one of around five previously constructed boxes labeled as ‘normal’, but Wednesday said “fuck your boxes, I’ll make my own box and it’s gonna be shaped like a coffin,” and Enid admired her for that.)

Wednesday’s boundaries now weren’t nearly as strong as they’d been when they met. As of the beginning of December, Enid would estimate their stability to be akin to that of a questionably-constructed brick wall. Everybody who interacted with Wednesday saw the change, and anyone who interacted with Wednesday and Enid saw that this change applied to one person and one person only.

“It’s unreal. You have her whipped.”

Her and Yoko were on a bench tying their sneakers during an early morning track practice, and Enid’s head snapped in the direction of her friend so violently that her cheek stung from the ends of her hair flicking against her skin.

“What?”

“Like a dog, Sinclair.”

“Okay, that’s not how that goes. Nobody whips dogs. Or… I hope not. And also, have you met Wednesday? She can’t be whipped. She’s, like, unwhippable.”

“Nobody is unwhippable.” Yoko finished one of her laces and started tying the other. “They just need the right person holding the whip.”

“You really think Wednesday would let that happen?”

“I don’t think she’s aware of it.”

“She’s, like, the smartest person alive. She’d be aware.”

“She’s in denial, then.”

“No, she’s—“ Enid let out an irritated huff and untied her own knot after realizing she’d messed it up in her distraction. “Nobody is holding anyone’s whip!”

Yoko slid her sunglasses down her nose and looked at Enid over the top of them. Enid stared back defiantly—a skill that she’d gotten at least twelve times better at since meeting Wednesday.

Yoko finally said, “You’re in denial too.”

Enid began to sputter out protests, but Yoko just got up from the bench to join the team gathering around their coach, and Enid was forced to hastily tie her sneakers and shove that conversation to the back of her mind.

It still stayed with her though. It plagued her through lunch, made her bounce her knee during lectures, and finally chased her back to her dorm room, where she opened the door to see Wednesday clacking away at her typewriter. Testing Yoko’s theory was a split second decision that had Enid blurting out the most ridiculous and unlikely-to-be-accepted request she could ever ask of her roommate.

“I want you to help me dye my hair red and green for Christmas.”

And Wednesday replied, “All of your hair or just the ends?”

Enid just stood there. Stunned. The clacking of typewriter keys went on uninterrupted.

“I’d suggest only the ends,” Wednesday continued. “The pink shouldn't be hard to cover with red, but it may be best to bleach the blue parts beforehand or we run the risk of making them teal instead of pure green.”

Enid’s mouth opened and closed. She didn’t know what to say. 

She had been certain Wednesday I-hate-colors-and-Christmas-for-no-good-reason-other-than-to-propagate-my-goth-aesthetic Addams wouldn’t even bat an eye or miss a letter on her obnoxiously loud keyboard to give her that signature flat denial. Because Wednesday was Wednesday—a color-loathing, death-glaring, creepy-comment-making human embodiment of a solitary black cat who bowed to the will of nobody, let alone Enid.

Then again, it was obvious before this that Wednesday treated her with a degree of respect and tolerance she showed to nobody else, and as a result Enid got away with more things than other people who had the misfortune of interacting with her roommate. But there was a difference between tolerating someone’s annoying habits and actively going out of your way to support those habits. Until now, Enid just assumed Wednesday had just gotten used to her presence, trained her mind to tune out Enid’s colorful quirks the same way someone would tune out the background noise in a supermarket. But it almost seemed like…

Wednesday valued Enid’s happiness.

And, in this case, valued it over her own.

Enid finally found words. “I don’t mind teal.”

“Don’t insult me, Enid. You asked for green, therefore you will get green. Settling for teal would mean I failed, and I don’t fail.” Wednesday ran out of space on her page and carefully removed it from the ancient device, examining it for a moment before adding it to the neat pile she had to show for her day’s work. “My writing time is over in three minutes. We will go to the store then.”

Despite how it may have looked as they left the beauty supply store that night with a bag of demi-permanent hair dye, bleach, and developer, Yoko wasn’t right. Their relationship was one of stuffed unicorns and murder boards, monochrome and rainbow, almost-rejected birthday cupcakes and accepted birthday snoods. There were boundaries and lines that couldn’t be crossed, and yet there were scuffs on that strip of black tape that divided their room. A Christmas tree with twinkling rainbow lights sat on that line.

So, yeah, Yoko was wrong. Wednesday didn’t listen to Enid because she was “whipped” or otherwise felt any need to accommodate her. Their seemingly strange little friendship wasn’t an anomaly at all. It actually abided by one of the most tried and true laws of the universe.

Opposites attract. 

You know, like two poles of a magnet, the way day constantly moved toward night, that calm little circle of peace in the middle of a hurricane, Wednesday and Enid, etcetera, etcetera.

It made sense. Things that are alike can repel one another—it’s safe. They still have certain rules and values they both have to follow that will eventually lead them back to the same path, even if they walk it a few meters apart. 

If opposites repelled each other, there would be no common ground to bring them back together. They would tumble and fall and sprint to get away from each other, pushing at the space between them endlessly until they reached the boundaries of the universe and tore it apart (and, yes, Enid was aware that the universe was probably infinite and ever-expanding and shit, and infinity technically had no boundaries, but if you ignore that little inconsistency then the poetry of her theory was staggering).

Opposites simply had to attract—there wasn’t an option for them to do anything else. Enid imagined the creators of the universe probably had a board meeting or something to solve this problem of opposites, and in the end, after hours of useless debate, their solution was narrowed down to a tired, “fuck it, let’s just make them get along. Put them in the same dorm room, I don’t give a shit.”

It was super possible that if their friendship didn’t have the maximum amount of polarity that could exist between two things without breaking some spatial energy law that held all the particles together, it might not work at all. Wednesday would have walked all over someone a little more timid and a little less patient, the same way Enid might have bombarded that same type of person with her eagerness. They were opposing forces equal in strength, like a neon sign bleeding through a pitch black night. It worked because neither was able to overpower the other (and getting along was easier than, like, some epic eternal fistfight or something).

Anyway, all this to say that the ‘opposites attract’ law was the only conceivable reason Wednesday Addams was standing behind Enid with those thin plastic hairdressing gloves on, wrapping each bright red and green section she’d just dyed with tinfoil.

It went well. So well in fact that Enid questioned whether or not Wednesday should just drop out of university now to pursue a hairdressing career. She’d also been ridiculously tidy about the whole thing. Enid counted exactly one stain on the floor that seemed to be from a drop of red hair dye, and it was on Wednesday’s otherwise colorless side of the room no doubt. She might’ve just not cleaned it up because it showed a startling resemblance to blood, but Enid liked to think that this was just further proof that Wednesday was allowing her further into her life, one drop of color at a time. 

Even though she’d be going to bed within the hour, Enid couldn’t resist drying and curling her hair just to see how it looked. When she was done, she turned to Wednesday, who must have had an alarm in her head that went off whenever Enid needed her for something because she turned too.

“What do you think?” Enid asked.

Wednesday rested her elbow on the back of her desk chair then her chin on her arm, studying her through half-lidded eyes, and Enid remembered that she’d had fencing practice extra early that morning. It was eleven in the night so she’d been up for around nineteen hours. 

She felt a sudden pinch of guilt at keeping her up so late, but then again, she didn’t regret it much since it gave her a chance to admire the rare phenomenon that was a sleepy Wednesday Addams. She’d only ever seen it a couple times, but it was always a jarring change—the way she took a second later to respond, that tiny crackle at the edge of her voice, how her body seemed to loosen, limbs heavy and head tilting and resting on a closed fist, soft in a way fully-awake-and-conscious Wednesday never was.

“The colors didn’t bleed together,” Wednesday mused finally. “And while I typically like seeing things bleed, in this case it’s ideal that it didn’t or you would’ve ended up with brown.”

“I bet you would’ve liked brown better.”

Sleepy Wednesday was a little less tense and a little less guarded, and sometimes, if Enid was lucky, a thought she never meant to voice would fall from her lips in a moment of drowsy forgetfulness.

“Not on you.”

And Enid could’ve physically swooned for the human equivalent of an ice-cold obsidian block that she’d somehow managed to make her friend, but she didn’t. Because Wednesday was already tired, and god forbid Enid add a drop of human emotion onto that predicament.

So she tried to stifle her smile the best she could, but she couldn’t help the hopefulness in her voice when she asked, “Does that mean you like it?”

Wednesday, whose eyes had fallen on a lock of red hair to the left of Enid’s face, said, “Do you?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I do. I love it.”

“Then… yes.” That sleepy gaze lifted. Night met day, and their strange little not-anomaly seemed to confuse the air between their eyes as it fizzled and popped. “I like it, Enid.”

And maybe it was the directness of Wednesday’s gaze or the quiet way the words left her mouth, but Enid wasn’t convinced they were still talking about hair.

.     .     .

It was the day Wednesday’s Christmas music ban was lifted that Enid identified the holiday-related thing that had the most potential to cause an irreversible rift between herself and her roommate. Because, sure, Wednesday didn’t like lights, music, colors, trees, carols, or anything else even remotely in the realm of holly jolly, but her distaste went only as far as complaints and glaring. Up until now, Wednesday had surprised Enid by not placing a curse on everything red and green within reasonable cursing distance. Still, Enid wouldn’t delude herself. Wednesday’s passivity came from pure tolerance and not any form of fondness.

But there was one thing about Christmas that Enid feared might send her over the edge of whatever festive cliff she was rapidly approaching, and it was arguably the most important aspect of the holiday.

Gifts (or, more accurately, the giving part of that whole scenario).

Usually gifts wouldn’t be an issue for Enid. Her predisposition to be neck deep into everybody’s business at all times gave her the natural ability to be a good gift-giver. It’s not like picking out gifts was hard—all it took was two functional ears and decent memory to figure out what someone wanted or didn’t. Even someone like Wednesday, whose only goal during a friendly conversation was to stop having it, left little breadcrumbs of information for Enid to follow. Granted, usually people talked about things they liked. 

Wednesday, in an overwhelming majority of the time, talked about things she hated. 

Which was totally fine, because viewing an unnecessary amount of things with an equally unnecessary amount of hate was one of Wednesday’s trademarks, and while some people might tell her to lighten up, Enid happened to like the parts of Wednesday that settled into those dark crevices of the universe. Enid would never wish for any of those parts to change since that would mean wishing for Wednesday to change—and frankly, Enid liked her little sentient tombstone way too much to let that happen. Not to mention, those shadowed corners of Wednesday made the parts where the light shined that much warmer. 

But it was also totally fine because knowing what a person didn’t want was equally as valuable as knowing what they did when it came to the art of gift giving. 

Like when Enid invited Wednesday as her plus one to a party Bianca was throwing. 

“Parties are pits of human perspiration,” stated the grunge variant of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz (if there was a spin off where Toto was a tarantula and the yellow brick road was just a really dark alleyway). “Why anyone would want to be crammed in a room full of strangers all night and bombarded with noise is one of the queries of the universe for which I’ll never find a reasonable answer besides simple stupidity.”

“You literally could’ve just said no.”

“A simple ‘no’ would not have been enough to express how little I care to attend.”

It wasn’t lost on Enid that, at this point, she could’ve convinced Wednesday to come. A casual mention of Ajax being there would’ve had her leading the way, probably carrying a pitchfork and a torch or something else that was equal parts vicious and eighteenth century. But just because she’d realized that Wednesday would do these things for her didn’t mean she ever wanted Wednesday to sacrifice her own happiness for Enid’s. 

So Enid went solo and hung with the rest of her friends and had a lovely time, and in the back of her mind tried to dissect Wednesday’s little speech to find out how what didn’t want could translate into what she did.

Her conclusion was this:

Aside from getting her one of those “Not Friendly” stickers people put on the harnesses of reactive dogs, there wasn’t a present to solve Wednesday’s people problem besides maybe a gift card to a behavioral cognitive therapist. 

Enid was also eventually struck by the realization that Wednesday might not even want a gift. After all, Enid trying to give something to Wednesday was the sole reason their friendship almost ended before it even had a chance to begin. The risks of getting Wednesday something back then weren’t high—she’d either like it or hate it, and at that point Enid was convinced Wednesday loathed her kind of a lot anyway so there was really nothing to lose. 

Now there was everything to lose. 

Enid imagined all the progress they made going down a very dark and very depressing drain all because of a little gift wrapped box with Wednesday’s name on it. 

But then again, maybe she was being dramatic. After all, she’d narrowed down Wednesday’s sour reaction during the birthday incident to some weird frustration caused by being surprised that Enid knew it was her birthday in the first place. For someone who took great pride in being ten steps ahead of everyone at all times, there must’ve been no greater insult than being presented with a random snood that took a week to crochet from someone she wasn’t even aware owned yarn.

But Enid couldn’t just not get Wednesday a Christmas gift. She was all for respecting boundaries and compromising, but not giving someone a gift on a holiday where gifts were, like, the main thing is where she’d have to draw the line. She didn’t care if Wednesday agreed or not. This was an Enid boundary, and she didn’t have many of them so Wednesday would just have to deal with it.

And besides, when it came down to it, Wednesday probably hated surprises more than the act of getting a gift itself. So Enid’s gift conundrum actually turned out to be quite simple.

She just wouldn’t surprise Wednesday.

“I’m getting you a Christmas gift.”

This was Wednesday’s warning one afternoon when Enid found her (completely coincidentally, of course, because it’s not like she was looking for her, because that would be, like, super lame) coming out of a psychology lecture. Wednesday looked about as shocked to see her as you’d expect someone to look who often found their friend appearing in places she had no reason to appear other than the one common link of Wednesday also being in those places.

Wednesday opened her mouth to respond, but it was Enid who rushed to fill the gap first. “I’m not telling you that because I’m expecting you to get me something back, I just wanted you to know that I’m getting you something.”

“I—“

“Whether you like it or not.”

“I —“

“And I don’t care what you have to say”

“I will—“

“Because there is nothing you can say to convince me not to give you a gift on a holiday literally made for giving people gifts.”

“Should I bother trying to speak again or will you continue to interrupt me?”

“That depends on what you have to say.”

“I will also be getting you a Christmas gift.”

Enid blinked. Blinked again. Wednesday didn’t.

“For real?”

“Yes,” Wednesday said. Then, after a slight pause and sounding like she was trying the words out for the first time in her life, “For… real.”

And, really, after a revelation like that, there was only one thing left to ask.

“What is it?”

Because she had to know. Because Wednesday Addams being a good gift-giver seemed like a foreign concept considering she was also someone who almost broke off a developing friendship because of a gift. 

Wednesday said, “You adore this holiday for a reason I cannot fathom, so I think that you out of all people would understand how revealing what I plan to give you would go against the very spirit of it.”

Enid scoffed. “Oh, don’t give me that crap. You’re just doing this because you know that not knowing what it is is going to torture me.”

“How much more torturous would it be if I told you I already have it?”

Enid’s jaw dropped. An odd sort of twinkle sparked to life in Wednesday’s eyes that would’ve been impossible to catch if Enid wasn’t looking (and, for some reason, she always found herself looking). She would’ve actually been elated to see some form of emotion on Wednesday’s face if that emotion wasn’t the same sinister giddiness Cruella De Vil must’ve had when she kidnapped all those puppies to make a coat.

“I’m going to find it,” Enid said.

The spark was joined by the whisper of a smirk. “I welcome you to try.”

Oh, and try Enid did. She searched everywhere, from Wednesday’s side of the room (with permission, of course, which had been granted so willingly she knew there was no chance she’d ever find it over there), to underneath her own stuffed unicorn collection, underneath beds and chairs and dressers. When she became desperate, she even spent thirty minutes walking around knocking on different areas of the walls and floor to see if she could detect some secret, hollowed-out compartment that her gift might be stashed in. 

Long story short, Enid gave up, and when Wednesday entered the room that night she was sulking on her bed, paragraphs off her open textbook flitting across her vision. She wasn’t retaining a single letter.

She didn’t even grant Wednesday the privilege of eye contact as she said, “You’re evil, you know that?”

“If you think flattery will get you the location of your gift, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Enid slammed the book shut, giving up the ruse and looking her roommate dead in her stupid, lovely, evil, beautiful eyeballs. And Wednesday was all too delighted to meet that stare of frustration and torment.

Enid said, “It’s not in the room.”

“True.”

“Where else could it be?”

“Like I’d tell you that and spoil all my fun.”

“Maybe,” Enid hedged as Wednesday crossed the room to put her black gym bag on her equally as black bed, “you’re just not giving me any hints because you’re scared I’ll actually find it.”

A huff of air left Wednesday’s nose that Enid was 99% sure was a chuckle and 100% sure meant she would be getting absolutely nothing from her roommate in regards to confidential gift info.

“My ego is large but it isn’t fragile,” Wednesday said (and Enid kind of had to give her points there because at least she was self aware). “I’m certain you won’t find it, and I feel no need to divulge clues about its location to prove that fact to either of us.”

Wednesday always spoke like that. So proper, with a bunch of fancy words, every sentence sounding like it’d been written by a particularly well-read, goth lawyer with a fountain pen on a piece of parchment. By now, though, Enid had no trouble translating it for what it was, and what it was, in this case, was one prim and proper ‘fuck you, Enid, I’m not telling you shit’.

Well, Enid had her own fancy translation to throw back.

“I hate you.”

“Untrue,” Wednesday said. 

And, of course, she was right. Enid did like Wednesday. 

A lot.

She liked her way more than she thought one should like a person who had probably seriously contemplated her murder at some early point in their relationship. She didn’t really have an explanation as to why. It’s not like Wednesday was even a likeable person—she was actually someone who went out of her way to be disliked, so the fact that she ended up being one of Enid’s favorite people anyway probably said a lot about Enid’s concern for her own feelings.

She often thought that liking Wednesday was a gamble of sorts. This was someone who was fiercely independent in all aspects of life. Surely, sooner or later, she was going to get tired of Enid sharing her space and… leave (or, more likely, persuade Enid to leave through some act of sinister violence). It would probably be smart of her to detach herself from the friendship before she got hurt, emotionally or physically. 

But Enid never claimed to be smart. 

It also didn’t help that Wednesday sometimes did these random, uncharacteristically sweet things that she refused to acknowledge the importance of but, oddly, made a kaleidoscope of butterflies spur to life in Enid’s stomach everytime. It was a feeling she tried not to think about, because these little instances of kindness clearly meant more to her than they did to Wednesday.

Like that night Enid came back into the room in the evening after a shower and Wednesday, who she hadn’t seen since early that morning, was getting into bed. Enid had been about to greet her and give her the quick version of whatever drama had happened that day when she noticed an ornament hanging off one of the branches of their Christmas tree.

The only ornament on the entire tree that she could’ve sworn was not there when she cheerfully turned it on that morning. 

She’d asked, “What’s this?”

And, as though Enid didn’t have a set of eyeballs and at least two functioning brain cells to rub together, Wednesday said, “An ornament.”

Enid ignored her and instead reached for the ornament. It was a pink sugar skull with these little swirls and dots of orange and blue. It was lovely.

Wednesday casually added, “I saw it at the store this morning and it made me think of you.”

Enid was surprised she didn’t break her neck given how fast she snapped her head in her roommate's direction. 

She had a thousand things on the tip of her tongue, ranging from a simple excuse me what the fuck to a series of shocked sputtering sounds to an accusation involving a doppelgänger with an uncanny likeness to Wednesday taking her place in their room. Because it couldn’t be her roommate that got this. Her roommate would be much more likely to bring back an actual human skull on a string to display festively on their tree, not this bubblegum version of death. 

But even despite all of that—the shock, disbelief, and confusion that came with Wednesday’s admission—the flipping feeling in her stomach overwhelmed it all. 

And Enid didn’t care to say anything other than, “Wens—“

“I’m going to sleep now.”

Then Wednesday abruptly pulled the covers up to her chin and rolled to face the wall. 

Enid was left blinking at the space she’d occupied less than a second ago, knowing she was lying about going to sleep since she wasn’t doing her usual staring-threateningly-at-the-ceiling-until-darkness-claims-me-at-last routine. 

“Um… well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

To say Enid tried to obey Wednesday’s unspoken request to ignore the gesture would be an understatement. She actually tried really really hard.

But, in the end, she couldn’t even make it through one minute of silence before she had to address it.

“I won’t make a big deal of it,” she finally said. “You can even keep pretending you’re asleep, I just want to say thank you. I love it.”

Wednesday said nothing and did nothing to confirm she’d heard her, but Enid knew she did.

There was also that time Wednesday brought her a hot chocolate out of the blue. There was no casual way to brush it off. There was no I was already at the cafe so I just picked it up, or they gave me the wrong order but let me keep it so I thought I’d give it to you. There was nothing—no excuse she could give that would make getting a hot chocolate specifically for Enid any less intentional than it was.

For one, she left the library within about one minute of Enid saying she was cold.

Two, she hadn’t even gotten herself anything.

It was so obvious why she did it that her only excuse as she laid it next to Enid’s open textbook that she was half-reading was, “Staying hydrated helps with memory retention.”

Which, to Enid, sounded like bullshit because, “This is hot chocolate.”

“Startling observation.”

“Wouldn’t water be better for hydration?”

“It’s almost entirely water, actually.” Wednesday sat down and wasted no time flipping a page in her own textbook, eyes stubbornly glued to the paper and refusing to move. “If you have a better point to make, please make it.” She reached for a pen. “Otherwise, drink it and shut up.”

“Wednesday.” Enid’s face hurt from grinning.

Nothing.

Enid laughed. “Wens.” 

She still didn’t look up, so Enid reached across the table and covered up the paragraph Wednesday was reading with her hand. Anyone else who did that would get a threat and a glare strong enough to wither a small plant, but now eyes like mahogany and night finally lifted. And Enid let that hesitant darkness melt into her like chocolate in hot water.

“Thank you.”

Wednesday said, “Move your hand.”

And thus Enid learned that acknowledging her own acts of kindness was Wednesday Addams’ veritable kryptonite. It was kind of funny—a person who seemed to be the result of some weird crossbreeding situation between Michael Myers and Count Dracula afraid of being nice. But then again, everyone had to be afraid of something. And there didn’t seem to be anything else she was scared of.

Despite the clear discomfort she had with showing Enid she gave a shit, Wednesday continued to blatantly give a shit about Enid. And like anything, the more Wednesday practiced caring about someone, the better she got. She kept listening to Enid, and doing these tiny little deeds, until eventually all of that practice culminated into a… moment in the dining hall.

They’d been there for supper the night before exams ended. It was a sort of goodbye dinner since all of them were going home over Christmas break except Wednesday and herself. Undoubtedly to Wednesday’s chagrin, the hot topic of the last few dinners had been Christmas, and, as a result, Wednesday spent the last few suppers staring down at a plate she’d cleaned off long before anyone else, probably wondering if time had stood still until Enid finally got up and gave her the go ahead to flee. 

On this particular night, they were in the middle of talking about how long their trips home would be the next day, and Eugene asked Enid how long it took to get from Vermont to San Francisco.

“Forty-six hours by car,” Enid replied, and gasps of disbelief and sympathy immediately met her statement. “Give or take an hour or two depending on traffic and bathroom breaks. But I would have to take the bus so it would be even longer.”

This was met with more shock than Enid thought was warranted given how many people used Greyhound buses to move across state lines.

“Your parents aren’t coming to get you?”

“What about renting a car so you can drive yourself?”

You know plane tickets exist, right?”

“I mean, it doesn’t matter really.” Enid moved some food around on her plate. “I’m not going home for Christmas anyway.”

And if she thought the shock about the bus situation was overkill, she was wholly unprepared for the reaction she’d get for that little nugget of info.

She was pretty sure “why” bursted from four people all at the same time. Mouths were opening and syllables were forming to spew more questions, but a tight ball was constricting around Enid’s stomach for some reason and all she knew was that she wanted to talk about anything but this.

“What are we talking about?” Wednesday asked.

All the mouths closed and everyone turned to look at the small goth girl—who some had probably never heard speak before this—with varying degrees of surprise. Enid was the fastest to turn to her friend, whose own eyes were busy casting a disinterested stare over the rest of the group. And even though everyone else seemed mildly cautious at best and outright terrified at worst, Enid was able to let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding until then.

Xavier was the first to speak. “We’re talking about Enid not wanting to go home for the holidays.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to her roommate, and Enid felt strangely like she was a specimen being examined on a microscope slide. She’d told Wednesday she wasn’t planning on going back to San Francisco over break, but she hadn’t told her why. Wednesday hadn’t asked either. At the time, Enid just thought Wednesday’s non-response was her mourning the idea of a couple weeks of solitude being stolen from her.

Now, Wednesday almost looked like she wanted to ask a question, but her gaze fell from Enid’s just as quickly as she’d caught it. Her eyes passed over each of the members of their group for a few chilling moments.

Then she said, “I’m not going home for the holidays because Christmas is statistically a time of the year that has a high rate of car accidents, and I have bigger plans for my death than having it be at the hands of an incompetent driver.”

Silence amongst the table. 

“Also, my mother’s continued attempts to mold me into a clone of herself are proving tiresome and I don’t wish to see her.” The silence extended. Wednesday added, “If you’d like to relate with me you may speak now.”

Xavier opened his mouth but nothing came out. Bianca slowly scooped a bit of pasta onto her fork and Yoko slid her sunglasses further up her nose. Enid looked down at her food. And smiled.

“My moms annoy me sometimes too,” said Eugene.

“Interesting,” Wednesday remarked flatly. “Elaborate on that.”

Everyone quickly jumped in to encourage Eugene to go on with anything other than Wednesday’s grim addition to the conversation, and then they were done talking about Enid. And that was that.

The walk back to the dorms was quiet. Enid still didn’t feel like talking about the reasons she didn’t want to go home, and Wednesday must’ve known that she didn’t want to be asked again. But when they got back to the room, changed into their bed clothes and turned off the lights for the night, Wednesday’s voice threaded it’s way through the dark anyway.

 “Enid?”

And she hadn’t wanted questions, but there was some part of her that automatically welcomed that familiar tone anyway, no matter what Wednesday had to say.

“Wednesday.”

“Thing is… glad you’re staying here over break.”

Enid rolled her eyes, even as a smile inched its way across her face “I’m glad Thing finds my company tolerable.”

Silence. 

Then, “I also find your company tolerable.”

“I know, Wens.”

“And… I’m also glad you’re staying here over break.”

In the dim orange light of the streetlamp outside shining through their curtain, Enid found Wednesday’s eyes across the room. Wednesday had already been looking, and Enid’s heart might’ve melted just a little (i.e. a fuck ton).

“I’m glad you’re—“

“Goodnight, Enid.”

The bed creaked as Wednesday abruptly rolled to face the wall.

Enid wouldn’t have been able to contain her laugh even if Wednesday was beside her bed holding that big ass knife up to her throat.

.     .     .

There was going to be a blizzard on Christmas Day. A huge one. University newsletters urged students to stock up on blankets and food, and news channel weather-people were freaking out so much that a lot of students that didn’t originally plan on leaving booked some type of emergency travel home anyway to escape it. The result was a campus that was usually buzzing with life and activity reduced down to a veritable ghost town, and to Enid, it was super fucking eerie. To Wednesday, it was heaven (or hell, given that was the afterlife she probably preferred).

But if the rest of campus was a ghost town, the library must’ve been a particularly desolate purgatory. There was nobody in sight, which honestly made sense because who in their right mind would spend any minute of their Christmas break in the freaking library?

Her roommate, that’s who.

Because Enid wasn’t rooming with a person in their right mind. Enid was rooming with a Wednesday.

And thus there she was on Christmas Eve, trailing behind her roommate as she leafed through copies of texts filled with autopsy procedures. 

“You know, I don’t think this is very festive of us,” Enid pointed out. She hadn’t asked why Wednesday was exploring the subject at hand because… well, she didn’t want to know. 

Wednesday didn’t lift her eyes from the book she was skimming. “I assure you, I’m filled to the brim with holiday cheer.”

“You’re filled with a lot of things, and not even, like, an eighth of them have anything to do with cheer. Holiday or otherwise.” 

“To the brim, Enid.”

And Wednesday was funny sometimes, even when she was dragging them both to a wasteland of paper and broken heaters to look at books about the best way to take apart a dead body. 

But Enid was supposed to be annoyed, so she hid her smile by turning toward the shelf to pick at the leather spine of a book. Wednesday flicked her fingers away from it without looking up from her own. They weren’t technically supposed to be talking on this floor, but the likelihood of anyone but them spending their Christmas break in the library was so far in the negatives they probably could’ve exploded a brick of TNT on the top floor and not disturbed anyone. 

Wednesday’s skimming was running particularly long on the book she was holding, so Enid sighed and leaned her back against the bookcase, tipping her head up to the ceiling.

“How much longer will you be?”

A flipping page. “If all you planned to do was complain, why did you bother coming?”

Because I like being around you, Enid thought, but didn’t say that because Wednesday might lapse into a stroke or some other type of medical emergency at the whiff of sentimental honesty.

“I didn’t want to be in the room alone. And I didn’t want you to be alone. Nobody should be alone on Christmas.”

“Well, technically it’s only Christmas Eve.”

“Wednesda—“

“Ten minutes,” Wednesday said. “Then we can leave.”

“Five.”

“Ten minutes and I’ll drive you to the store to get hot chocolate.”

They did get hot chocolate at the store, as well as some Christmas movies that were piled in this overflowing clearance bin that Enid would try to convince Wednesday to watch with her tomorrow. 

Soon enough the evening had set in. They were walking back from Wednesday’s car in the dark, footsteps crunching on the icy sidewalk and breaths fogging in front of their faces, illuminated by the scattered streetlights above. Wednesday still wore her platform boots, even in the depths of winter, and the soles left an unmistakable trail in the dusting of snow on the ground. 

The night was clear and perfectly still. The two sets of footprints they left in their wake were the only sign of life in sight, and Enid was convinced that time had paused for everyone else but them.

Christmas morning greeted them with a gale. Gusts of wind battered the walls outside their dorm, flinging around flakes of snow that sounded like a million little shards of glass against the window. 

Wednesday was already out of bed. In fact, she was gone entirely.

In her early morning stupor, Enid blinked at the perfectly-made bed across the room and fleetingly wondered if Wednesday had pulled a cruel prank on her—assured her she was staying for Christmas only to flee in the middle of the night, leaving Enid alone.

But she hadn’t done that. Enid knew because there were two gift-wrapped boxes under the tree that hadn’t been there the night before, and given how much effort Wednesday had taken to keep them hidden, Enid doubted she wanted to miss the grand reveal.

Still, the fact that Wednesday was probably just off doing strange, non-malicious Wednesday activities (that she, for some reason unbeknownst to anyone but herself, had to participate in at the ass crack of dawn during a blizzard) didn’t erase the fact that it didn’t feel like Christmas. Enid’s nose was cold from the chill seeping in through the old walls, and the overcast morning was potent enough to cast even Enid’s vibrant half of the room in a dreary shade of gray. All in all, it was the opposite of festive.

Which Enid absolutely had to rectify. 

She started by taking Wednesday’s gift out from its hiding spot under her bed and placing it under the tree. It had nearly killed her to wrap the box in black tissue paper (because pure black wrapping paper apparently didn’t exist anywhere but the depths of Amazon.com, and Enid would be damned if she had to pay a twenty-one dollar shipping fee for a roll of wrapping paper that was $5.99). She would’ve much preferred to use her classy red and shiny gold wrapping paper she’d picked up at Target on clearance last January, but Wednesday would probably much prefer to extract her own eyes with a melon ball scoop than open a gift wrapped in normal colors. 

The second thing Enid did to summon the holiday spirit was light a few scented candles. By the time Wednesday returned, the room smelled like a candy cane and a particularly potent cinnamon stick had a lovechild and Enid was living for it.

Wednesday, on the other hand, looked like she’d rather not be alive.

Enid didn’t mind. Wednesday’s bangs were ruffled and she was still blinking the sleepiness out of her eyes. Her body was all gentle angles and early morning fog, and when her gaze found Enid’s and her expression softened into something quiet and warm, Enid thought she looked like Christmas.

“Enid,” Wednesday said.

“Yes?”

“If you light one more candle, I’m calling the police.”

Enid cheerfully put down the lighter and the gingerbread-scented candle she was about to light. “Merry Christmas, roomie!”

“I made champurrado.”

“I—what?”

Wednesday suddenly looked a little awkward, glancing back over her shoulder and into the hall for a fleeting second before turning back, eyes darting to the window, then to the tree, and then finally—hesitantly—back to Enid.

“It’s like hot chocolate. Kind of.”

“Okay,” Enid said. She looked down at Wednesday’s hands. They were empty. “So… where is it?”

It was in the kitchen on the counter. Turns out Wednesday had made two mugs of the stuff only to realize on her way back to the room with them that there was no possible way to turn their door knob while holding them without creating a pool of chocolate-y carpet. To Enid’s credit, she didn’t laugh, but it didn’t make the mental image of Wednesday standing outside their door, looking helplessly down at the two mugs in her hands as reality set in any less funny. 

Wednesday also didn’t seem keen on acknowledging the fact that her original plan had clearly been to silently deliver the beverage while Enid was still asleep like some type of Mexican hot chocolate fairy. 

Instead of mentioning this (lest she send Wednesday into a heightened state of self regret over how she had to physically lead Enid to a surprise that she’d originally designed to go relatively unnoticed), Enid just squeezed Wednesday’s hand as she thanked her and offered to make them French toast. 

“Do you regret not going home for Christmas?” Enid asked at one point while they ate.

“No,” Wednesday replied simply. She ate her french toast plain without any syrup or anything like a psychopath. “My parents sing duets while Lurch plays the piano.”

“Oh, well that actually sounds—”

“And they insist on staring relentlessly into each other’s eyes the entire time they do it.” Enid cringed, closing her mouth around another syrup-soaked piece of breakfast as Wednesday asked, “Do you?”

Enid’s voice was garbled from food. “Make uncomfortable eye contact with people while singing to them?” She picked up another piece of french toast with her fork. “I hope not.”

She could’ve sworn there was a smile in Wednesday’s voice when she corrected, “Do you regret not going home?”

Oh.

Oh .

Well… that was more complicated, wasn’t it? Her answer wasn’t so cut and dry.

“My youngest brother always gets everyone up at three in the morning,” Enid said finally, and she didn’t really know why she started there, but she didn’t know where else to start and chronological order seemed to make the most sense. “And my dad sets up this old camcorder in the living room that my mom needs to triple check is recording before she lets any of us open our gifts. It’s so annoying.”

Wednesday was silent. Enid went on.

“We all complain about how early it is and say we’re going back to bed after, but by the time we open our gifts everyone is too awake to go to sleep again and Connor, my older brother, ends up putting these packaged cinnamon buns in the oven that are so good.” She shook her head and chuckled. “Someone always has to take the icing away from him though because he’ll eat it all as he’s frosting them otherwise.”

She swirled her fork around on her plate, pushing crumbs of bread stuck in syrup this way and that.  “We have a big Christmas dinner and my grandparents bring, like, five containers of cookies for dessert, then afterwards we watch Christmas movies until most of us fall asleep on the couch.”

Enid didn’t expect Wednesday to answer. She hadn’t given her anything to answer to, really. They were both aware it wasn’t an answer to the question asked, so in the silence that followed, Enid looked up. And she wasn’t surprised when Wednesday’s eyes were already on her own.

“And between all that… we pray.” Her stomach felt tight, like she was on the edge of a twenty story building and someone was behind her and she didn’t know if they would pull her back or push her over. “We pray a lot. Before we open our gifts, after we open our gifts, before we eat breakfast, supper, dessert…” She pressed her lips together. “And my mom prays between it all under her breath. And I know she’s praying for me.”

Wednesday’s stare held her’s, and her gaze was so intent that Enid had to pretend to be interested in her plate again to distract herself. 

“Why?” Wednesday asked.

And that question, oddly enough, wasn’t as complicated as the first.

“I’m not like my brothers. And I’m not like my parents,” Enid said. “It’s why I moved as far as I could when I got the chance. They all have their values and beliefs—things that matter so much to them and the same things don’t matter to me.”

“You don’t follow their religion?”

“I wanted to. I tried for years, but I questioned it. I questioned… how much about myself lines up with what they believe.”

“And what was your conclusion?”

It felt dangerous to be talking about this. It was something she was never allowed to bring up to her parents—to anyone. She’d spent the last half of her life having this exact conversation with herself, and even in her own mind it had felt like a crime. 

But there was nobody else here but Wednesday, and as Enid finally lifted her eyes again and found that onyx gaze right where she’d left it, she knew that the thoughts she’d never had the courage to voice aloud would be safe with the girl across from her. 

“That I shouldn’t strip away parts of myself for people that would rather see me conform than be happy.”

Wednesday was quiet for a moment. There was no sadness in her expression and Enid was relieved. She would have been disappointed to see pity on the face of one of the only people to ever look at her like she didn’t need to be saved.

After a few moments, Wednesday nodded and went back to her breakfast—casually, like Enid had just delivered a particularly boring weather report for the day. “Never give up anything for anyone. You are who you are.” She stabbed a piece of plain french toast with her fork. “Don’t ever apologize for it.”

And… no. Enid definitely didn’t regret not going home for Christmas.  

In fact, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

“Also, your mom sounds like a bitch.”

Enid’s laugh almost caused her to choke on her french toast, and Wednesday wordless slid her glass of orange juice closer as she lapsed into a coughing fit.

Finally, at the ripe hour of eight in the morning, it was Enid’s favorite part of Christmas. Some might find it selfish that she liked the gifts more than anything else, and maybe when Enid was younger that might’ve been true. She still had the same excitement about it as an adult, but now her fingers didn’t itch to rip the wrapping paper labeled with her name to shreds, but instead to nearly vibrate with anticipation as she watched people open what she’d gotten them. 

She liked to hope it was a sign of maturity, but the way she nearly threw Wednesday’s present at her and demanded she open it the second they entered the room unfortunately screamed ‘four-year-old begging her parents to open her McDonald’s toy’ rather than ‘wise beyond her years’.

It didn’t help that Wednesday was possibly the slowest gift-opener in the history of fucking time. She sat cross-legged on the floor across from Enid, who watched with a mixture of disbelief and boiling impatience as she deftly ran her fingers under the seam of the tissue paper, carefully unfolding it with the precision of someone disarming a bomb. 

(The fact that she didn’t so much as rip one hole in the delicate paper was further proof that Wednesday was indeed a superior being from another planet masquerading as a human for shits because sorry what the actual fuck? Managing to remove tape from tissue paper without ripping it was nothing short of some serious voodoo magic and nothing could convince Enid otherwise.)

Anyway, after a thousand years, Wednesday finally revealed her gift. Enid waited, holding her breath, as Wednesday looked over the box with intrigue for a second. Two. Three…

Then she huffed a soft laugh through her nose and her eyes lifted to Enid’s. “Noise-canceling headphones.”

A grin broke out across Enid’s face that she’d been struggling to suppress for the million and three light years it took Wednesday to perform surgery on her gift. “And they’re Bluetooth,” she said proudly, reaching over to point at a part of the box that advertised all the features. Wednesday’s eyes obediently dropped to follow her finger. “I can teach you how to connect them to your laptop and then you won’t have to worry about using your earbuds anymore.”

This part of the gift, admittedly, should not have been a sellable feature for Enid, who forgot in her euphoria over finding the perfect gift that if Wednesday couldn’t even plug in a set of headphones correctly, Bluetooth was definitely out of the scope of her technological expertise.

Even though Wednesday was now probably wondering what blue teeth had to do with anything, she thanked Enid anyway. Enid then presented her second surprise gift to Wednesday, which she’d been hiding in her clothes drawer. It was an ornament depicting the grim reaper holding a pink balloon, and Wednesday hung it on their tree right next to the one she’d gotten for Enid.

Now it was Enid’s turn, and she’d be lying if she said that selfish gift-opening-loving child wasn’t still inside her trying to claw her way out. When she pulled Wednesday’s gift out from under the tree, she found it was square, about the size of her whole lap, and heavy.

“Okay, you need to tell me where you were hiding this,” she said.

“And if I don’t?”

“I won’t open it.”

Wednesday gave her a look even flatter than her usual flat looks, which was valid considering Enid was lying and nothing besides death itself could stop her from seeing what was under that wrapping paper after wondering about it for weeks. Wednesday could’ve wrapped the thing in sheet metal, and Enid still would’ve found a way to open it.

But Wednesday must’ve been feeling the Christmas spirit, because she gave in anyway. “In Eugene’s bee shed.”

Ah, the one place Enid would only ever go to if held at gunpoint. That tracked.

She didn’t waste any more time ripping the gift open in a much less graceful way than Wednesday had carefully extracted her own. Even after it was uncovered, it took Enid a moment to figure out what it was. 

Until… she did.

Then it took her a moment to believe it.

Because she’d gotten Wednesday noise canceling headphones due to the fact that she was the only person Enid had ever heard complain about the library being too loud.

And yet, Enid was holding a record player.

“It’s… beautiful,” she said finally, because it was.

“It’s antique,” Wednesday said, which Enid initially accepted because it was Wednesday, but after another second of thought found her head snapping up and eyebrows shooting to her hairline.

“Wednesday, how much did this cost ?”

Her roommate looked puzzled. “Just what it took to get it refurbished. My father has a collection. He was all too happy for me to give it to you knowing it would be put to use instead of sitting on a shelf.”

Strangely, the fact that she’d talked to her parents about Enid’s gift was almost sweeter than the gift itself. Before Enid could properly thank her and attempt her periodic hug request which would undoubtedly be denied, Wednesday pulled the second gift from under the tree and passed it to Enid.

“This is from my parents,” she said.

It was unexpected, as was the sudden tightness in Enid’s throat and the stinging behind her eyes. She already wasn’t prepared for how thoughtful Wednesday’s gift would be, let alone that her parents, who she’d never met in person and had exactly one short conversation with before this, had sent one too. 

Her own parents had just kept her gift at home to open when she came back for the summer.

She had a feeling if she spoke her voice would come out weird and choked up, so she just took the gift without a word. It was much lighter than the first, and much thinner, and when she tore off the wrapping paper, she found it was a record.

And there was a note attached.

Wednesday mentioned you liked pop music, so here are some records that were popular when we were your age. 

Warmest regards, M&G.

Wednesday’s parents couldn’t have been older than their early forties, and even though Enid thought the medley of songs from the 1950’s she was holding was definitely not the preferred music choice of young adults in the nineties, the gesture was too sweet for her to question it. 

But there were two records, and the one hiding below the first was in much newer packaging, with a note that said:

Since Wednesday insisted we get you something you’d actually listen to...

And it was a Taylor Swift record. 

Enid was stuck between crying at the overwhelming kindness of it all and laughing at the image of Gomez and Morticia strolling into a record store, dressed for a fashionable funeral, only to bring Evermore up to the counter. Since she couldn't decide on a reaction, she just kept staring at the records, unable to say or do anything to express her gratitude. 

She was overwhelmed with a lot of things in that moment—the surprise, Wednesday’s thoughtfulness, the fact that she’d collaborated with her parents and knew her well enough to tell them what kind of music she’d like—but the most prominent of them all was the feeling that she had to be very careful with this friendship. 

And Wednesday wasn’t someone Enid thought she’d ever have to be careful with. She wasn’t delicate. She was all sharp edges and dark clothes and even darker expressions and she was a person who considered a massive knife an essential possession and kept it in her nightstand drawer just in case (in case of what?  you may ask, to which Enid would answer she didn’t know and was terrified to find out). Wednesday was perfectly capable of handling herself through any and every circumstance life could throw at her, and the idea of anyone thinking they needed to be careful with her probably would send her into a spiral of rage so deep she’d never find her way out. 

But Enid did need to be careful. Because Wednesday didn’t care about many people, but when Wednesday Addams did care… man, she cared.

It was in the way she wore the snood Enid gave her. It was in 7-Eleven slushies and movie nights with ice cream. It was Christmas lights that went out at 11 o’clock on the dot and a drop of red hair dye in a world of gray, a black winter hat on a snowy day and Christmas morning champurrado and french toast. Right now, their giving was close to equal, but being friends with someone who didn’t know how to ask to be given to was dangerous in a way Enid was only beginning to discover. Enid had to be careful what she asked of her friend. 

Because taking everything Wednesday would give would be like bleeding a person dry who didn’t even know they’d been cut.

Crinkling of paper snapped her out of her reverie. She looked up to see Wednesday collecting the small pile of wrapping paper they’d accumulated. She was probably trying to avoid facing the consequences of her own kindness again, but Enid wouldn’t let it happen this time. She was afraid suddenly that she hadn’t done enough to let Wednesday know that this caring shit went both ways. She needed her to know. 

So Enid reached out as Wednesday’s hand aimed for another clump of wrapping paper. She held onto her wrist, and Wednesday froze like she always did when Enid did that. 

Wind howled outside and snowflakes battered the window, but Wednesday’s gaze lifted and her eyes looked like quiet. And Enid wondered why the air in the room suddenly felt thin.

And then it was hard to find words. Wednesday might leave if she said the wrong thing, but if she said nothing they could just stay there—Wednesday’s hand in her her’s, eyes like the dark spaces between the stars holding her own. And Wednesday hated color, but it occurred to Enid in that moment that when brown eyes met blue she never looked away.

Words pushed at her throat, and Enid finally opened her mouth to let them out.

“Wens—“

A gust of wind shook the building. There was a click, and the lights of the Christmas tree flicked out.

Along with all of the lights on campus.

And in most of the state of Vermont.

Chapter Text

The list of people that Wednesday Addams gave a fuck about currently had five bullet points—her brother, her Uncle Fester, Lurch, and (regrettably) her mother and father. There was also another list, titled ‘Beings that Wednesday Addams Gave a Fuck About’, which was short and tidy and consisted of Thing and snails she found in areas of heavy foot-traffic that she moved to grass.

Wednesday giving a fuck was defined solely by her willingness to help a being in question should they be in a state of peril, as well as whether or not she’d be upset if that peril killed them. She’d made the lists when she was four years old, and only had to alter it twice so far in her life—the first when her pet Scorpion, Nero, got ran over by a bicycle, and the second when she adopted Thing (she would’ve liked to keep Nero on the list for sentimental purposes, but ultimately decided that succinctness was more important than her emotional attachment to an arachnid that was currently rotting in the dirt, so she scratched out his bullet point anyway. He would’ve understood).

Needless to say, she liked to keep her lists short. After all, the act of giving a fuck took energy and time she’d much rather reserve for her own activities, not to mention the time and energy it took to actually make lists.

Obviously the last thing Wednesday wanted to do was add to them.

And yet, here she was, a decade older than the last time she’d decided to care about another being, wondering if the girl sitting next to her and making her watch mediocre Christmas movies on her sticker-covered laptop should take residence next to a new bullet point.

There was no question that Enid met the two points of criteria needed to make the list. If idiotically going outside in the cold without a hat on was considered a state of peril, Wednesday had checked the ‘helping’ box three separate times already. And she’d been upset when Enid stormed out of their room for a few hours after their first fight, so it was safe to say she’d be fairly disappointed if she ceased to exist all together.

But still… Wednesday hesitated. 

She didn’t know why at first. After all, she’d stopped denying the fact that Enid meant something to her about a month earlier. She’d realized it after a short moment when they were walking back from the dining hall one night and Enid was regaling Wednesday with the details of some scandalous story she’d purposely tuned out at supper. Suddenly there’d been a squeak, movement out of the corner of Wednesday’s eye, and Enid was slipping on a patch of ice. 

Until she wasn’t. Because Wednesday was clutching her arm.

Wednesday’s eyes were fixed on her own hand, as traitorously frozen to Enid’s arm as the ice beneath their feet, wondering when it grew a mind of its own and shot out to catch her roommate without her control. In the silence that stretched on, Wednesday looked at Enid, and Enid looked at Wednesday. Then she looked at her hand. Then at Wednesday.

At her hand. 

(And why that hand was still there even after Enid clearly had her balance under control again was a true mystery for the ages, and perhaps one of the only ones Wednesday wasn’t eager to explore.)

Finally, Enid’s gaze lifted to Wednesday’s and stayed. Her eyes were frosty blue and soft like snow and Wednesday forgot how to do anything but look back.

“Careful,” Enid said quietly. “There’s ice.”

Wednesday dropped her hand and they kept walking. And that was that.

But then again, that was a simple way to put the unfortunate realization that Wednesday cared for Enid, not just on some surface will-donate-a-hat-to-the-forgetful-puppy-on-occasion level, but on some deep unconscious level that she couldn’t control. And Wednesday didn’t like being out of control, but through some horrible twist of fate she did like Enid, so… yes. That was that.

One would think this would be enough to get her on the list, but really, the problem at this point wasn’t that anything about Enid wasn’t enough to earn her a spot. Simply put, Enid went beyond the criteria of Wednesday’s ‘give a fuck’ list. 

This was an unforeseeable turn of events, and, unfortunately, there was nobody to blame for it but herself.

Sure, she could blame Enid out of spite, but it would be a lie. Ultimately, Wednesday was responsible for who she ended up caring about, and yet, caring about Enid had come unexpectedly anyway. It was like walking a trail in the forest that slowly got narrower the farther she went—deeper and deeper into uncharted territory until she finally looked back and realized the path behind her had become indistinguishable from the nature surrounding it (and, for some reason, littered with twinkling Christmas lights and slurpee cups).

That is to say, now that she realized she liked Enid, she couldn’t stop even if she tried. And she did try. Daily. But daily she was reminded that trying to do anything but like Enid had become an impossible feat. So Wednesday would take a few more steps down that invisible trail, willingly getting more hopelessly lost simply because she found herself unable to do anything else. 

She would soon come to learn that she was unable to do a lot of things when it came to Enid. One that was rapidly becoming more prevalent was telling her no .

“The fact that you've never seen Home Alone should be considered a war crime, Wednesday.”

“I have a feeling you don’t know the definition of a war crime”

“A dude gets a nail shoved up his foot.”

“Turn it on.”

Which was why she was sitting next to Enid on her bed, leaning back against her million frilly pillows, watching a Christmas movie that was less about Christmas and more about an attempt to make child neglect charming and humorous. Wednesday didn’t know why the movie even bothered with the plot about the robbers when the real villains of the story were clearly Kevin’s parents. 

But Wednesday didn’t complain. It was Enid’s favorite Christmas movie. So Wednesday watched most of it in silence and every now and then an elbow would nudge her side and Enid’s excited voice would tell her that there was a good part coming up. 

There was never a good part coming up. 

Wednesday watched anyway.

They watched Christmas movies all morning, and then all afternoon while the storm unleashed itself outside.

And Wednesday had always loved storms. She loved watching the chaos they brought, and even had plans that morning to spend the better part of her Christmas Day sitting in a chair by the window enjoying the show. But Enid’s mattress was soft, and the quilt she’d given Wednesday to drape over her shoulders was heavy and warm and smelled faintly of dryer sheets. Gravity seemed to increase the longer she stayed—it pressed her into the mattress below, made the pillows behind her softer and her eyelids heavier. She felt like she was submerged in a lake, the tingling pressure of water sweeping over every muscle and every bone and Wednesday let herself sink. Eventually there was also pressure against her shoulder, the side of her head where it flopped against something steady and warm and breathing. 

Flakes of ice splintered against their window and the old building around them shuddered under each gale of wind. The forces of nature were fierce and alive just beyond the glass, calling, swirling and waiting.

But the sleeve of Enid’s hoodie was soft against her cheek and Wednesday melted like snow in spring.

She didn’t know how long she slept for, but the room was dimmer and colder when she woke so the evening must’ve been setting in. Enid was still warm against her. She was basically curled up against her arm, and Wednesday could’ve (absolutely should’ve) gotten up, but she decided that she really wanted to do anything but that.

Then she noticed the laptop screen was black.

“Did you run out of movies?” Her voice was a crackling, creaking thing that seemed to unearth itself from the underuse of the day. It rose unbidden, before she could remember there was a reason she didn’t want Enid to know she was awake yet.

Enid’s voice had a laugh threaded through it. “The laptop died thirty minutes ago.”

“Oh.”

“I kinda thought you were dead too. Did you know you don’t move, like, a single muscle while you sleep? It’s nuts.”

Wednesday just hummed, the aforementioned muscles still refusing to do anything but somehow loosen even more. Her bones felt like they’d been replaced with lead, her blood by something slow-moving and heavy. Her head was a cloudy mess of static and her heart was a dull, contented beat in her chest that anchored her in place.

It made her forget, for the time being, that she didn’t even allow Enid to hug her, yet here she was cuddled up against her arm like some type of needy animal. It made her forget that she should be embarrassed about the way she shifted to press further into the warmth next to her, her cheek nuzzling into soft fabric.

For a few moments, there wasn’t a sound in the world besides their quiet breathing. Wednesday’s eyelids were getting heavy again, each blink slower than the last.

“The storm is over,” Enid said.

Slower.

“They’re not sure when the power is going to come back.”

Closed.

“You’re pretty comfy right now, huh? I feel like you’re not even listening to anything I’m saying.” There was a little shift in the limb under her cheek, and for a dreadful moment, Wednesday thought Enid might get up. She didn’t. “I’m gonna dye my hair black.” She waited a beat for a reaction, then, after getting nothing, went on. “Someone broke in and ate all the ramen you have in your nightstand drawer and we’re going to starve. I got rid of your black mascaras and replaced them with really dark brown mascaras. I’ve been thinking about going outside without a hat on. Thoughts?”

Wednesday’s lips twitched at the corner. 

“Thing is literally doing the Macarena in his cage right now.”

Wednesday’s voice was flat with feigned disinterest. “That’s odd since his favorite dance is the Cupid Shuffle.”

Enid burst out laughing and the smile that had been tugging at Wednesday’s lips since the ramen theft allegation finally wiggled free. She turned her face into Enid’s arm. 

“Okay, so you’ve never seen Home Alone but you know about the Cupid Shuffle? How are you even a real person?”

“What time is it?” It was spoken into Enid’s hoodie, muffled and groggy and Enid snorted in a way that told Wednesday she recognized the abrupt change in subject for exactly what it was. But she checked her phone anyway.

“Four o’clock.”

And for some reason, out of everything else, that was the wake up call that caused Wednesday—through some colossal force of willpower previously unknown to mankind—to finally roll herself off Enid, onto her back to the edge of the small bed they were already cramped together on anyway. Strangely enough, she didn’t feel like toppling over the edge and sinking into the floor after how she’d just acted (or maybe she could hit her head on the floor with enough force to put her into a coma long enough for Enid to stop being so Enid and Wednesday to start acting like herself again). Maybe it was because she was still tired and not thinking straight. 

Maybe it was because Enid was looking down at her with a smug little smile that made most of Wednesday’s thoughts crumble to dust and blow away.

For a long moment they just looked at each other, then Enid said lightly, “Did you know you have dimples?”

Wednesday didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know what to do about the heat suddenly prickling up her spine, crawling across her cheeks. It was an unnatural feeling, one she’d felt very seldom before in her life. Needless to say, the color building on her face and ears just ticked another box on the list of reasons she chose to avoid the concept altogether.

But she couldn’t really avoid the concept. Not when it was giggling at her as she glared up at it.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

And that was why Wednesday couldn’t put Enid on her ‘Give a Fuck’ list in good faith (not that doing it in bad faith wasn’t an option, but inaccuracy was a fatal flaw that she would not suffer for the sake of simply not knowing where else to put her). There was nobody else on that list that could possibly pull Wednesday away from a storm to sit through hours of mediocre holiday films. There was nobody else that could cast whatever spell on her that Enid had cast that made logic fly out the window and her mind heavy and stupid, and certainly nobody else who could smile at her and tease her and cause her face to turn the color of some insultingly red fruit. 

She concluded that Enid’s existence in her life warranted the making of another list. She didn’t yet know what to title it, but the criteria was as follows… 

1. Wednesday would be willing to help should they find themselves in a state of peril.

2. Their death would cause Wednesday to be at least slightly disappointed.

3. Could function as a pillow if needed.

Truth be told, falling asleep on Enid was only the first of many unexpected occurrences over Wednesday’s winter break. The second was the unfamiliar instance of Wednesday being proved wrong—because up until now, she’d been foolish enough to think that the greatest, most unrelenting force on earth was still held in nature’s cruel fist. 

But she soon came to learn that storms were second only to the great, unrelenting force that was Enid Sinclair, a lighter, and her army of scented candles.

“Thank god I brought all my candles! We’d be screwed if I never had them.”

“Yes, how terrible it would’ve been to live without the constant fear of being responsible for a devastating fire. I feel much better with all seventeen of them lit.”

“At least it smells nice.”

“That will be a very comforting thought when we’re burning to death.”

It was also a thought that was completely false. The fumes in their room were strong enough to gas an entire small village, plus a few surrounding settlements. But Wednesday did not voice this for two reasons…

One: It would fall on deaf ears. 

Two: She wanted to conserve the small amount of air that was left in the room that wasn’t tainted with whatever toxic chemical was birthed when pumpkin spice mixed with fresh linen.

At this Enid rolled her eyes as though their room wasn’t now only 30% room and 70% open flame. “Can you relax? I do this all the time back home,” she reassured, and, oddly enough, the fact that Enid used to gas herself with the fumes of fifteen dozen scented candles on a regular basis before this was not reassuring in the least. On the bright side, Enid not being bothered by the overpowering smell made much more sense now that Wednesday knew her olfactory bulb had long since deteriorated beyond repair.

“This is against dorm regulations,” Wednesday said. And against universal morals.

“Bold talk from someone who houses a tarantula in our room.” 

Wednesday’s eyes automatically flicked to Thing’s enclosure, whose own eight eyes were looking at Enid, as though betrayed that she’d involved him in their little argument. 

Granted, Enid did have a point.

(This also reminded Wednesday that she needed to move Thing to the only room in their dorm that was connected to a generator—the kitchen. Of course Thing’s heat lamp had a battery backup, but it wasn’t much use when the rest of the room was in its final stage of evolution into becoming the Arctic Circle. This led to the third unexpected occurrence, and quite possibly the worst of them all, which was social interaction. The boy making toast in the kitchen assured Wednesday he wouldn’t rat Thing out to any university officials and would protect him with his life, and even though he smelled like weed and burnt bread this was satisfactory.)

“He’s very polite,” Wednesday defended weakly.

“I have a feeling Miss Thornhill wouldn’t take his manners into account when deciding to kick us out of the dorms for his existence.”

“Are you planning on telling?”

“Of course not.” Enid turned around from where she was standing by her desk at the foot of her bed, lighter in one hand, and somehow an eighteenth candle in the other. Wednesday concluded that they had to be appearing from some sort of hidden portal to Hell in the back of her closet. “He’s not the one complaining about my candles.

Wednesday wasn’t really complaining either—not like she used to complain about any minute detail of Enid’s lifestyle that didn’t line up with her own. But she had reasons now to accept this most current transgression. 

Well… one reason.

Enid was afraid of the dark. 

Admittedly, this was not the best reason to create a fire hazard capable of incinerating an entire building, but it was a reason nonetheless.

So Wednesday would accept the fact that, had it been dios de los meurtos and marigolds were in season, their room now had the power to bring back over a dozen distant family members on her father’s side, and an aroma to make them wish they’d never never bothered to come in the first place.

“You know you’re going to need to blow those out before we go to bed,” Wednesday pointed out.

Enid just replied, “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

And she lit another candle.

It was late when Wednesday’s nose had finally stopped working and the room was nearing the temperature of a freezer. She’d tried to make the most of her writing time earlier, but her fingers were too cold to type (which was, for lack of better phrase, complete bullshit because what good was it if her typewriter worked without power only for her ability to use it to be thwarted by the lack of the same modern comforts she’d been trying to avoid relying on by bringing the ancient device? But, as Enid would say, it was whatever). She eventually abandoned the venture in favor of huddling on her bed, bundled in a hoodie, hat, and three blankets, two of which belonged to Enid, who also wore a hoodie but didn’t seem nearly as affected by the temperature as Wednesday.

“You ever think you might have low iron? It would explain a lot about you except for the murder-y bits.”

The fact that Enid didn’t seem to have a single temperature receptor on her entire body explained a lot about her too—like her badly insulated “winter” jackets that seemed to be more for style purposes than actual warmth, her tendency to go out in snowstorms without a hat on, and how she didn’t even bother to check the forecast before leaving their building since it wouldn’t dictate anything about her outfit anyway.

“I don’t have low iron.”

“So your only two weaknesses are head colds and the cold. Got it.”

Wednesday didn’t bother to defend herself, partially to conserve her energy for shivering and partially because Enid did indeed have two functioning eyeballs that could clearly see the cocoon Wednesday had constructed around herself, resulting in any defense she could think to give to lack a substantial amount of credibility.

It wasn’t a horrible weakness anyway. Especially considering Enid’s weakness seemed to be the inability to go to bed without the usual glow of the streetlight outside shining through their curtains.

“Wednesday, you don’t understand.”

“Correct.”

“The shadows look like people in the dark.”

“I have a large knife and lots of stabbing experience. If they are people, they have a considerable disadvantage.”

“You know, you could’ve just said ‘that’s a valid fear, Enid, but just remember that we have a lock on the door and nobody can get in’.”

“Why would I say that? People can pick locks.”

Shockingly, that did not help matters.

Wednesday ended up giving Enid a flashlight.

It was one of those ones that needed to be wound up to recharge the battery, and Enid was instructed only to use it whenever one of the shadows started looking a little too sentient for her liking. Only after Enid had given the flashlight a few noisey test runs did she finally grant Wednesday permission to blow out the candles. The thought crossed Wednesday’s mind to crack the window and air out the room, but she was too cold to allow any minuscule amount of heat the room had retained to leave, so she just got under the blankets (three more than usual) and listened to the near constant whirring of the flashlight as Enid got ready for bed.

Wednesday figured the whirring would stop once Enid actually got in bed. Or, at the very least, be reduced in frequency.

But it continued. 

Almost constantly.

Every time Wednesday came close to escaping the slow torture of freezing to death, she would be snapped awake again by an electronic whir and the flashing of a light across the room to point at yet another inanimate object that Enid had deemed suspicious.

This went on for some time.

“We would hear if someone came in,” Wednesday finally said. Her voice sounded tight, and whether it was from her shivering or gritted teeth would remain a mystery.

“It’s not just people. It could also be ghosts.”

“In which case the flashlight will not help. Goodnight.”

The flashlight slowly faded out, leaving the room in inky darkness once more. Silence for a second. 

Two…

Three…

“Wednesday.”

“Enid.”

“Why the fuck would you just say something like that?”

And, long story short, unexpected occurrence number four took place.

Short story long, after Enid’s panicked question, there’d been a resigned sigh from the darker side of the room, rustling blankets and a voice that was annoyed enough to leave no room for argument or second thoughts as it said, “Just come here.”

Silence again. Four seconds of it this time. “To… you mean over with—“

“You took too long. The offer has expir—“

“Wait!”

It took Enid all of a millisecond to jump out of her own sheets and make her way over to Wednesday’s, who moved over to make room, only to descend into the fifth layer of frozen-over Hell as her skin touched parts of her sheets that hadn’t yet touched her, leaving them a temperature akin to liquid nitrogen.

Enid crawled under the blankets and rustled around a bit to get comfortable. Then they were both laying on their backs, staring up at the dark ceiling in the quiet that followed. The silence felt thick in the air. Like Wednesday couldn’t even break it to breathe.

But Enid was warm, and the sheets were starting to thaw. And considering that Enid and herself had already taken turns falling asleep on each other in the recent past, falling asleep next to each other logically shouldn’t be a huge deal. And Wednesday was often comforted by logic.

She was comforted enough that her eyelids started to get heavy and the world started to fade. 

Whirr—

She grabbed the flashlight out of Enid’s hands and flung it across the room, where it hit something that produced an unhealthy sounding crack. Probably her dresser. She didn’t care.

“Wednesday!”

No response.

Enid let out some short, affronted huff of air as the light that was now cast across the floor at a sinister angle started to gutter out. “Well, you know what? I was going to take the high road and pretend that the only reason you wanted me over here is because you were annoyed by the flashlight, but I think it’s important that you know that I know that you’re actually a total wimp about the cold and you’re using me for body heat. That’s all. Goodnight.” 

“Get out of my bed.” 

“Careful. If you say it again, I will.” 

“And leave yourself vulnerable to our ghost-infested room? I think not.”

“That doesn’t sound like ‘get out of my bed’.” 

“You have incredible talents in observation,” Wednesday said. Then, after a moment, “And, admittedly, as a human furnace.”

The flashlight shut off for the last time that night, but Enid didn’t complain about the dark again. And Wednesday didn’t complain about the cold.

(As such, another bullet point joined the rapidly expanding register of criteria needed to make whatever list Wednesday was creating that only Enid currently occupied, which was: allowed to share Wednesday’s bed—only in extreme conditions; i.e. when at risk of hypothermia or suffering from irrational fears involving the dark.)

Wednesday had been tired when she invited Enid into her bed. And a little annoyed. And very, very cold. 

She had a plethora of (exactly three) excuses for her behavior, all of which were unfortunately absent when she woke to buttery rays of winter sun cascaded over her bed sheets, little flecks of dust swimming in the light like glittering snowflakes. And Wednesday was finally warm. The power had returned. She knew because her nose no longer felt like it was one cold draft away from developing frostbite and the Christmas tree was on. 

Wednesday watched the muted projection of reds and golds and blues shift on the ceiling, and then turned to the head of blond hair beside her, a halo of frizz illuminated by the sun. Enid looked soft in sleep—messy hair and crumpled fabric and parted lips, a cheek squished into the pillow. She was vibrance and light curled up in black bed sheets, swathed in honeyed morning light and slowed in time. 

That morning was sun and silence and the burning scent of old electric heaters coming to life and Enid was beautiful. 

Wednesday didn’t usually care for what most people deemed beautiful. In fact, she often found more allure in the “ugly”. In things that were a little twisted. In things that came with a warning or looked better cast into the dark. But Enid was beautiful in every definition of the word that existed. In every language and universe. 

So, as it turned out, Wednesday cared for beautiful things after all. Or at least one of them. 

She drifted off to sleep shortly after, but if anyone were to ask, the first time Wednesday opened her eyes that morning was when Enid rolled out of bed an hour later. And if anyone were to ask—no, she had not been aware that Enid had draped an arm over her in her sleep.

.     .     .

“Wednesday?”

“Enid.”

“You know the flashlight you threw last night?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the wall has a hole in it.”

“Shit.”

.     .     .

Not much of note happened between Christmas and New Years. Enid recharged her laptop and the Christmas movies commenced once again, with a few horror movies sprinkled in here and there for the benefit of preventing Wednesday from going completely insane (her baseline level was more than sufficient already). Wednesday also had her first experience with UberEats and a Big Mac, courtesy of Enid, who had it ordered directly to the dorm house the night they ran out of ramen.

She had another first experience as well, which occurred when Enid, in the middle of The Grinch just after he’d sent Cindy Lou Hoo down that garbage chute, asked, “What did your parents get you for Christmas after? I think you opened their gift before I got up.”

And Wednesday said, “An iPhone 14.”

And Enid’s gasp was so loud and dramatic that it probably disturbed every flock of birds in range of the university to the state border.

Wednesday never did get to see the end of The Grinch, which was upsetting since he was the only character in any of the holiday movies they’d watched that she could even remotely relate with. She’d really been rooting for his heart to shrink another size or two by the time the credits rolled.

Instead Enid slammed the laptop closed and demanded to know where Wednesday had put the gift. Soon enough she had it out of the box and was plugging it in, then she waited on pins and needles for it to charge while Wednesday made the most of her impatient silence by taking her hour of writing time. Enid interrupted it forty-seven minutes in anyway by shoving the glowing device in her face.

And Wednesday’s phone was telling her hola . And then bonjour . And then—

“How does it know I speak Spanish, French, and Danish?”

“It doesn’t. It’s just the welcome—“

“And Norwegian.”

“I promise it will be a lot less threatening if you just shut the fuck up and let me explain.”

Enid walked Wednesday through the process of setting up her phone, which really just meant that Enid did everything and Wednesday sat there blankly while the device was being shoved in her face again and again to calibrate the face ID feature.

There were a couple reasons she hadn’t told Enid about the phone before this. One was that she was perplexed by it. Her parents had always been good gift givers, so one could only imagine her shock when she opened the box labeled with her home address three days ago to find the exact piece of technology she openly despised.  She thought at first it might have been some sort of riddle, or the starting point of some web of sinister mysteries for her to untangle. Alas, the note attached from her parents just read, Apologies, our little storm cloud, but we believe you will find a terrible use for this gift. With all of our love, your mother and father.

This proved that her parents had indeed not been kidnapped and the gift was not serving as the first clue to find their captor, which was disappointing since the alternative was that this was yet another obvious hint that they wanted her to make friends.

Her second reason for neglecting to tell Enid about the device was that, “I was planning on selling it.”

“What? Why would you do that?”

“What else would I do with it?”

Enid shrugged. “You could text me.”

And… well, yes. Wednesday could do that.

So she accepted the phone, along with the one and only contact Enid had put in it, who was named “BEST ROOMIE EVER” along with a heart emoji for each color of the rainbow (which seemed excessive, even for Enid, but she was overly excited so Wednesday let it slide). Enid told Wednesday to text her so she’d have her number too, then scoffed when she received it, which was slightly insulting since Wednesday had put a lot of thought into crafting her message and thought it was very informative.

6:22 PM - This is a text.

“Okay, this is fine,” Enid said, “but usually you’d say something to let the other person know it’s you.”

This seemed like it would get redundant, but Wednesday didn’t question it. Enid was the expert in this field after all.

After a moment, Enid’s phone chimed again. She checked it.

“Yes, Wednesday. I know it’s from you now. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Over the next few days, Enid would send her many many texts. Wednesday responded to most of them verbally since Enid was always either somewhere in the room when they were sent or sitting right beside Wednesday herself. The rest of the messages were filled with emojis and “hey”s with a variable number of y’s (but never just one), and Wednesday responded to these with silence.

On one night that was clear and silent beyond the window, Wednesday was gazing into the dark when her phone chimed. It was from “Bestie fo tha restieeee” because Enid had changed her contact name three times already and the day when she would change it to her actual name seemed to be getting more and more unlikely to come.

7:01 PM: Heyyyy

7:01 PM: just so you know

7:02 PM: it’s new year’s eve 

Wednesday didn’t glance over to the bed, where she knew Enid was watching her for a reaction. “I am aware of the date, Enid.”

Silence, except for the diligent tapping of Enid’s fingers on her phone. Another text.

7:03 PM: Wanna have a party????

“Is this a joke or do you actually require an answer?”

Tapping.

7:03 PM: I require an answer.

“Your answer is no. Can you speak to me instead of texting?”

Wednesday watched the gray text bubble show up with the ellipsis, meaning Enid was typing. And typing…

And then,

7:04 PM: idk can you look at me?

Wednesday’s chair squeaked as she turned to face her roommate. Enid was sitting in the middle of her bed, her head tilted back to rest against the wall, looking at Wednesday down the bridge of her nose with a carefully constructed mask of indifference. Wednesday raised her eyebrows, and Enid, keeping emotionless eye contact, tapped on her phone one last time.

Wednesday looked down at her screen as her phone buzzed with another message. It was a gif of a person with bananas on their head that said “thanks a bunch.”

It was the most stupid thing Wednesday had ever seen.

But the corner of her lips twitched anyway and Enid’s laugh lit up the parts of the room that their Christmas lights couldn’t reach.

“It’s not an actual party,” Enid giggled eventually. “There’s literally only us in the entire building and that guy who's always in the kitchen eating toast. There’d be nobody to invite.”

“Then what are you proposing?”

“A party for two.”

“So… just us in here like any other night.”

“Yes, but with, like, decorations and clappers and those cool New Years glasses that you can’t actually see out of but the frame is made out of the year. Come on, it would be so fun!”

“We’ve established at this point that we have very different definitions of the word ‘fun’.”

“I just…” Enid sighed. “I was never allowed to go to any parties when I was in high school. On New Years everyone else would be hanging out with their friends while I was stuck watching my dad try to set off second-hand fireworks he’d bought online that barely ever worked. I just want to do something that someone my age should be doing for once.”

Wednesday never did any of that stuff either. For her, New Years just marked another year closer to the end of her life. It wasn’t anything special to her, and certainly not an occasion that made seeing other people any more worthwhile than it normally was.

So yes, traditional New Year’s activities meant about as much to Wednesday as garlic meant to vampires, but, as she’d come to terms with some time ago… 

Enid.

So Wednesday said, “Parties typically have alcohol.”

“Well, I guess, but we’re not twenty-one so—“

“I have a fake ID.”

“Excuse me?”

It was worth noting that the amount of things Wednesday would typically rather do than host or go to a party was substantial and gruesome. This was apparently rivaled only by the amount of things she could be persuaded to do if Enid had a good enough reason. And Wednesday’s definition of a good reason usually only involved the prevention of someone’s death, but good reasons for doing things Enid wanted her to do seemed to change depending on the day. She might have put more thought into this inconsistency if not for the fact that everything about doing anything with Enid already made her question most things about herself, and she didn’t feel like adding another to the list.

Speaking of lists, Wednesday could now add “can persuade Wednesday to host a party” and “a good drinking companion” to her ever-increasing list of criteria for her “People that Wednesday Addams might give more than a fuck about” list (the title was still a work in progress).

The cashier at the liquor store did not believe Wednesday was twenty-five at first. He also didn’t seem like he believed it at second either, but minimum wage apparently wasn’t enough to warrant any further investigation into an extremely well-forged license because he just let them go. Wednesday dropped Enid off at the dollar store on their way back to pick up “just a couple things” and shortly afterwards they were trekking back to the dorm with four reusable bags worth of essential New Year’s paraphernalia. 

Wednesday did a lot of things she wasn’t proud of that night.

Most of them involved helping Enid decorate their room. As if the Christmas lights weren’t already damaging enough to her morals, she was now hanging gold streamers from the ceiling and pinning stars to the walls. Mind you, all of this was done on Enid’s side of the room only, but it didn’t erase the fact that Wednesday was the one committing the crime.

The thing that brought her the most shame though was the moment when the room was decorated and Wednesday was taking a moment to reflect on all the horrible things she’d done in her life that must’ve led her to this moment, and Enid skipped over, tucked some hair behind her ear, and placed a pair of New Year’s glasses on her face.

And Wednesday left them there. 

Even as Enid went out of range again to get her own. Even as Enid pulled out her phone and snapped a selfie of the both of them. And even as Enid poured them both a shot.

And Wednesday had drank before this. Alcohol was technically a poison, after all, so it would go against her nature not to try it at least once to see how it affected her. Unsurprisingly, it hadn’t been enjoyable. To someone whose most important trait was being ready for anything at all times, the fuzziness in her head was an unwelcome hindrance and she vowed to never do it again. She’d held that experiment at home, alone in her room some time ago, where the only immediate witnesses were Thing and the bottle of red wine she’d picked as her poison of choice (she thought it would look more like blood, but was disappointed to find the hue was slightly off once she poured it in the glass). She’d gotten through two glasses before she started to feel the effects.

Tonight, Enid had gotten vodka. By no means did she force Wednesday to drink it or try to coerce her in any way. Enid had long since proved her adherence to boundaries as well as simply being a good person, so Wednesday knew that a refusal of her shot offer would’ve been immediately respected. There was no pressure that caused Wednesday to drink with Enid—no convincing or begging or guilt tripping.

Only in the deep recesses of Wednesday’s mind, far away from prying ears, did she ever admit the things she feared. One of them was being out of control. She had a recurring nightmare about a building in flames, people screaming and running and coughing on smoke, but her feet were stuck to the ground and all she could do was watch. Her adversity to alcohol was too rooted in that fear, not that she would cause a building to go up in flames, but that the cloudiness in her head would render her useless in a situation where that wasn’t an option.

But Enid felt soft and open and trusting, and she felt like all the things Wednesday wouldn’t allow herself to be anywhere that blue eyes and a smile like stars wasn’t.

Wednesday didn’t fear being out of control around Enid. Because being with Enid felt safe.

So Wednesday accepted the two other shots Enid offered, and she accepted the warm fuzziness that entered her mind shortly after. It let her loosen, to soften, to get closer than she usually would to Enid as she showed her how to work the record player she’d got her for Christmas. Their shoulders pressed together as Wednesday pointed out the power switch and the start and stop button, the stylus and the pitch control, and Enid hummed and nodded along but when Wednesday glanced up she wasn’t even looking at the record player.

A blond curl fell in front of Enid’s eyes and Wednesday’s fingers itched.

She said, “You’re not paying attention.”

“Sorry.” Enid did not sound sorry. “I’m totally listening now.”

And she was still totally staring at Wednesday.

And Wednesday figured she wasn’t the only one starting to feel the effects of the shots they’d taken.

As fine as she was being a little under the influence around Enid, she still didn’t take it to extremes. Even in the quiet safety of their room, she found no desire to go any further than the slight tingling static in the back of her mind that made almost everything completely okay. Like the way Enid looked right into her eyes as she talked, or held Wednesday’s hand in a moment of excitement over the record player working (as if Wednesday would gift her broken record player or something). 

This level of inebriation apparently wasn’t enough for Enid, who, after receiving two “draw four” cards in a row from Wednesday in a game of Uno, decided mixed drinks were now the way to go. Wednesday stuck with water and watched as Enid’s eyes got progressively glassier and her movements progressively clumsier. Their second game of Uno took twenty minutes longer than the first because Enid kept dropping all her cards. Enid said they’d keep playing until she won, so in the third game Wednesday drew two to three cards per turn even though she had lots to play and ignored the multiple times Enid mixed up an eight with a three.

Wednesday suggested they both go to bed at around ten o’clock, which was, admittedly, an idiotic idea to bring up to a drunk Enid who really wanted to see fireworks that night. But intention alone wasn’t enough to keep Enid from nodding off between spurts of blabbering on about some type of New Years event in Times Square and how she refused to go to bed until she saw it aired live. Wednesday would have been content to stay up with Enid until midnight if she showed her any indication that she could remain conscious for that long. But, as it was, her roommate was slumped in her desk chair, head lolled to the side in a way that would definitely be sore when she straightened, eyes staring blankly ahead, lids getting closer to staying shut with each blink.

So Wednesday’s new phone gained a whole second use other than its current only use, which was to receive her roommate's endless stream of text messages.

Google.

“Enid, what are you doing? You’re going to miss the ball drop.”

“Hm?”

“The ball. In Times Square. They’re… dropping it.” Wednesday still wasn’t completely confident about what happened in the event. It didn’t matter. Enid wasn’t completely confident about what was happening in life at the moment, so the chances she would pick up on any misinformation Wednesday was spewing off were far in the negatives. “I have it live on my phone.”

Enid straightened, blue eyes gaining a single grain of understanding as Wednesday played the YouTube video of last year’s ball drop on her phone and held it in front of Enid’s bleary gaze. The countdown started at a minute. Then it was thirty seconds. And then fifteen.

And crouched down by the side of Enid’s chair, listening to her roommate's voice struggle through the last ten seconds of the countdown, Wednesday decided that she preferred Enid sober. It was a slightly jarring revelation since this Enid was quiet and calm and still—all of the things Wednesday wished for Enid to be in those first couple of weeks after they’d met. Drunk Enid was a person Wednesday probably would have tolerated right from the start.

Sober Enid, however, was a person that was at odds with Wednesday in every conceivable way—she was optimistic and energetic and happy, and she could talk for hours about anything and days about nothing. She was colorful, vibrant, and loud, open, emotional, and unapologetic for it all. Enid Sinclair was a ray of sunshine that demanded to shine right into Wednesday’s corneas and Wednesday didn’t care because somehow, wherever life originated from stardust and light, it was decided that Enid was also her’s.

That wasn’t to say the Wednesday didn’t like drunk enid too, though. She was still just as beautiful, after all.

“You’re not paying attention.”

Wednesday tore her eyes from Enid. “Sorry,” she whispered, and looked back at the screen.

The ball drop was anticlimactic and overall assaulting to Wednesday’s eyes. She would’ve liked to have been warned beforehand about the million colors of confetti that would burst into the camera frame, but Enid enjoyed it so it was fine. Wednesday quickly shut off the video before Enid could realize it was actually the celebration from the year prior.

“Happy New Year, Wens.”

She also turned off her phone before she could realize they were an hour and a half away from midnight. “Let’s go to bed.”

Wednesday stood and moved in front of Enid, took her hands and pulled her up. Then they were face-to-face, and this time when a lock of hair fell in front of Enid’s eyes, Wednesday tucked it behind her ear without thinking.

“You’re so pretty.” And Enid’s voice was mumbled, but it was soft like snow. Warm like the buzz still lingering in Wednesday’s head from the vodka.

“You are drunk.”

“So are you,” Enid countered, and… well, she was right. “You’re also pretty, so can you just, like, accept the compliment?”

Wednesday was rooted in place. Her hands were holding Enid’s, lightly tugging her upright when she leaned back a little too far. 

Wednesday said, “Thank you.”

Enid was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. Wednesday turned off the record player, the Christmas lights, and took Enid’s new years glasses off her head. Midnight rolled around and fireworks popped in the distance. Enid slept through it all, but Wednesday sat by the window, watching the faint flashes of color light up the sky until her eyes started to drift shut too.

.     .     .

“Enid, did you move my dresser?”

“Only by, like, a foot.”

“Why?”

“Because it covers the flashlight hole.”

“No, I’m moving it back. It’s interfering with the feng shui of the room.”

“Who are you?”

.     .     .

It was around the time the dyed parts of Enid’s hair were almost completely faded that Wednesday realized that she would not only help Enid if she was in a state of peril, but she would willingly put herself into a state of peril to help Enid.

Observe Exhibit A, when “love of my lyfe <3” texted Wednesday twenty-four minutes into her fifty minute lecture:

7:24 PM - Remind me again why I signed up for a night class

7:24 PM - “Because fuck dawn” I believe is what you said.

7:24 PM - I agree. Dusk is much better.

7:25 PM - Also, this is Wednesday.

7:25 PM - You don’t need to introduce yourself every time, I know it’s you now

7:25 PM - Those were your direct instructions.

7:25 PM - I feel like you’re wrong but ok :)

7:26 PM - My memory is impeccable.

7:26 PM - How dare you.

7:26 PM - How dare YOU let me choose an evening class on the other end of campus!!!

7:26 PM - I have to walk back in the dark now and it’s snowwwwiiinnngggg

7:27 PM - I’m probably going to be kidnapped on my way back. Or freeze to death

7:27 PM - Pray for me

7:27 PM - I will not.

7:48 PM - I arm heret.

Because yes. Wednesday had indeed left her warm room, where she’d been comfortably reviewing the PSYC 1002 lecture she’d attended that morning, to venture out into a snowfall so thick the flakes stuck to her eyelashes, all so Enid wouldn’t have to walk across campus alone. 

Enid was, understandably, just as shocked to see Wednesday as Wednesday herself was to be there. She’d come in through the doors of the building just as Enid’s class was letting out, the drops of water that were covering her phone screen messing with the keyboard as she tried to text her. She was buried in snowflakes from head to toe and they sprinkled off her with every movement.

“Wednesday?”

The mass of students coming out of the class parted around Wednesday like ice around a hot poker. Enid stood among them, frozen in the middle of haphazardly stuffing a notebook in her book bag.

Wednesday said, “You forgot your hat.”

“Um—“

“And your coat. And gloves.”

Enid smiled sheepishly. “Does it count as forgetting if I remembered but didn’t care?”

“No.” Wednesday marched up to her, pulled that tricoloured hat out of her pocket and tugged it roughly onto Enid’s head (and the fact that Wednesday spent more time than Enid keeping track of the location of something that was simultaneously pink, purple, and blue was a testament to how little Enid cared about not freezing to death and also to how much Wednesday cared about… getting it out of her room). “It then counts as idiocy.”

Enid laughed and reached up to fix her hat, which was lopsided from the little amount of care that was taken when putting it on. Wednesday traded Enid’s coat for her bag and finished arranging her books inside while Enid focused on getting on her jacket. There were no tunnels on this side of campus so she would need it considering 95% of their walk was outside.

“I wasn’t actually going to get kidnapped,” Enid said as she put her arms through the sleeves. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I can handle myself.”

“I know.”

“And I wasn’t going to freeze.”

“You were being dramatic. I know.” Wednesday held out her gloves. “Just because you won’t freeze to death doesn’t mean I want you to be cold if I can help it.”

Enid grinned and, before Wednesday could protest (because she definitely would have protested. For sure), threw an arm over her shoulders and pulled her to her side so tightly she let out a squeak. Enid then pressed a quick kiss to the side of Wednesday’s snow-covered beanie. Wednesday didn’t have time to comprehend the interaction before Enid was letting her go and twirling out of her reach with a giggle.

Wednesday’s mind was in a state of static. Her mouth drifted open, and she was sure nothing would come out, but Enid pointed a finger at her and blurted, “That didn’t count as a hug!”

Wednesday had slipped on the way there. She’d been briskly walking across the quad and misjudged the slickness of the inch of snow on the sidewalk and then she was on the ground. She’d hastily gotten up and wiped off her pants before anyone could see, but it didn’t lessen the way her insides flipped as solid ground disappeared from beneath her feet and rose to meet her. Anyway, Wednesday’s stomach felt now kind of like it did when gravity betrayed her for those fatal moments on her way over.

Kind of like she wanted to throw up. Kind of like floating.

She hated it.

Wednesday said, “Zipper up your coat.”

It was easier to excuse the things she did for Enid when it was for her own safety—she’d brought her winter clothes so she wouldn’t freeze, cooked her meals so she wouldn’t starve, and and helped her dye her hair again after the new year to stave away any fatal universal consequences that came with Enid not having multiple colors embedded into some follicle of her body at all times. It was easier to rationalize these things because Wednesday could make the argument that she would do those things for anyone she gave a fuck about.

But of course, there was the long list of things she’d done for Enid that had nothing to do with her physical wellbeing (including but not limited to: slurpees, wearing snoods, alcohol, Christmas movies, bed sharing, and countless other non-Wednesday things that nobody but Enid could ever convince her to do). Rationalizing that list wasn’t as simple. Nothing about it made sense. 

With the exception of a good mystery, Wednesday liked things straightforward. She liked structure, predictability, and above all else, control. With Enid, that all came crashing down. Control was a tough thing to keep when she had to account for another person’s wants in that equation, and what Wednesday would do to make them happen. It was perhaps something Wednesday may have been learning to surrender at times—times when blue eyes held hers and a voice sweet like honey talked about everything and nothing and something inherent demanded she listen. 

Well, really, Enid didn’t demand anything. She didn’t have to.

Wednesday gave anyway. 

.     .     .

“Why is that stock photo of the Eiffel Tower hung so low on the wall?”

“Because that’s where the flashlight hole is.”

“Well, wall decor needs to be at eye level or higher or else it just looks ridiculous.”

“You know what else looks ridiculous, Wednesday?”

“…”

“…”

“The h—“

“The hole in the wall!”

.     .     .

Building a snowman would not go down as one of Wednesday’s proudest moments. It also wouldn’t go down as one of her least proud moments. To be honest, the act of building a snowman itself sat in some pride middle ground that also housed other mundane things like not dying in her sleep and using margarine instead of butter in a recipe.

She did have reasons for the snowman. One of which involved Enid studying well into midnight for a midterm. The other of which, naturally, involved a foot of freshly fallen snow.

The snowman incident, as she had begun calling it directly after balling up her first handful of snow that night, was a new, concerning step in whatever cruel plan the universe had under way that made her direct opposite walk into her life and, worse, made Wednesday like her. It was true that Wednesday had come to terms with the many many things she would do for/with Enid if her roommate showed any inkling that she wanted it. But this wasn’t that.

This wasn’t Enid asking Wednesday to build a snowman.

This was Enid blankly staring at the same page in her textbook for fifteen minutes after a study session that lasted five hours. This was Enid forgetting to take even one sip out of the water bottle Wednesday had placed at the corner of her desk and leaving the noodles Wednesday had made them for supper to get cold in a bowl on her nightstand. This was Enid whispering the same sentence over and over to herself, then writing it over and over, and then forgetting it and repeating the process until she had to close her eyes and breathe.

This was Wednesday getting out of bed and putting on her coat loud enough to snap Enid out of whatever intellectual hell she thought she had to endure to pass that test, so Enid would look up, ask where she was going, and Wednesday would say,

“I’m going to go build a snowman. Have fun studying.”

Wednesday waited outside their room for a whole minute before Enid came rushing out, shoving her snood over her head (to be fair, Enid probably spent the first thirty seconds genuinely worrying about Wednesday partaking in some serious drugs that day, so the fact that she was a little delayed was understandable). Wednesday wordlessly handed Enid her hat.

The window on the door of their building was steamed up, and it opened on squeaky hinges. The streetlight overhead made the little bit of snow still falling into flecks of gold. The night was clear and soundless, the stars above pinpricks of light in an otherwise ebony sky, and when Enid let out a breath it unfurled in a cloud that was quickly swallowed by the cold. 

The door clicked shut behind them. And they got to work.

Not a soul passed by in the entire hour they were constructing the body. It would’ve only been thirty minutes, but the bottom and the middle spheres broke twice each and that really set them back. It didn’t help that they might’ve bitten off more than they could metaphorically chew in regards to size. If getting the middle sphere onto the bottom took all of their combined strength, getting the head onto the middle took that and a step stool constructed of snow. Wednesday was sure she would be sore the next day due to all the heavy lifting.

They eventually stepped back to look at the behemoth they’d created. It towered over both of them, imposingly cast in shadow from the light above.

Enid, still breathing heavily from hoisting up the head, said, “That is terrifying.”

Wednesday said, “He’s perfect.”

“He is a threat.” Enid gestured a snow-covered glove in the direction of the structure in question. “What if he falls over and kills someone?”

Wednesday just shrugged, trudging off to grab some sticks for the arms. “Natural selection.”

Since any rocks in the vicinity were currently buried under several feet of snow and ice, they also used sticks for the eyes, nose, buttons, and smile (Wednesday voted for a less happy expression, but Enid was taller and could reach his face easier so ultimately it was her choice). They stepped back again to observe their handy work.

“He needs a hat,” Enid concluded.

Wednesday disagreed. Any hat they could put on him would look comically small and had the potential to get stolen by anyone over six feet tall.

But Wednesday got up on the snow step they’d built, took off her hat, and gave it a toss to the top of his head. It landed in the right spot, although it was crumpled and more resembled a black blob than what it actually was, but Enid grinned and shot her a thumbs up so… that was nice.

Then a crack opened up down the middle of the heap of snow Wednesday was standing on and swallowed her whole.

It didn’t actually swallow her. She honestly didn’t know what happened, just that one moment she was looking at Enid smiling, and then the next her back was slamming to the ground and all she could see was the sky and the streetlight overhead.

Overall she was disappointed. If she was going to fall, she would have rathered it to be something near-death and dramatic. But, as it was, all that announced Wednesday’s mild twist of fate was Enid’s gasp and a puff of snowflakes fluttering into the air around the crash site.

The only thing that made it worthwhile was that somewhere out of her field of vision Enid was laughing. Hard.

And Wednesday looked up at the stars and laughed too.

(And honestly it was almost two in the morning. Wednesday was over-tired and burned out from studying for her own midterms all week, so this reaction was likely the result of some sleep-deprived hysteria.)

Eventually a still-giggling Enid knelt in the snow beside her and offered a hand, which was fortunate since Wednesday had actually sunk down pretty far and if she hadn’t gotten help this situation would’ve definitely been among the less dignified ways to go. She let Enid pull her up to a sitting position and shivered as snow fell down the neck of her jacket. 

“Here.” Enid’s laugh wasn’t mocking—it couldn’t be. Enid’s laugh was light and bubbly and made of all the good things in the world that Wednesday had thought she’d hated until now. She took off her multicolored hat and tugged it gently onto Wednesday’s head. “I think you need this more than me.”

Enid’s hair was a mess of blond curls and frizz once she took the hat off. Her cheeks and nose were flushed from the cold, and her features were made soft by the warm orange of the streetlight above. Wednesday tracked the shadows under her cheekbones, beneath her jaw, in the divet of her lip, and came to the same conclusion she always did when she looked at Enid. 

“Eres hermosa.”

It came out on a breath, barely loud enough to hear. Not even enough for the cold air to turn her words to steam.

Enid tilted her head a little. “Was that Spanish?”

Yes.

No.

Wednesday didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know why she’d said it.

“I can’t wear your hat. I’m allergic to color.”

It was a stupid thing to say. But the winter air was still and cold and waiting and it felt wrong to break something that peaceful with a lie.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Enid said, dusting some snow off her shoulder, seemingly okay with letting her deflection run its course, “you look pretty in pink.”

Then she winked at her.

And Wednesday figured with how many times she’d forced Enid to wear her hat, she could suffer through a little bit of color for just a bit.

So finally, with the snowman finished, the lawn turned into a mess of trenches and boot prints, and a Wednesday-sized hole in the snow, they decided to go back inside.

But they’d both forgotten their key cards, so… 

“Fuck.”

.     .     .

“Enid, this is just a picture frame without a picture inside.”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“Because clearly the hole isn’t meant to be covered. I’ve been trying everything to hide it but nothing works, so I think the universe is trying to teach us a lesson here about living our truth and embracing everything about ourselves, even the parts that we think people won’t like.”

“Okay.”

“Yup.”

“We will still need to fix this before the end of the year or we won’t get our damage deposit back.”

“I already looked up YouTube videos on how to plaster, and the paint match is ‘rainstorm gray 6782’.”

.     .     .

Wednesday never liked how people said to “look for the light” in times of trouble. She preferred the dark, shadows and gloom, whistling wind, and the striking peace of being alone. Lights in the dark were made for people who don’t know their way around. There was power in tripping trying to find the right path, in the ability to move forward without needing something to follow.

Wednesday had never needed a light in the dark to tell her where to go.

But, more literally speaking, the illuminated clock on the top of the library did wonders to keep Wednesday and Enid from freezing to death. It was open 24 hours currently for midterm studying, and they were lucky to catch the door as another student left.

Their clothes were wet from melting snow, so they went to the uppermost floor, dragged a couple cushioned chairs near a heater and set up camp for the night. With the comforting press of silence all around, the heat billowing from the heater, and surrounded by the soft scent of old books, it took them mere minutes to drift off to sleep.

Wednesday woke at dawn to the first rays of light piercing the library windows. She watched as the spines of the books on the shelves changed color with the rising sun—dim blue, then to pink, then red and orange. Casted in the shadow of one of the shelves, Wednesday could watch the light dance over the titles for as long as she wanted.

But she didn’t, because she found her eyes drifting to Enid instead. 

And Enid was golden in the sunrise. 

Curled up on the ripped leather chair, head tilted to rest against the back cushion, there was barely an inch of her that wasn’t covered in morning light. Enid was different when she slept. Her eyes were closed and her face was slack and Wednesday couldn’t decide if it made her look younger or older. But the light of the sunrise painted her face into something glowing and ethereal and Wednesday thought that it probably wasn’t a mystery why the light had skipped over her to land only on Enid. Like Enid drew it to her. Or created it.

Wednesday decided that she was done trying to categorize Enid. There was no list she could put her on, no set of criteria she could meet that would allow Wednesday to make any more sense about what Enid was to her than she already had. 

She was lost, but at least she had a nice view.

A person that was made from night stars and moonlight, and washed in the glow of a winter sun. 

And Wednesday didn’t need a light to follow. She never had, and never would. But maybe, just once, and just for now…

It would be nice if it stayed.

Chapter Text

Enid had always liked school. 

It was a bit of an odd thing to admit when most people just saw school as a necessary evil to get wherever they wanted to go in life. In high school Enid had lied and said she’d hated it solely because that was what all her friends said and she was an incredibly easily influenced youth who had a fear of being alone and a backbone made of wet paper mache. Her mother had once seen Enid attempting to introduce kale into her diet thanks to a group of girls in her health class who got really scared about a PowerPoint slide with a McDonald’s burger on it and also heart disease statistics, and sat her down to have a talk.

“Enid, if all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you too?”

And Esther Sinclair, in all her infinite wisdom, had never known her daughter very well.

Because Enid would’ve jumped into an active volcano if Michelle or Selena had told her that them and a few of the girls might head down there later for a dip and she should totally join.

The point here was that Enid had obviously grown since then, and now that her self-worth didn’t completely hinge on the opinions of everyone else, she could openly admit that she liked school. She was a people person at her core, after all, and there was no better place to get involved in clubs, extracurriculars, events, and—Enid’s personal favorite—gossip than a well-rounded academic institute. Granted, the actual academic part was, you know, meh, whatever. But Enid would get decent enough grades to stay if it meant ample access to everything else.

When her winter semester ended at university, Enid thought all those things would be the hardest to say goodbye to. And of course it was hard to leave Nevermore—she’d made tons of friends and had tons of experiences. She'd lived a life free from the expectations of home and now she had to go back to San Francisco and pretend like she was still the same person she was when she’d left. She would miss everything.

But it turned out that the hardest thing to say goodbye to wasn’t a thing at all. It was a who.

Wednesday Addams sat beside her on the bench at the bus stop. 

Enid was thankful she was there for a couple reasons:

The first was obviously sentimental value. A goodbye in their dorm room would’ve felt much too premature. Wednesday still had to walk to her car and Enid still had to get some type of transportation to Burlington and wait for the seven o’clock arrival of the greyhound bus that would take her the first ten hours of her trip home. They would have both been kind of in proximity to each other for a little while after a goodbye on campus, and for Enid it would have been torture knowing her friend was so close all that time and yet already gone. Here, they’d be driving off in seperate directions. It would be final right away, which didn’t make it easier but it did make it quicker. You know, ripping off a bandaid and all that.

She was also happy Wednesday was there because the bus stop in Burlington was sketchy as fuck. The guy she’d gotten her ticket from was nice, but the waiting area was outside under a small bus shelter, thirty feet away from a broken streetlight and ten away from a flickering one. There wasn’t even an outlet to charge her phone. Considering the evening was well on its way to setting in and there seemed to be nobody else in sight, Enid was all too happy to be accompanied by the human embodiment of the phrase, ‘fuck around and find out’.

Wednesday didn’t have to be waiting here with her. The bus stop was already slightly out of her way back to New Jersey, so just the act of dropping Enid off would have been enough to prove that they’d truly surpassed ‘roomie goals’ and moved into ‘friend goals’ territory. But Wednesday insisted she stay in case Enid’s bus was late and she had to wait in the dark. And Enid was glad for that too, because—

“It’s 7:01. Your bus is late.”

Another benefit to Wednesday being there: Enid never had to bother to check the time.

“You should go.” The words fought against everything in Enid to come out since what she really wanted to say was ‘We should go. Somewhere. Anywhere.’ But she knew she had to go home, and Wednesday did too, and no amount of selfish foolishness could change that. “You’d at least get on the road a little bit before dark.”

“Yes, twenty minutes of daylight is truly going to be what determines the success of my trip back. I’m so glad you suggested it.”

Wednesday's tone was dripping in flat sarcasm and Enid couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her, even as the pang that had been present in her heart since she started packing that morning grew ever stronger. 

They hadn’t talked much that day. Their conversations that morning had been limited to musings about what Enid could’ve been forgetting, and then about where she lost the stuff she’d forgotten because they couldn’t find it anywhere. Wednesday didn’t forget anything. Wednesday had a list of all the stuff she’d originally packed, because of course she fucking did.

“Okay, I seriously think I lost my sunglasses. I can’t find them anywhere!”

“Really. Anywhere.”

“Okay, no offense, but you repeating words I’ve just said but with more emphasis is not helping.”

“Are you certain you’ve checked everywhere they could be?”

“Yes, Wednesday! And I could’ve sworn they were just in my hand, too.”

“That is curious.”

“Of course the first day of the week it’s sunny and I have to travel and my sunglasses have disappeared into the void. It’s like the universe is laughing at me.”

“I can’t imagine why. Remind me, you are certain you’ve checked everywhere?”

“I. Have. Checked. Everywhere.”

Wednesday, sitting on her now-bare mattress with her immaculately packed suitcase at her feet, had just stared at her for at least three consecutive long moments. 

Then she finally said, “As much as it pains me to suggest it, you’ve likely lost them forever and we have no choice but to leave them behind.

It took until after they’d packed all their things into Wednesday’s car and were pulling out of campus for Enid to realize her sunglasses were on her head. 

They hadn’t talked much during the half an hour it took to get to Burlington either, except for Enid breaking the loaded silence every now and then to point out something noteable on the side of the road that Wednesday would just respond to with one of her noncommittal hums. It kind of felt like they were dancing around something, both of them too afraid to say it. Or, more likely, whatever computer that was powering Wednesday’s brain didn’t have a program that told her how.

But the sinking feeling in Enid’s stomach was eating her alive. She knew it would continue to even after she got home, and this—whatever relationship she had with Wednesday—was too special to leave anything unsaid. Too rare.

And as Enid’s eyes started stinging and pressure built low in her throat, she knew she probably just hadn’t said it because the words would undoubtedly come with tears.

“I’m going to miss you.” There. It was out. She thought she’d feel some sense of relief, but she didn’t, only burning behind her eyes. “Like… a lot. More than anyone else.”

She stared straight ahead at the cracked sidewalk across the street, refusing to look at the girl to her left. If she did that she might break in two and really start bawling (and she hadn’t had much to drink today so dehydration was a looming threat she’d rather not amplify by flooding the bus lot with tears).

She really wished she could hug Wednesday then. She needed to touch the person who’d unknowingly taken a piece of her heart, to squeeze her, to know that she was real and solid and would stay that way until she saw her again. Every cell in her body screamed at her to reach out. To ask.

But Enid didn’t. Because at least that way she didn’t have to hear Wednesday tell her no.

Instead she leaned into her, felt the pressure of her arm against her’s and her shoulder against her cheek. It wasn’t nearly enough. 

The evening around them was humid with the coming summer. The air smelled like gasoline and dirt, tire rubber and the old stained wood of the bus shelter. Traffic rushed in the distance, crickets chirping and store bells chiming from a world far removed from the hard bench below Enid and the pliant warmth of the girl next to her. Cigarette butts littered the concrete beneath their feet, their tiny shadows changing with every muted flicker of that distant street light, calling the night closer as dusk fell away like the moon behind a cloud. The first star appeared in a darkening sky, and it got blurrier and blurrier, no matter how much Enid blinked.

Wednesday’s voice was quiet, nothing more than a spring breeze departing at nightfall, rustling grass and leaves and then it was gone. Forgotten. 

But her words weren’t. Her words wrapped around Enid’s heart. Squeezed and squeezed and wouldn’t let go.

“I will miss you too, Enid.”

A bus engine rumbled in the distance. A tear fell down Enid’s cheek and onto Wednesday’s sweater.

“More than anything.”

.     .     .

The bus trip went as expected. Over ninety hours of intermittent crying, games on her phone, more crying, repeated playlists, and the bumping of her temple on a glass window. She went through the four stages of grief on that long journey back, but was ultimately still hung up on acceptance as the bus finally pulled into the San Francisco bus stop. 

She had to admit, for all her complaining and crying and dreading coming home, it was nice to see her parents waiting for her in the station. As much as she might’ve preferred to stay in Vermont, she also hadn’t seen her mom and dad in more than half a year, and even though they had their expectations for her that she could never live up to and their opinions about who she should be, they were her parents. They had their problems, but hugging them felt like home.

Her mother, of course, immediately started with the fretting.

“How are you? Did you sleep on the bus? Did you pack enough snacks? Have you been eating well? You seem a touch thin…”

She held Enid at arm’s length, squeezing from her shoulder to her elbow as though she would find a bone sticking out. If anything, one of Enid’s suitcases weighed seventeen pounds more than when she’d gone due to the record player stuffed between her clothes, and considering she’d probably tugged that thing the distance of a football field, she was sure to have bigger arm muscles at this point.

Instead of saying any of this, though, she just smiled and said, “I missed you too, Mom.”

And Enid had been almost certain she’d done enough crying on the bus for at least the next decade, but when her dad squeezed her into a hug and whispered, “I missed you, kid,” her eyes welled up again and she buried her face in his shoulder.

Her father was always the quieter one—almost to a fault. He wasn’t like her mother, who picked and chose the things about her children to be proud of, and judged the parts she wasn’t, but he was quiet in those times too, and there was no such thing as being an innocent bystander when it came to your kids. Still, Enid never got the impression that there was any part of her that he didn’t love.

Parents were so complicated.

But she didn’t have much time to contemplate the intricacies of her specific parent-child relationship, because the moment Enid walked in through the door of her house, her older brother tackled her in a bear hug so tight her feet lifted off the ground. 

Connor was Esther and Murray’s greatest accomplishment in… probably their entire lives as far as they were concerned. He was a perfect Sinclair specimen—a blond, blue eyed, broad-shouldered boulder of a young man who had been knocking people over on muddy fields since the ripe age of five (because he played rugby, by the way, not just because he liked to knock people into the mud, which would have been a concerning trait for a kindergartener but probably still an admirable trait for a Sinclair). He got good grades, had respectful friends, and attended church every Sunday with his inhumanly nice girlfriend.

Enid used to envy her brother. She’d see him with his sports trophies and honors diploma and their parents gushing over his every move like he was the messiah, and she’d think that it would be nice, for once, to have the power to be unconditionally valued. But as she got older she saw other things—the bags under his eyes before every test, the way he’d constantly look to the stands during his rugby games, as though he knew people were watching for his every triumph and fuck up in equal measure. His nails were bitten to the beds for his entire senior year of high school, and when Enid mentioned it he just told her they were “naturally short” (and “naturally bleeding” most of the time too, apparently). She realized their family’s pride for him was nothing close to unconditional, and it turned out that there was very little to envy about being everyone’s example of perfection.

Regardless, she was happy to see her brother, even if he purposefully left her heavier suitcase for her to drag up the stairs after oh-so-selflessly offering to help her with her bags.

After Connor, there was nobody else to reunite with except for her younger brother when he came home from school later. Jackson, who was a year younger than Connor, wasn’t coming home from college until next week, and her oldest brother, Halden, had just got an internship at a tech company in New York, so she wouldn’t be seeing him until the annual Sinclair family camping trip in June, which he wouldn’t miss for the entire world but Enid was already sifting through viable excuses she could use to get herself out of.

It felt odd for Enid to need a moment to herself so badly after just having about four days worth of alone time on a bus and in rest stops, but she was drowsy after all the traveling and much too overwhelmed by all of her conflicted feelings about being home to be even remotely a treat to be around. It was all Enid could do to send off a quick text to a few friends that she was home and was going to take a century long nap before she collapsed onto her bed and straight up died until her mother called her down for supper that evening. 

She checked her phone as she trudged down the stairs.

Yokokonut : 2:34 PM: Finally! Still think you shoulda taken a plane 

Divi : 1:50 PM: Thx for letting me know, E!! Enjoy your zzzzz’s 

Clark KENT : 1:43 PM: BUSSES SUCK 

Queen B : 1:41 PM: That was a long ass trip. 

Eugenie : 1:28 PM: A nap is a good idea. Sweet dreams! Have a good summer :) 

Wens : 1:27 PM: Thank you for confirming your whereabouts. See you next century. 

Enid’s supper consisted of mashed potatoes and enough red meat to put her into an iron overdose. It’s not like she wasn’t grateful for the home cooking—it was warm and familiar and, for everything she was and wasn’t, her mother could grill a steak like nobody’s business. But Enid was craving ramen over barbecue, and companionable silence over the garbled voices of her brothers, who insisted on talking with their mouths full.

Later that night Enid was curled up on the couch in the living room, idly watching jeopardy reruns with her parents and trying to keep her eyes from drifting shut. She opened her phone and texted back Yoko, Divina, Kent, Bianca, and Eugene with generic, short responses since her brain felt foggy and thinking of anything else to say probably would have caused smoke to start coming out of her ears. She paused when she got to Wednesday’s text though. It felt different than the others.

Enid spent a couple minutes with her thumbs hovering over the keyboard, thinking of all the things she could say that would make sense. She started typing…

A little earlier than next century, but I— 

No. Immediate backspace. It felt… forced. 

No probs!! The nap wasn’t long enough tho. I still can’t wait to— 

She erased it all.

This wasn’t normal. Enid was a great texter. She could type with her eyes closed, and it was never hard for her to craft a response to even the blandest of messages. It came naturally to her—like her ramblings in person, her texts typically followed that same format of word vomit first and deal with the consequences after. Rarely did she find herself in the situation where she had to think about what to say.

Her thumbs did a hesitant little dance in the air above her keyboard for a long moment.

Then she tried again.

She pressed her lips together afterwards, blinking against the glow of her screen. This one gave her a strange feeling—the kind of tingling, squirming feeling in her gut that made her shift a little on the couch. Made her thumb hover over the send button for a few seconds before she finally forced herself to tap it.

8:32 PM: Is it weird that I miss the sound of your typewriter? 

She clicked the power button and dropped her phone on the couch next to her. Oddly, her heart was beating a little fast.

She never expected Wednesday to respond. The time difference between San Francisco and New Jersey was three hours, so for Wednesday it was nearly midnight, and even if she was up that late Enid didn’t think she’d interrupt whatever sinister activities she was engaging in to humor her with a response. She was surprised she still even had the phone and hadn’t conveniently dropped it into a mid-motion guillotine the minute she walked through the doors of her house (as it was, the idea of the Addams’ family manor having a couple guillotines lying around was on the lower end of the list of things Enid would be shocked to see there).

But her phone buzzed not a minute later and she impatiently snatched it up again.

8:32 PM: Yes. 

A huff of air left Enid’s nose that would’ve been a laugh if her parents weren’t sitting a sectional away and would grill her about who she was texting if she showed even the tiniest glimmer of an emotion that wasn’t ‘objectively content and nothing more’. She was about to send back an extremely mature YOU’RE weird , but her phone buzzed again as a second text appeared.

8:33 PM: But I understand.

The next text was a picture—a screenshot, even, which was more than impressive considering it was sent by the same girl who still thought the only way to open YouTube was by searching it up in google. The screenshot was of Wednesday’s music library. It was a sad selection of only eight songs, six of which were different variations of white noise and one of which was that grunge song Enid vaguely recalled from the night of the Rave’n dance that Wednesday liked. At first, she didn’t see anything noteworthy and was about to assume the picture was sent as some typical technological mishap that often came with the territory of texting a 450 year-old witch trapped inside the body of Pippi Longstocking’s estranged half-sister.

But then she saw why Wednesday had sent the picture, and a stupid, idiotic, giddy grin swept across Enid’s face. She felt like kicking her feet. 

Because oh.

My.

God.

8:34 PM: omg 

8:34 PM: omgggggg 

8:34 PM: OMFGW!!! 

8:35 PM: I’m assuming the W stands for my name?

8:35 PM: ARE YOU A SWIFTIE NOW???! 

8:35 PM: Don’t get ahead of yourself.

8:36 PM: Thing grew accustomed to your Evermore record.

8:36 PM: “Willow” relaxes him.

It was at this point that Enid had absolutely no choice but to remove herself from her family’s Jeopardy binge to go up to her bedroom and squeal into her pillow.

8:38 PM: This is literally the best thing that’s ever happened in my entire life 

8:38 PM: That is concerning.

8:39 PM: I’ve also listened to “Champagne Problems”. 

8:39 PM: Thoughts?? 

8:39 PM: It is alright.

8:39 PM: It’s SPECTACULAR but we’ll gloss over that 

8:40 PM: It is alright.

Despite fighting sleep on the couch downstairs, it wasn’t difficult to stay awake as long as her phone was buzzing every couple of minutes with a review about whatever Taylor Swift song she’d suggested to Wednesday. The worst review was for The Way I Loved You because “the romanticization of unhealthy relationships is problematic, especially since the majority of her listeners are young girls” and the best review was, shockingly, for Paper Rings, for the exponentially more shocking reason of “it was catchy”. 

By the time the conversation ended it was past ten o’clock, Enid’s face hurt from grinning, and Wednesday had to go to bed because she needed to wake up early the next morning to help Puglsey dig a big hole. It wasn’t the most normal of sibling bonding activities, but Enid’s sibling bonding activities included being unexpectedly and aggressively tackled into the dirt so she really wasn’t in the position to judge.

10:15 PM: Sweet dreams roomie!! 

10:15 PM: Goodnight, Enid. Sleep well.

And so began one of the only activities that made Enid’s summer tolerable.

Texting Wednesday Addams.

It started innocently enough. Enid sent her a good morning message the next day, and later a screenshot of a news article about the mysterious destruction of a statue of a pilgrim in Jericho, which Wednesday seemed to support entirely. And Wednesday was a surprisingly good texter for someone who probably held some unofficial world record for the least amount of people talked to in a year. Then again, she was a writer, so it probably shouldn’t have come as a huge shock that she was comfortable behind a keyboard. Not once did she send a dry “lol” or “that’s crazy”—something even Enid’s most technologically advanced friends had trouble avoiding. 

It was all going exceptionally well until one day when Enid sent Wednesday a good morning message and she didn’t respond within the next five minutes. Or hours. Or the entire day.

Enid tried not to freak out (tried being the key word here), but it was hard not to think the worst when someone’s shockingly good stream of communication came to a sudden and unexplained end. At first Enid thought she might’ve just misplaced her phone or forgot to charge it, but as one day bled into the second and Enid’s “Good morning :)” was still sitting in the text window alone, her mind started to take her to other explanations. After all, Wednesday was meticulously organized. Enid had never witnessed her misplace a sock , let alone something that lit up, dinged, and vibrated on a regular basis to announce its presence. It was unlikely she’d lost it, and equally unlikely that she’d let it die.

Of course, all of this led to the conclusion that Wednesday was purposely avoiding Enid. It stung, but she could attribute most of the blame to her own actions. They’d been texting a lot, and now that Enid had time to reflect, she was always the one initiating those conversations. Wednesday hadn’t texted her first once. With anyone else Enid would’ve taken that as the clear message it was to back off or at least slow the fuck down. But Wednesday wasn’t anyone else. 

Wednesday could have responded to all of Enid’s messages with a thumbs down emoji and Enid still wouldn’t have thought it was anything more than her being dreary and technologically awkward. She could have responded to every text with “go fuck yourself” and Enid would have been thrilled because she’d responded.

(On a side note, this was probably an indication that Enid needed to explore her relationship with self-worth because wow.)

Enid promised herself she wouldn’t text Wednesday again until she responded. Clearly she’d felt bombarded by Enid’s almost constant communication and needed some time to clear her head, which Enid understood and respected so much that she left it a whole three days before she texted again.

2:32 PM: Heyyyyy not to be annoying or anything but ur still alive right? 

She tried not to get her hopes up. If Wednesday hadn’t responded to a single text for 72 hours, it would probably take her all summer to get back to a double text. Enid didn’t care anyway. She was super chill and nonchalant about the whole—

Buzz buzz. 

Lightning had nothing on Enid given how fast she grabbed her phone.

2:32 PM: I am.

2:32 PM: Also, you are not annoying.

2:33 PM: Also, apologies for the delay. I misplaced my phone.

Okay, so great. Enid had made a liar out of Wednesday Addams. New low achieved.

2:33 PM: All good :) 

And now they were both liars. 

As relieved as Enid was to get confirmation that she had not caused one of the most important friendships she’d ever had to combust into flames, she was now just as determined to make sure she didn’t put it at risk again. They’d spent eight months living together, building habits with and around and for each other. In short, Wednesday was a part of Enid’s life, whether she liked it or not, and not having any contact with her for an entire summer was not something Enid was willing to do. 

So she needed to take a step back and think about this before she typed one more letter.

She was aware that Wednesday was, at heart, a solitary creature who preferred roughly the same amount of peace and quiet that had been in the universe before the Big Bang. Being at home with her loving and supportive family was already bad enough, of course she wouldn’t want whatever limited alone time she had to be disturbed by a perpetually buzzing phone. It had been hard enough to even convince Wednesday to use the phone in the first place, she was probably searching high and low for any reason to throw it out a window or set it on fire or something (were phones even flammable? It didn’t matter. Wednesday would find a way). Enid was determined not to be the reason Wednesday’s phone met its untimely demise.

So Enid’s very comprehensive guide on how not to annoy Wednesday to the ends of the earth via text message was as follows:

Do not, under any circumstances, be Enid.

Because usually when Enid liked something, she was loud about it, and obvious. Living with Wednesday at Nevermore had been different. Sure, Enid had to tamp down some of her interpersonal habits to respect Wednesday’s boundaries, but she was ultimately able to be herself since Wednesday didn’t exactly have the option to run. Eventually they were able to build a relationship using the tried and true starting block for every great pair of friends—forced proximity.

At college, whenever Wednesday needed some time alone, the furthest she could go was to the library, and the closest she could go was across that line of black duct tape donning a pair of noise canceling headphones. Texting was different. It took more effort to text than it did to speak, and a lot more effort to acknowledge the presence of someone when they were thousands of miles away instead of on the other side of a dorm room. If Wednesday got annoyed with Enid now she could just put her phone in a dark, forgotten drawer and let it die (or otherwise execute it in whatever way Wednesday deemed suitable. Probably something involving a knife). 

Enid decided she needed rules to keep herself from being too… herself.

Rule number one: Do not text about things Wednesday wouldn’t care about. 

This was a hard one to upkeep considering Enid had already broken it that first night with all the song suggestions, and also since Wednesday was currently one of Enid’s favorite people, which basically meant Enid had the urge to text her about anything ranging from global politics to a cloud she saw that was kinda shaped like a frog. 

There was one morning that Enid was out for her morning run. The air was clear and crisp and, oddly enough for San Francisco, not laden with drizzle or fog. Dawn was just beginning to touch the sky as she made her way up Filbert Street, the world still dim and empty except for the scattered set of passing headlights and the dull scrape of sneakers on sidewalk. She eventually stopped part way up the hill to catch her breath. Sweat ran down her back and strands of escaped hair stuck to her forehead and the nape of her neck, and Enid took a moment to stand there on that tilted ground, letting her eyes close and feeling the earth steady itself beneath her feet. Then she turned around, and in the sunrise San Francisco looked like it was drowned in honey.

She blinked against the sun as a light breeze weaved through the rows of colorful houses on either side of the street. When it brushed against Enid’s heated skin it felt like heaven. 

There wasn’t much to think about. Enid pulled out her phone, opened her camera, and snapped a picture of the sunrise. A second later she had a good morning text written to Wednesday with the attached picture. 

And, man, she came so close to sending it. Too close.

If there was one thing that was right and certain in this world, it was that the amount of fucks Wednesday Addams gave about the pretty colors in the morning sky was somehow in the negatives. Enid probably would have had better luck if she sent her an accidental picture taken by her phone while it was in her back pocket. The fact that Enid’s eyes were naturally drawn to the objectively beautiful parts of the world wasn’t a crime in and of itself, but sending those things to someone who had once accused Enid of napalming her with a shirt that had, like, one neon color on it seemed a tad insensitive at best and outright disrespectful at worst. Either way, it was little things like unnecessary pictures of sunrises that could convince Wednesday that her summer would be much better spent blocking the person who’d sent them. So Enid didn’t.

The realization that Wednesday and Enid had next to no overlapping personal interests didn’t come as a surprise, but it made following rule number one extremely difficult. After all, the day Enid texted Wednesday about something that happened in her life that Wednesday was interested in would be the same day Enid witnessed a real life murder and became subsequently traumatized. This was not a fun prospect, both because of the murder part and because it was unlikely to happen, which meant she would never have a reason to text Wednesday.

But, like most obstacles in life, there were ways around it. And really, the quickest route around rule number one was simple—she just had to think more like Wednesday.

The next morning Enid jogged in drizzle and fog, and when she sent a picture of the dreary skyline to Wednesday from the top of Filbert Street along with the message, ‘Told you you’d like San Francisco’, Wednesday responded within minutes.

10:26 PM: Based on the weather alone, you were correct.

Success. 

Enid continued to find the ‘Wednesday’ parts of life, and it got easier to recognize them as time went on—a cloudy night sky, a strike of lightning over jagged waves of the harbor during a storm, a random raven perched on a fence post, and, when Enid started her summer job, and entire truck full of cookie dough ice cream that had to be loaded into the freezer.

Now with rule number one mastered, Enid could move onto the next one: She was allowed to start a maximum of one conversation per day.

This meant no ‘good morning’s, ‘heyyyyy’s, ‘wassup’s, or any other greeting that lacked a purpose other than to let the other person know they were being thought about. Wednesday had to know at this point that she took up at least a little portion of Enid’s mind at any given point, so these flippant greetings were arbitrary and unneeded. 

Rule number two turned out to be even more difficult than the first. Enid had to choose her conversation starters carefully. If it was something that couldn’t build into another topic, she’d be done for the day after only one text. And even if she managed to find something good to text Wednesday about, she still debated sending it in case something better popped up later in the day after she’d already reached her one convo limit. 

If nothing text-worthy happened during the day (which, let’s face it, she worked in an ice cream shop. Not much of anything-worthy happened during the day), a decent option was always to just ask Wednesday a question about something she had expertise in.

Like knives.

5:22 PM: What type of knife is best for mincing garlic?? 

5:23 PM: I prefer a santoku knife, but a regular chef’s knife will do.

5:23 PM: Wouldn’t any knife be a chef’s knife if it was owned by a chef? 

5:24 PM: To my knowledge you are not a trained chef, so there should be no ambiguity about the type of knife I’m referring to.

Or true crime.

4:50 PM: Did you listen to that podcast episode about the guy who got thrown in a hay baler by his mother-in-law just because she didn’t like him?  

4:52 PM: Be specific. South Dakota, Iowa, or Kentucky?

4:53 PM: If Iowa, Todd was an idiot and he deserved it.

(Enid didn’t listen to any crime podcasts. She just got bored every now and then and found it fun to spew off the most scandalous murder scenario she could think of and watch how many locations Wednesday threw back where that exact thing actually happened. She had yet to make up a case that Wednesday wasn’t already familiar with, and it was equal parts impressive and terrifying.)

Punctuation was also always a solid topic.

6:55 PM: How do you feel about the oxford comma? 

7:00 PM: How much time do you have?

(For Wednesday? All of it.

More than that, somehow.)

Never in Enid’s life had she cared so much about texting someone as she did about texting Wednesday. Maybe it was because the cut-and-dry, straightforward nature of Wednesday’s texting was new and refreshing. Maybe it was because Wednesday reminded Enid of Nevermore, and texting her felt like being anywhere but San Francisco. Or maybe it was just because the version of Enid that texted Wednesday was her most true version—or, at the very least, the version of herself she liked the most.

To any end, it was addicting. Enid thought about talking to Wednesday a lot. An abnormal amount probably. Definitely more than Wednesday thought about talking to her.

Any time Enid’s phone vibrated she all but jumped to check it, even though 99% of the time it was just her mother, one of her other friends, or a spam email telling her she’d won a free cruise and all she had to do was click the super legitimate link attached to claim her prize. There were a couple times at work that her phone buzzed in her pocket and Enid spent so much brain power resisting the urge to check it that she tried to use an ice cream scoop to collect soft serve. There was actually a pretty high possibility that the only reason Enid hadn’t been fired from her job yet was because the owner was a family friend and doing a favor to her mom by keeping Enid out of her hair.

“You’re gonna have to cool it with whichever guy you're texting all the time,” said her coworker, Hayley, one day to her during their break. She was a couple years older than Enid, with a nose ring, thick eyeliner, and a perpetually grouchy attitude, which sucked because Enid had thought her whole vibe was super cool until Hayley opened her mouth and she realized she was just an overgrown playground bully with a vendetta against waffle cones. “You’re gonna scare him away with all your…”

She looked Enid up and down for long enough to make her shift in her seat, then waved a manicured hand in a circular motion in front of her face.

“… everything.”

Enid didn’t bother to correct Hayley about who Wednesday actually was and how she absolutely wasn’t just a random stupid guy she was obsessed with. This friendship was obviously more important than some passing crush, which was why—despite Hayley’s crassness and unnecessary amount of snark—Enid could admit that she did make at least a semi-valid point. If there was one person in the world who wouldn’t appreciate a clingy friend, it was Wednesday Addams.

So… rule number three:

Do not seem eager, excited, or clingy. Act like you give, at maximum, between zero and two fucks. Be indifferent, aloof. Be cool. 

Be Wednesday.

Of course, Enid would never be able to execute rule number three to perfection. Wednesday was the master of not having a fuck to give, and Enid, by nature, had at least a hundred at any and every given point, all ready to be catapulted to the highest bidder. Enid gave all the fucks. She just… couldn't let Wednesday know that.

So no texting her first thing in the morning. No texting goodnight. No texts about nothing. Sometimes Enid would even wait more than fifteen minutes to respond to her, which was an extreme exercise in self control but was ultimately worth it since it showed Wednesday that she could be chill and not overwhelming and cool. So cool.

With all her rules in place, a whole month went by without Wednesday ghosting her again, and Enid deemed it a massive success. If she could last the whole summer without screwing up she could keep Wednesday as a friend and probably as a roommate too. She was already thinking up ways to ask Wednesday if she could choose the color of the duct tape that divided their room halves for the coming year. She’d admit, it was a ballsy move, but she was feeling confident as ever that Wednesday might be lenient given their new super casual, cool, barely-even-a-thing friendship that Enid had worked so hard to cultivate and honestly couldn’t be happier with.

Well, maybe she could be, like, just a little happier. Just a tad. Just the itsiest bitsiest tiniest bit happier if she could just text her about what she wanted, when she wanted, as many times as she wanted and not have to run the risk of Wednesday never talking to her again because of her clingy not-coolness.

But, other than that… yeah. Super happy.

There was only one instance in which Enid had to break her rules. Specifically, rule number two—the one that limited Enid to starting just one conversation per day. It happened during the first week of June, when Enid was finally unpacking the clothes that remained in her second suitcase after a whole month of it lying open on the floor. At this point most of it was unfolded from rushed mornings where she’d rummaged through the heap looking for something to wear, or at least that’s what she’d told her mother to escape harsh judgment. The truth was that Enid had thrown most of it in there unfolded in the first place and the only person who judge her for it now was God ( and Wednesday, who’d looked on at Enid’s packing procedure with an expression as close to horror as Enid figured she could produce, which really just meant she blinked more than usual but it was still substantial).

It was through the process of putting away her clothes that she found something that very obviously did not belong to her. 

A black zip-up sweater.

She spent a long time staring at it, wondering how it got into her suitcase, and then even longer staring at her phone as she decided it didn’t matter how it got in because it was there and now she had to deal with it. Dealing with it, in this case, included a lengthy internal debate regarding coming clean about the accidental theft. The problem was that Enid had already texted Wednesday that morning about a crow she saw on the way to work that offered a bottle cap to another crow (Enid had thought it was romantic, but Wednesday informed her that crows were very intelligent and had been documented previously using crude forms of currency, and this explanation really resulted in nothing but Enid becoming very wary of crows).

The other problem with letting Wednesday know about the sweater was simply that Wednesday might fly all the way across the country with the sole purpose of beheading her or something. It was a sweater Enid had seen her wear countless times, mostly to the library or during her writing hour, so much so that she’d deemed it a vital component of the section of Wednesday’s wardrobe that was dedicated to comfort over style. She definitely would’ve noticed it missing right away and would not be pleased to find out that Enid’s disorganization was the cause.

After a while, Enid figured she’d bite the bullet and break the ‘one convo per day’ rule to let Wednesday know she had it. Honesty was the best policy, after all, and Enid didn’t feel like waiting around for whatever private investigator Wednesday had hired to track down the garment to come kicking down her door with orders to take it from the thief dead or alive.

7:02 PM: Hey, so I was just finishing unpacking my stuff from the trip back and I think your sweater somehow ended up in my suitcase? I’m soooo sorry!!! No idea how it happened but I promise I won’t wear it or lose it and I’ll bring it with me next term to give it back! I’m SUPER sorry again 

Had the two times she apologized been enough? Maybe she should send one more just to be—

Buzz buzz. 

7:03 PM: Yes, it was on my bed when you dumped your pile of unfolded laundry onto it to look for a pair of leggings. By the time you finished packing it was gone, so I just assumed it got mixed in with your things. It was an accident. No need to apologize.

Enid blinked at her phone. Blinked again.

It’d been more than a month since they left Nevermore, and all this time Wednesday had not just figured Enid had it after the fact, but known the exact moment the switch happened and just let her take it? Plus, that shit about not needing to apologize for an accident was exactly what it was—shit. Wednesday viewed accidents as a “lack of adequate practice or thought” and never as something that was simply okay.

Why was it on Wednesday’s bed instead of in her already-packed suitcase to begin with anyway? Enid had only put her clothes onto Wednesday’s mattress because she’d ran out of room on her own and Wednesday had been done packing. There never should’ve been anything on Wednesday’s bed to accidentally steal, so really it was more her fault than Enid’s (it was completely Enid’s fault, but she still wasn’t convinced Wednesday wasn’t plotting some gruesome retribution for her stolen outerwear so she had to get her defense in order early).

But Enid recalled Wednesday wearing a black-and-white striped shirt as she waited for her to pack, and then right before they left she’d opened her suitcase to fish out a hoodie. Surely someone as organized as Wednesday would’ve already taken out what they planned to wear that day to avoid disturbing their immaculate packing job later. Unless…

The reason the sweater was on the bed was because Wednesday had planned to wear it on her drive home. And then Enid had stolen it. Still didn’t explain why she didn’t demand Enid give it back right then and there.

7:05 PM: Why didn’t you tell me when it happened? 

7:06 PM: You were very disorganized and looking for it again would’ve taken more time than it was worth.

Enid accepted that explanation, and didn’t bother to take offense to the “very disorganized” part since she was confident it wasn’t meant as an insult, just a statement of fact. 

She was about to reply, but the three little dots popped up at the bottom of the screen before she could touch the keyboard, so she stopped and waited for whatever Wednesday had to say. 

It disappeared and reappeared maybe close to ten times in the two minutes that followed. Enid expected a strongly-worded essay about how disorganization could lead to all sorts of horrible things like lost belongings, wasted time, and probably some sort of chaos-induced death, but when her phone buzzed again all that showed up was a single short line of text.

7:08 PM: Also, you were stressed and I didn’t want to add to it.

Enid didn’t know why her heart fluttered.

7:08 PM: And you may wear it if you like. I know it’s not your preferred color scheme but it’s very warm.

Or why she was suddenly fighting a grin in the privacy of her own room.

Enid did end up wearing the sweater, although she waited until about a week later since putting it on right away felt a little too eager. And it’s not like she was eager to wear Wednesday’s clothes. Yes, she obviously missed her friend and thought about her more than she thought about pretty much anyone else, but she wasn’t such a codependent loser that she’d been chomping at the bit to wrap herself up in something that belonged to Wednesday at the first opportunity. Enid simply wore it that morning because she had a lengthy car ride ahead of her and she wanted to be comfortable. That’s it. 

Because that morning wasn’t just any ol’ run of the mill torturous summer morning with her family. It was far far worse.

It was the first day of the annual Sinclair family camping trip.

The camping trip and Enid had always had a complicated relationship. On one hand, she genuinely liked the outdoors. She liked fires and marshmallows and clear night skies where you could see the stars. She liked the smell of tree bark and the soft, bouncy feeling of walking on a bed of moss. Enid could’ve lived in the woods for the rest of her life and been content if it wasn’t for, you know, bears and wolves and everything else that had really big teeth and the potential to end her life in a heartbeat. Plus, wifi was hard to come by, so realistically she probably wouldn’t make it.

But on the other hand, the trip wasn’t just for camping. It was a get-together for almost her entire extended family, and if anyone thought her mother had topped some world ranking for being the judgiest person on earth, Enid would be remiss not to introduce them to her Aunt Helene. Basically, the Sinclair family camping trip was just a weeklong competition to see which set of Sinclair’s was the most perfect, cleverly disguised as an innocent familial bonding activity. And because Enid attended, her particular Sinclair branch was already at a significant disadvantage. She had to watch everything she did and didn’t do this week, because everyone else would be watching too. 

Of course before that torture could even start, she first had to endure the eighth circle of hell that was being trapped in an SUV with her parents and four brothers for half a dozen hours (the ninth circle of hell was the one year she had to carpool with her Aunt Helene and six younger cousins who could not coordinate bathroom breaks to save their souls).

At least this year Enid had the gift of being in the back row of seats. It meant she was sitting next to a mountain of luggage and tenting equipment, but it was infinitely better than being crammed into any of the second row seats with her brothers, or, God forbid, the front middle seat between her parents. Within the first fifteen minutes of the drive her three older brothers were already in a fight to the death over a bag of beef jerky and Enid had never been more grateful to be in the forgotten space next to a questionably stable heap of bags and sharp metal sticks.

So Enid settled in for the long haul. She rested her elbow on the edge of the window and her cheek against her fist and attempted to sleep it out. Eventually, when the voices of her arguing brothers were joined by her mother trying and failing to diffuse the situation, Enid also put up her hood in a last ditch effort to seclude herself out of existence.

With the shift of fabric a scent fluttered past Enid’s nose, and she quickly realized it came from the sweater. It was soft, barely there, but achingly familiar. It wasn’t her Nevermore dorm room, because usually that just smelled like whatever flavor of candle Wednesday permitted Enid to light that day. And besides, their room wasn’t where the sweater spent the most time anyway.  

So it smelled a little bit like the top floor of the library—a little bit like old books and coffee and something that Enid couldn’t put a name on but was distinctly Wednesday. It was the same scent that had surrounded Enid that cold night when the power was out and there’d been ghosts and flashlights and a sigh into the dark, rustling sheets and an invitation. That scent had put Enid to sleep that night, and she’d woken with sun in her eyes to find that she’d moved toward it during the night. Wrapped an arm around it.

(And the fact that she’d unconsciously cuddled Wednesday Addams probably would’ve resulted in a hit being taken out on her if not for the insane miracle that she’d woken up before her roomate and carefully removed herself from the situation. She wondered in the days after what Wednesday would’ve done if she’d awakened to find Enid’s arm across her midsection, but the most likely answer always involved some variation of Enid spending the rest of her life with one less arm so she was just thankful she didn’t get caught.)

Enid, of course, was still super casual and cool about the whole ‘being away from Wednesday’ thing. The amount she missed her was a completely reasonable amount that someone would miss a good friend. She’d worn the sweater because it was comfy and her brother’s liked to fuck around with the A/C in the back. No other reason.

Still, she wouldn’t tell Wednesday that she tucked her nose into the neck of her sweater and impossibly fell asleep amongst the highway bumps and arguing voices of her brothers. It just… didn’t fit the criteria for something she’d care about.

She was in and out of sleep for a while, but eventually woke up fully after four hours due to a particularly hard crack of her skull off the window. It was because of the newly uneven terrain beneath the car, which could only mean one thing.

“Enid, wake up. We’re here!”

Enid checked the radio clock and had to seriously question how fast her father had been driving to shave two whole hours off their trip. Her mother was probably sending a passive-aggressive text in the family group chat at that very moment to brag about being the first ones there.

Enid pulled out her phone to make sure the time in the car was right, but then she froze. 

“Where are we?”

Her mother cheerfully said, “At the campground, sweetie.”

“No. No, this isn’t the usual one.”

“Now, honey, we already told you Great Wind Pines had a horrible fire at the end of last year and closed down. I had a feeling you weren’t listening. Murray, didn’t I tell you she wasn’t listening?”

“Mom,” Enid said—calmly. She was so calm. Super duper calm. “Did you check to see if there was any cell service before you chose the new place?”

“Of course I did.”

Enid let out a sigh. “Oh, thank—“

“The fact that there wasn’t was mainly why we chose it.”

And discovering the tenth circle of Hell wasn’t even on Enid’s summer to-do list, so she was overachieving big time.

Enid feverishly attempted to refresh every data-reliant app on her phone as her mother went on with how kids these days are so obsessed with their phones and imagine how good you’ll feel after a whole week free of being a slave to technology! It’s good for the soul to get away from the rotten influences of the outside world and just connect with nature (this was a cult. Her mother was literally describing a cult, and the fact that she didn’t see a problem with that just made it way more cult-y).

Water River Campground—not to be confused with the plethora of other types of rivers that didn’t contain water—turned out to have all the flashy modern amenities of a nineteenth century cowboy village with a single tumbleweed rolling around the square. None of the campsites had power, clean water had to be collected from a single communal tap, and outhouses and showers were a ten minute walk away from the tenting area. Enid already made plans to cut her water consumption off at seven o’clock in the evening to avoid having to make the trip in the dark.

They were the second Sinclair branch to get there, just after Aunt Helene and Uncle Jacob, who were still constructing their four tents for them and their six children as their SUV pulled up. Enid wasn’t the only one distraught about the lack of cell service it seemed. At least two of her little cousins seemed equally panicked, walking around the campsite with their phones up in the air attempting to get a signal. The notable difference here was that they were young girls aged ten and twelve and Enid was nineteen, therefore she had to call on every ounce of dwindling maturity in her body not to join them.

Maybe her mother had a point. If Enid couldn't survive a week without her phone she was really no better than a couple of annoying pre-teen girls living their lives vicariously through their fake friends on instagram. Surely Enid was better than that.

Still, she felt guilty. She hadn’t told anyone that she wouldn’t have service for the next week, and she wasn’t blind to how that would look on the other end. All her friends would think she either ghosted them or straight up died. She could comfort herself with the fact that she’d at least told everyone about the camping trip, and they were all intelligent people who could put two and two together. 

It was only as Enid was stabbing a tent pole into the ground an hour later that she realized that she hadn’t told everyone about the weeklong trip.

Family camping trips weren’t a Wednesday-verified topic of conversation. 

All the tent poles fell out of Enid’s hands and clattered to the ground. Then she was leaving.

“Enid? where are you going? We just started putting the tent together and I need your—”

“Jesus, Adam, grow up! Just put it together yourself!”

Looking back, she wasn’t proud of her initial reaction.

(At the same time though, her brother had been a spoiled tattletale for as long as she could remember, and considering he was now seventeen, it was time for him to grow up and she stood by her outburst completely.)

She briskly walked from the tenting area in an effort not to draw attention, but it didn’t matter anyway since her mother seemed far more concerned about her using the Lord's name in vain than where she was going. As clanging tent poles and her brothers’ super progressive comments about her being on her period faded behind her, Enid took off in a run. 

Phone in hand, she covered the entire campground. It wasn’t that difficult. Aside from being bumpy and full of potholes, the dirt road was mostly level and the distance itself wasn‘t any longer than her usual morning runs. Her biggest challenge turned out to be avoiding a rolled ankle, both due to the uneven terrain and her eyes being glued to her phone screen almost constantly. She stopped running periodically to give her phone a chance to search for a signal, and then quickly sprinted off again after getting nothing. 

It didn’t matter, though. She couldn’t find a single bar of service across the whole campground.

By the time Enid got back to the tenting area, two more Sinclair packs had arrived and the late afternoon sun had ensured there wasn’t a molecule of water remaining in her body that hadn’t left in sweat. She downed a full bottle of water and a Gatorade and didn’t even have the energy to nod along politely as her Uncle Roger, who already had a beer in his hand and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, regaled her with incorrect running tips. Her mother eventually found her and asked where she’d gone, and it wasn’t hard for Enid to tell her that she was just making up for missing her morning run by taking a tour of the campground. She’d been lying to her mother almost her entire life, and at this point telling the truth was a harder feat.

Enid excused herself to go get a much needed shower before the evening set in, and it was as she was standing under the sad stream of lukewarm water in the dingy wooden stall that she realized something that would’ve been useful before she nearly died of heatstroke in her attempt to find cell service.

Wednesday didn’t give a fuck if Enid texted her or not.

In fact, if there was one person in Enid’s contacts that would enjoy a week of unexplained radio silence, it would be the girl who still hadn’t texted her first ever. Enid didn’t need to panic about taking a break from texting someone who regarded someone’s unforeseen absence as a gift rather than a slight. The fact that Wednesday was out doing whatever questionably-legal activity she was doing without a care in the world while Enid had just run a million miles in the summer heat to try and get in touch with her was, frankly, super embarrassing and lame. Wednesday would probably stop texting her forever if she knew she’d done that.

Wednesday wouldn’t text her unprompted anyway, so the only possible result that could come from not contacting her for a week would be indifference at worst and further respect at best. From that point on, Enid vowed not to stress about whether or not she had service.

It would have been a good plan, but she forgot to account for one thing:

She was Enid. Stressing was hardwired into her genetic code. 

She quickly decided that if she was going to make it to the end of the week with her sanity still intact, she needed distractions. Luckily for her, the Sinclair’s had a packed itinerary.

Enid threw herself into all of her family’s obnoxious bonding activities. She practically woke at the crack of dawn the next morning to ensure she was one of the first ones up to help with breakfast, then jumped at the chance to help pack up some fishing gear to take down to the lake, where she spent an entire three hours teaching her little cousins how to cast while simultaneously wondering whose bright idea it was to hand a million clumsy children barbed hooks attached to strings. Later they rented some canoes and Enid paddled around six kids for an hour and a half before taking an impromptu swim when Logan, Daniel, and Jenny all reached out too far during a competition to see who could touch a lily pad first (spoiler alert: they all cried).

After a grueling run around the campground—twice around this time and perfectly timed for the late afternoon again to make her delirious enough to forget she had a phone—Enid was too exhausted to do anything but get a shower, eat supper, and fall asleep listening to old, grainy country music around the fire.

The next day was swimming, lawn games, and, oddly enough, archery (Enid would reiterate: children. Sharp things. Why). Day three was dedicated to a nature walk, and then a nature search when her little cousin, James, decided to wander off. And it rained on day four so that was of course that was the day they all did a white water rafting tour. By the end of it they had five close calls of children almost being sacrificed to the river, but they all managed to hang on somehow so it was likely her family would learn nothing from the experience and do it again at the next available opportunity.

Enid went through her days chipper, smiling, and helpful, and her mother watched with obvious surprised satisfaction as she engaged in the trip to the fullest extent. She was earning big points for team ‘Esther and Murray’ this year for sure.

The best part? Enid was kept too busy to check her phone during the day, and too exhausted to do anything but sleep in her free time. Everything was going according to plan, and she only had to survive three more days. The end was officially in sight.

Until day number five when they went on a hike. They were only thirty minutes away from their tents when the trail forked off into three paths. One led to a lake, one led to more forest, and the last one led to a mountain. Granted, it was a small mountain—more like a steep hill. They didn’t end up climbing it since the kids were whiny about wanting to go to the lake, but something broke through the fog in Enid’s exhausted mind as they passed. 

For the first time in five days she stopped. Her family brushed past as she stared up the path, at the peak of the mountain beyond. And Enid had a very stupid idea.

She skipped her run that evening and had a big supper, then pretended to turn in early. Secretly, she used the second portable battery she’d brought to make sure her phone was charged, then, when the site outside her tent was silent and her brother was snoring loud enough to wake the dead, Enid made her escape.

Everything went according to plan. She’d zipped open the tent door without waking anyone, managed to get past all the tents without turning on her flashlight or making a sound, and then she was home free. She smugly pulled her flashlight out of her hoodie pocket once she was out on the road. She’d done it, she’d escaped the cult, it went perfect and nobody could ever stop her now—

“Where are you going?”

She yelped and spun around, clicking on the flashlight and pointing it at…

Connor.

Of course it was him, standing there in his stupid woodsy flannel with his stupid hair and stupid kind-of-a-beard thing he had going on because he’d forgotten to bring a razor and he’d been able to grow a full beard since the ripe age of fourteen. He was now twenty-one, so five days without a shave was making him look a little unkempt, which didn’t lessen the heart attack he’d just given Enid by sneaking up behind her.

Enid’s voice came out as a terse whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“I was coming back from the bathroom and saw you sneaking away.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“You’re walking from the campsite alone in the dead of night wearing all black. You’re a ski mask away from being a burglar.”

Crickets chirped in the woods around them. A brook babbled somewhere off to the right.

Enid said, “Don’t tell Mom.”

“I—“

“I’m serious, Connor. I’ve been good for the whole trip. I’ve been helping, I’ve been participating in all the stupid family things, I’ve been saying grace at supper, and I didn’t even start a fight with Aunt Doreen yesterday when she said global warming was just ‘the natural cycle of the earth’. I am trying so hard so just give me this one thing for God’s—“

“You’re going to the mountain to try and get cell service, right?”  

Enid blinked at her brother. Conner squinted against the flashlight beam she was pointing at him and moved his hand to shield his eyes. “I saw you looking that way on the hike today. Listen, E, I’m not here to rat you out. I’m coming with you.”

Now she squinted at him. “Why?”

“You’re scared of the dark.”

Enid raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. This was coming from the same guy who used to turn off the lights in her room then hold the knob from the outside to trap her in until she yelled for their parents. Forgive her if she was a little skeptical.

After a second, he sighed and took his own phone out of his pocket, wiggling it in the air at her. “And I want to text Chelsea. I didn’t know this place wouldn’t have service and she probably thinks I got eaten by a bear or something.”

So that settled that. Perfect Connor was apparently moving over to the dark side (also commonly known throughout her family as anything Enid was involved in).

Enid was honestly thankful she had some company on the hike, even if that company was her stupid brother. There was no promising how far she would’ve made it in the dark on her own without chickening out. There were predators and poisonous plants and general bad night things that happened in the woods, and if worse came to worst at least she now had the comfort of knowing she could likely outrun her brother and leave him behind as bait.

Despite moving faster than they had on the hike that day, getting to the peak of the mountain still took over an hour. It was a steeper climb than it looked from the ground, and full of rocks and uneven terrain that was made more difficult to navigate with slanted shadows produced by the flashlight. It was a terrifying climb in the dark, not to mention athletically challenging. Even though they were both in objectively good shape, their breaths came in heaves by the time they neared the top and Enid had long since taken off Wednesday’s sweater in an effort not to overheat. The only consolation was the cool night breeze that wrapped around them at the rocky peak. It chilled her again in record time and she put the sweater back on.

“Anything?” she asked Connor, who had been monitoring his phone screen for the last fifteen minutes of the climb. He shook his head.

Enid was not deterred. She couldn’t be, not after all the effort they’d put in.

She pulled any energy she had left from the dredges of her muscles, running up the last bit of the rocky slope to reach the edge of the peak. Then she pulled out her phone and waited. And waited.

And waited.

“Enid, I don’t think—“

“Shhh!”

She was pretty sure she could hear Connor roll his eyes, but he didn’t say anything else. Enid lifted her eyes to scan the dark horizon. She’d all but given up when—

There. She saw it. The faint, blinking red light of a cell tower in the distance. All hope was not lost.

Practically frantic at this point, she looked around, quickly spotting a boulder sitting off to the side and climbing up on it. She held up her phone and waited. And waited.

And then…

Ding! 

Ding! 

Ding! 

A single bar of service. It was all she needed.

“Enid, are you getting—?”

“Yes!” She laughed, amazed and drunk with exhaustion and relief.

While Connor joined her on the rock, her phone kept chiming and she watched the notifications pop down from the top of her screen, one after the other, too fast for her to read each one. After the symphony of dinging finally stopped, Enid had seventeen unread texts and one missed call from what looked to be a spam number. Kent had sent her five messages, each one wondering if she was dead with increasing intensity. Eugene, Divina, and Yoko at least seemed to remember the camping trip and deduced after only one or two messages that she probably didnt have service. And then she got to Wednesday.

And Wednesday had sent her six messages. Enid’s pounding heart suddenly had nothing to do with the climb.

The first one was sent the night they got to the campground. Enid hadn’t texted her that day at all, and it was just a simple “Goodnight, Enid. Sleep well.” 

The second was sent the next day. It was a good morning message. 

The next day she’d sent a random “hello” in the middle of the afternoon.

The fourth message was a picture of a pink rose, and the fifth was sent directly afterward, reading, “my mother only grows black roses, but a genetic anomaly grew in her greenhouse and I thought you might appreciate it.”

The sixth message, and the latest one, had been sent that morning. It was a picture of a sunrise.

Wednesday had broken all of Enid’s rules.

She didn’t have time to think before her fingers were moving. Her thumbs flew across her screen, rushed, opening up wrong apps and hurriedly closing them again until she got to the right place. She clicked on Wednesday’s contact, then gave her screen one final tap.

And then the phone was ringing. And ringing.

And ringing.

And then it wasn’t.

“Enid?”

The night was cool and silent. Not even the rustling of leaves could be heard from up there, just the whisper of a cool night breeze that wrapped around Enid’s skin, made a scent drift up to meet her—old books and a lazy morning with an arm draped across a midsection. Rays of winter sun warming black bed sheets. 

Stars winked down from the sky, the forest below a sea of dark shadows and pale moonlight dappling over conifer branches. The wind sang its soft song over the mountaintop, gently tumbling and swirling and pausing for that sleepy tone that came through her phone speakers, like nature had stopped to listen too. 

Enid’s words left in a breath before she could think. Before she could remember all the reasons she shouldn’t say them.

“I missed your voice.”

And Wednesday was silent for a long time.

Enid’s heart would break her ribs. This is how she would die, up on a mountain in the middle of the night, passing out from holding her breath and hitting her head as she toppled off the boulder she was standing on.

When Wednesday finally spoke, her voice was quiet and soft and unsure. It was crackly with sleep and weaved into all the places in Enid’s heart that she didn’t know were missing until now.

“Why didn’t you call?”

Enid whispered, “I didn’t want to be too much.”

Wednesday was silent again. Enid listened to the subtle static on the other end of the line for what felt like hours. Days.

“Impossible.”

Years.

“Then why did you ghost me for those three days at the start of the summer?”

She didn’t mean to bring it up. She’d missed Wednesday like crazy, and hearing her voice again after so long made her heart ache in a weird way—a way that was so close to pain and so close to comfort that she’d do anything to make it stop and even more to make it stay. All she’d wanted to do since May was talk to Wednesday Addams, and she should have been asking her about the true crime podcasts she’d listened to recently or digging holes with Pugsley or anything that would have had her voice coming out of the speakers for no reason other than just to hear it. 

But instead what had come out of Enid’s mouth was something she’d convinced herself she didn’t care about. She’d been telling herself all summer that Wednesday was just distant and independent and she shouldn’t take that personally. She’d even been stupid enough to believe it, but only as the question passed her lips now in a voice that was quiet and sullen did she realize how much it had hurt. She sounded like a kicked puppy. 

If she was lucky, Wednesday would just hang up on her instead of bringing up how pathetic it was.

“What? I didn’t—I’d never…” That was the first time she’d ever heard Wednesday stutter. She took an audible breath in and seemed to recover. “I told you, I misplaced my phone.”

“You don’t misplace anything, Wednesday. And when I texted again you responded right away.”

“I misplaced it under the tire of my car,” Wednesday said sharply. Enid’s eyebrows shot up. “It fell out of my pocket as I was getting in and I ran over it. I couldn’t get a new one until the day after and I didn’t know it should be routinely backed up so none of my contacts transferred over. I had to wait for you to text me again because I couldn’t remember your number. That’s why I couldn’t text you back.”

Wednesday sounded more than a little offended about Enid’s accusation, and considering who she was and that Enid still planned to share a living space with her in the coming year, it was definitely in her best interest to take Wednesday seriously in that moment.

So she did. Absolutely. This wasn’t funny at all. 

At least it was easier to fake seriousness over a phone call. Wednesday was none the wiser about the grin that had spread across her face or the laughter that pushed at her chest.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

Wednesday still sounded peeved. “Your phone number is a palindrome—the same forward as it is backwards. That means I only had to remember the order of four digits, but I forgot them. It was embarrassing and I was never going to tell you but I feel it’s pertinent information now that you thought I… ghosted you. It won’t be an issue again. I have it memorized now.”

Now Enid laughed, and it was the first real one she’d heard from herself since May.

She realized then and there that she didn’t have to be cool or casual or unattached with Wednesday. She didn’t need to dampen anything about herself. Wednesday was tough and seemed to tolerate her just fine at her loudest, at the times a lot of people would take a step back or think she was too much. Wednesday actually seemed to prefer that version of Enid. Might’ve even liked her.

A last little giggle left Enid’s mouth as she said, “I climbed a mountain to talk to you tonight.”

Apparently she’d ditched being cool and aloof and jumped straight to being the most needy, lame version of herself possible. It was whiplash in the finest form, but it felt like pertinent information for Wednesday to know.

“A mountain?”

Enid hummed an affirmative, bouncing on her toes. She was jittery, like all the Enid she’d been keeping back for the past month and a half was trying to push its way out all at once. “I’ve been on a camping trip for the past five days, and there’s no service here and I’ve been going crazy not being able to text you—or, you know, anyone.” Super great save, Enid. She totally bought that. “So I snuck out tonight and hiked up this mountain hoping I’d get some cell signal and I did.”

“That is very brave of you considering your fear of the dark,” Wednesday said. Enid beamed with pride. “And also considering most predators in that area are nocturnal.”

Oh wow. She was sure glad that thought would now be at the forefront of her mind for the entire hour back. 

Despite the inevitable situation of Enid being on the receiving end of Wednesday’s casually terrifying commentary, talking to her was familiar and healing. She knew Wednesday, knew her silences and microexpressions and habits and everything. She knew Wednesday didn’t tolerate bullshit, which was why she wasn’t interested in Enid being anything but what she was. At this point, she knew Wednesday better than whichever version of herself she became around her family—the version she’d mistakenly thought Wednesday wanted too. It felt nice to be sure of something again.

She also knew Wednesday’s tired voice, the one that was a little rough around the edges and a little quieter. Her brain was a bit fuzzy when she spoke like that, a little more careless about what it let out. It was the way Wednesday was talking now, so Enid knew everything she’d told her had been true. 

Come to think of it, Enid was kind of tired too. It was past midnight, after all, and—

Her stomach dropped. If it was past midnight there, in New Jersey it was…

“It’s 3:30 in the morning for you, isn’t it?”

A slight pause. “3:27, yes.”

“I woke you up, didn’t I?”

Another pause. 

“No.”

“You’re lying!”

“why would you ask if you already knew the answer?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about the time difference! I’m just gonna let you go back to bed. We can totally catch up later and—”

“Enid, if I cared about my sleep being disturbed by you, I wouldn’t leave my phone on.”

Enid tried not to swoon too hard at that statement. She was standing on a huge boulder, after all, and that boulder was on the edge of a cliff.

Wednesday added, “However, you should definitely go back to your campsite. I was serious about the predators. Are you carrying bear spray?”

That sobered her up pretty damn quick.

“Um, no.”

“Enid.”

“I never thought about it!”

“I’m going to hang up now and you are going to go back to your campsite immediately. I’m proud of you for facing your fears, but please refrain from climbing any more mountains in the dead of night. Goodbye.”

“Wednesday, wait!” Enid expected Wednesday to hang up any second anyway, but she didn’t. There was only the gentle static of patient silence on the other end of the phone, so Enid said, “Goodnight, Wens. Sweet dreams.”

Her reply was a soft huff of air that sounded dangerously close to a sleepy chuckle. “Goodnight, Enid.”

And just like that, Wednesday was gone again. An hour long hike up a steep incline, battling the dark and possible predators, all for a conversation that only lasted two minutes. And Enid would do it again and again if she had to.

Connor got off the phone with Chelsea shortly after, giving Enid a chance to send off quick texts to everyone else before they started on their way back. 

“So…” her brother hedged as they made their way back down the trail. Crickets chirped in the forest on either side of them and dirt crunched beneath their sneakers as they carefully navigated the uneven terrain. “Who’s the guy?”

Enid’s toe caught on the edge of a rock and she nearly tumbled down the mountain.

“What?”

“Look, I get why you’d hide it from Mom and Dad but my lips are sealed. I promise.”

“They don’t need to be sealed because there’s no guy.”

Connor looked over his shoulder with a ‘be for fuckin real’ look on his face, and of course even when he wasn’t watching where he was going he still managed to gracefully step in all the right places. “Come on, E.” He turned to look ahead again, pitching his voice up to an obnoxiously shrill note that Enid had no idea he was capable of hitting. “‘I missed your voice’. ‘I climbed a mountain to talk to you tonight’. ‘Sweet dreams’.”

“I sound nothing like that.”

“You sound exactly like that.” 

“I do not—“

“And listen, I’m on board! I’m happy you found love or whatever. But I’m gonna need a name for this fucker so I know who I’m looking for if he decides to be an idiot and cheat on you or something.”

Enid rolled her eyes so hard it was almost painful. “Typical. Oh, I’m just a woman! Of course I can’t fight my own battles and need my four brothers to rush in and commit a felony when I get my feelings hurt.”

Silence stretched between them for a few moments. Enid thought she might’ve actually gotten through that two inch thick sphere of concrete he called a skull.

“All four of us don’t need to go. I can handle him on my own.”

“It doesn’t matter, there’s no him!”

Connor stopped so abruptly Enid almost smacked into his back. The delay wasn’t ideal. Her outburst had probably attracted the attention of every nocturnal predator within a two mile radius so staying on the move was definitely in their best interest. 

Connor said slowly, “Is there a… her?”

Well fuck. Now Enid wished she had taken that tumble fifteen seconds ago. Potential death by blunt force trauma to the head had to be better than having this conversation with her brother.

“Connor, no!”

“Fuck, okay. Just making sure.”

“I was talking to my roommate on the phone from college. We’re friends.”

The moon casted the sharp angles of Connor’s face in muted gray light as relief washed over it. Enid didn’t know why her heart suddenly felt like there was a knife through it. “Oh, okay. Yeah, that makes sense. Sorry, I just assumed—“

“Yeah, whatever.”

She brushed past him and continued the journey back, steps a little heavier and angrier. Connor must’ve sensed he’d said something wrong, because he stayed a respectful ten feet behind her for the rest of the way.

She didn’t know why she was so irritated at Connor for what he’d said. After some careful thought throughout the following day, she could safely say the sour taste in her mouth wasn’t because he’d assumed she was talking to someone she was dating. Admittedly, what she’d said to Wednesday could sound romantic out of context, so she understood. But in context it was clearly super platonic and normal, especially for someone like Enid who didn’t just wear her heart on her sleeve, but practically had it taped to her goddamn forehead. Enid had big feelings and she wasn’t shy about expressing them to people and Connor knew this. It was why he’d immediately accepted her explanation when she told him.

And really, that was where the problem lied. Yes, Enid had been annoyed at his pestering about her supposed ‘boyfriend’, and she should have been grateful he backed down so quickly after she explained who she was really talking to, but she wasn’t. If it had truly been a boy friend she’d been talking to (notice the space between the words), no amount of insisting they were purely platonic would’ve made him stop insinuating otherwise. And yet, just because Wednesday was a girl, he gave up just like that. Like Enid liking a girl wasn’t even in the realm of possibility.

And the relief on his face when Enid confirmed that wasn’t the case was just the ignorant icing on top. What if Enid had been dating Wednesday? Would he have been “on board" with that?

Of course, Enid knew the answer, and she knew why she avoided him for the last two days of the trip. It just sucked that every time she thought she came closer to getting along with her family, they did something to remind her how much she didn’t fit in.

And in this case, she wasn’t disappointed by that fact.

Now with her Connor anger done and sorted, Enid did need to face the glaring fact that he was the second person to see her communicating with Wednesday and think she was talking to a crush. She wasn’t bothered by this, however, because she had a simple, fool-proof, honest defence.

She didn’t like Wednesday.

It’s not like she had a problem with girls liking girls. She was all for it. Supporting the rights of people that loved or lived differently than what society deemed normal was one of the many reasons Enid no longer accompanied her parents to church (not that all churches were homophobic and hateful, but a lot were and her parents’ one was particularly snakey and backwards so she made the choice long ago not to support it any longer). Enid was also a sucker for anything that involved rainbows so being an ally came naturally, but she was straight as a ruler and that was that.

Plus, other than that one out-of-context conversation her brother overheard, there was zero hard evidence to support the theory.

Well… 

Except maybe for, like, one thing.

It wasn’t a big deal. It was a super small deal. Practically microscopic. Enid could say with 110% certainty (60% at best if she was being realistic) that it meant absolutely nothing.

She’d been at work the afternoon after they came back from the camping trip. She had to wake up at five that morning to make it back to the city in time for her shift, and she was so tired that she’d been sticking straws instead of spoons into people’s ice creams since twelve o’clock. She took her break at three, and by some grace of God she ended up in the break room alone. So there, studying the scratches in the old wooden tabletop she was sitting at to keep herself from nodding off, Enid finally had a moment of peace and quiet for the first time in a week.

Until she noticed movement in her periphery and glanced up to see Wednesday opening the door of the break room.

Wednesday Addams. 

Her roommate.

There. 

She was wearing the same thing she had on when they parted for the last time at that sketchy bus station in Burlington—a black, cropped-ish hoodie with a gray hood, black cargo pants with the elastic parts around the ankles, and just regular running sneakers. No platform boots that day since she would be driving for most of it, but Wednesday had a talent for always looking like she was posing for the cover of some modern streetwear magazine, whether she was going for comfort or style. Her hair was also in its signature two braids, and her face in its signature scowl. She was perfect. Exactly how Enid had left her. 

And then her eyes locked on Enid’s and—oh, that was different.

Wednesday’s eyes looked…

“Get up.”

Hungry.

As though her voice activated some secret knee-jerk reflex in Enid’s body, she found her legs under her without really ordering them to. She didn’t even have time to ask any questions that she thought she really should be asking at that point—things like “how the fuck did you get here” and “how the fuck did you find me” and “is this murderous rage thing you’ve got going on because I stole your sweater and also why is it kinda hot”—because Wednesday was suddenly walking toward her.

And Enid hadn’t been scared of her roomate since those couple of weeks after they first met, but she found herself backing up anyway. Back because forward would mean walking right into whatever hell-storm Wednesday looked so ready to unleash upon her right then and there.

“Wednesday,” she said slowly, warningly, as she continued backwards, as though calming a rabid animal. Wednesday didn’t answer. Didn’t stop. Enid could hear her heart in her ears. “What are you—“

The backs of her legs hit something solid and cold and the words died in her throat. Her eyes darted down on instinct, but not even a moment later there were hands on her hips and Enid’s head shot up, Wednesday’s name on her lips.

And then Wednesday Addams was pushing her against an ice cream freezer and kissing her.

It was rough. It was hands gripping her waist, tugging at her clothes, fingers tangling in her hair and curling and pulling. Not only did it shut Enid up, but it knocked the words right out of her head. All of her thoughts fizzled and popped and died because everywhere Wednesday’s hands touched caught on fire, and her lips seared against Enid’s like a branding iron. It was desperate, it was messy and out of control and not nearly enough.

Enid managed to pull back, panting, and Wednesday was about to give chase until her name slipped, unbidden, from Enid's mouth on a desperate breath. 

“Wednesday…”

She froze, and her eyes, which had been fixed on Enid’s lips, flicked up. Her irises were darker than Enid remembered. Darker than mahogany. Darker than night. But her voice was smooth as honey when she spoke, twinged with cool indifference and threaded with a touch of mockery. She was cruelly confident and it nearly brought Enid to her knees.

“Should I stop, Enid?”

Fuck no.

She roughly grabbed the back of Wednesday’s neck and pulled her in again, and when Wednesday’s scathing chuckle vibrated against her mouth, Enid thought she might just die on the spot.

Things happened quickly after that. Hands roamed down her legs and then gripped and Wednesday was lifting her up onto the ice cream freezer, onto the cold glass right above a tub of rocky road. Her mouth disappeared from Enid’s lips and reappeared on her neck, and Enid’s pulse was hammering so hard Wednesday could probably taste it.

Her breath was coming out in bursts. “Wednesday.”

She didn’t know why she said it, only that her name was the only thing on her mind and she couldn’t possibly say anything else. Wednesday didn’t pull away this time, and Enid thanked whatever higher powers that existed in the universe for that small mercy.

“Wednesday.”

“It’s Tuesday, actually.”

Every muscle in Enid’s body jolted, head snapping up from the table and her knee jerking to hit the bottom of it, utensils rattling. Her wide eyes locked on the doorway, where Hayley stepped into view and stopped abruptly upon seeing what must’ve been Enid’s disheveled appearance. 

Her face felt hot. Her whole body felt hot.

“Were you… asleep?” Hayley asked.

Enid took a second longer than necessary to mumble a response. She was still coming to terms with what reality actually was, and the only conclusion she could come to was that it definitely didn’t involve her making out with her best friend on top of a freezer, and probably did involve some obvious indentation of the break room table on her forehead. 

“Yeah.”

Hayley still didn’t come in, just studied Enid from the doorway. “Are you, like… okay?”

It was weird that Hayley was concerned for her. It was weird that Enid’s heart was still pounding like she’d just finished a half marathon. The whole situation was weird. Enid wondered if she was still having a dream.

But she plastered a smile onto her face and cheerfully said, “I’m fine.”

“It’s just that you’re really red—“

“I’m fine, Hayley!”

Hayley’s eyes widened and she muttered something under her breath that sounded kinda mean as she finally entered the room. “Well, you still have fifteen minutes left to your break. I just came in to get some rocky road.”

Hayley grabbed the ice cream out of the freezer and left, and Enid stared at the closed break room door like she was having flashbacks from war.

So… it was like she said.

Probably nothing.

She left her phone face down on the table and went back to work early. She also didn’t talk to Wednesday for the rest of the day due to how she now felt like any contact with her was somehow a violation. She needed to soak her brain in bleach and have a strict talk with it about the birds and bees and fucking boundaries before she could speak another word to her friend.

She wasn’t able to sleep that night, which was just as well since it gave her time to come up with a million rational explanations (exactly two) for the dream she’d had. 

One: dreams were fucking weird. Enid once had a dream that she was a flight attendant on a plane with all the Grey’s Anatomy characters and Alex Karev fell down a flight of stairs while carrying a tray full of sushi. Dreams made no sense and they didn’t have to mean anything. This was a fact.

Two: Wednesday had been on her mind all summer. Pair that with her brother insinuating that she had a crush on her and the connection caused her brain to make up that outlandish scenario while she was suffering from sleep deprivation. It had seemed so real because all the images and words had been taken directly from Enid’s memory. 

The “get up” was from when they were packing for their trips back home for the summer and Wednesday had accused Enid of sitting on one of her paper clips (yes, Wednesday had kept track of every paper clip she’d brought and it turned out Enid was actually sitting on it). “Should I stop, Enid?” sounded suggestive, but in real life it was quite the opposite. Wednesday had actually said that to Enid one time when she was absentmindedly going on about the bloody details of some unsolved murder case and she noticed Enid turning pale. The intense look in her eyes as she approached Enid in the dream was the same expression she’d seen her study her murder boards with before she moved them to Eugene’s bee shed, and dream-Wednesday was even still rocking the last outfit Enid had seen her wear in real life.

Clearly, Enid’s mind had taken memories of Wednesday and stitched them all together in the context of her brother’s crush accusation to create… what it had created. It was perfectly a logical explanation. 

That was why Enid refused to think about it any longer and felt the urge to physically crush whatever she was holding to dust whenever it popped intrusively into her mind anyway at random intervals during the day. It was stupid to waste time and mental energy thinking about something that clearly meant nothing.

And she couldn’t reiterate that enough.

Clearly. It meant nothing.

.     .     .

The last two months of summer were a particularly strong flavor of unbearable. Enid’s Oscar-worthy performance on the camping trip turned out to have the opposite effect than what she’d hoped—instead of becoming more lenient, her mother was now under the impression that Enid had seen the light of the heavens and was making a change for the better. From giving her the “honor” of saying grace at almost every meal to frequent musings about when she’d let her natural hair color grow in again, her mother’s judgey claws were coming out sharper than ever in an effort to fully bring her back to their comfortable little pile of outdated ideals and and family code. Enid started to miss the days when she’d been all but written off as the family disappointment. 

Esther did eventually start to back off again though, but as much as Enid hated her hovering, watching her slowly become more distant again was a harder pill to swallow than she anticipated. She thought it would be a ‘been there done that’ kind of situation, but it turned out thoroughly disappointing her mother a second time for simply being herself hurt just as much as the first, and since that wound hadn’t had a chance to fully heal yet it was embarrassingly easy to pick off the fresh scab and open it up again.

Work was also becoming monotonous. Tourist season was in full swing and Enid got harassed by spoiled kids and their entitled parents on the daily, and Hayley was going through something with her boyfriend so she was even more unpleasant than usual. And Enid was starved for gossip at this point, but even she wasn’t desperate enough to resign herself to the amount of verbal abuse that would come with starting a conversation about feelings with Hayley of all people.

To make matters worse, Wednesday spent the month of August on some secret errand with her Uncle Fester. She hadn’t told Enid what they were doing, and Enid had the good sense not to ask, but Wednesday at least cared enough to let her know that communication wouldn’t be as frequent for the next month. Enid couldn’t imagine there was any possibility there wasn’t some type of criminal activity going on, especially since Wednesday sent her pictures of sunrises every now and then that were all taken from different locations.

The only upside was that August was nice in San Francisco. It rained the least, and Enid’s daily runs were filled with crisp morning air and silence. Enid was the type of person who always had a knee bouncing, a finger tapping, head bobbing to the beat of a song she was singing in her head. Enid didn’t do silence, but sometimes she turned off her earbuds as she jogged up Filbert Street in the mornings, and she began to understand why Wednesday liked her noise-canceling headphones so much.

It was on one such morning that her phone rang in her pocket. Her ringtone was jarring against the early silence, and when she looked at the screen it was a long number she didn’t know.

“Hello?” It came out on a heaving breath. Talking was hard right now. She ran on that particular street for a reason, and the incline was no joke.

“Hello, Enid.”

“Wednesday?” She nearly toppled over, both from shock and lack of oxygen. “What’s with the—” Breathe. “The number you used it so long and—” Breathe . “We haven’t spoken for four days and now you’re calling me from a mysterious number and—Jesus Christ—”

“I apologize,” Wednesday started, and Enid realized how quickly that came to her now—how it seemed to just roll off the tongue when she picked up on Enid being upset, or off, or anything she was sure Wednesday probably didn’t have much experience caring about. She imagined she also didn’t have much experience fixing it, but apologizing had worked the first time they fought so Wednesday was likely just applying that tactic now to any other reactions she perceived as a precursor to potential conflict. “My phone died and I had nowhere to charge it. Should I call an ambulance?” Enid continued to gulp breaths. “Police?”

“I was doing interval sprints up a hill.”

“And you think I’m a masochist.”

“How are you calling me? Where are you?” Enid squinted against the sun and bent over, bracing a hand on her knee. “Why are you calling me?”

“I’m calling from a payphone. I am in West Virginia.”

“Payphones still exist?”

“If you know where to find them.” Did Wednesday think that was a flex? She sounded like she thought that was a flex. “I was calling because we haven’t spoken in a few days and I figured I’d check in. How is… the weather there?”

Enid’s chest was still on fire but the little amount of air she’d managed to pull into her lungs left uselessly in a giggle. “Small talk, huh? Is this a new thing you’re trying?”

“If it was, how am I doing?”

“Not great but it’s cute that you’re trying.”

The last time Enid used the word ‘cute’ in Wednesday’s presence she’d gotten a pillow thrown at her head with deadly accuracy. Now her former roommate only hummed, probably because throwing a pillow from West Virginia to San Francisco was a bit of a stretch, even for an Addams. 

“So never again, then.”

Enid laughed, standing upright. If she felt a little dizzy, it was definitely from the run. Because she didn’t want to discourage Wednesday from further adorably awkward attempts at small talk, she decided to answer her question. “It’s, like, super sunny here this morning. You’d hate it.”

“I agree.”

“What’s the weather like for you?”

“The same,” Wednesday said. Then, after a moment, “You’d love it.”

The rest of August went by like this—Wednesday calling her from different payphones, though later in the morning than the first time to avoid disturbing her morning run. It was nice, for once, for Wednesday to be in complete control of how much they talked, and even nicer that though it seemed like finding a payphone to speak to Enid was a difficult task in itself, she still chose to do it almost every day.

It was almost four months at this point that Enid had gone without seeing her, and she hadn’t lied to her at that bus station in Burlington. She did miss Wednesday more than anyone else. She missed her company and the clacking of her typewriter, her stony expressions that only Enid could read and especially the moments when that stone would break—when Enid would touch her hand or say something to catch her off guard and those dark eyes would flick up to meet her, and Enid could tell it wasn’t on purpose. She lived for the moments that stone cracked, when Wednesday was tired and heavy and storms raged outside and she had every reason to harden but instead she crumbled.

She missed Wednesday in her entirety. Missed her so wholly and completely that just hearing her voice was becoming painful in the absence of everything else. She needed to see her. 

Then, maybe, that would be enough.

.     .     .

Saying goodbye to her parents and brothers wasn’t nearly as emotional as her return. She didn’t even cry this time, and they didn’t either because, frankly, they were all sick of each other. She would miss them, but she’d cashed in her four month free trial with her family, and if she kept the subscription any longer she’d just have to end up paying with her sanity. 

It seemed impossible that the trip back to Vermont would feel even longer than the one home. She wasn’t nearly as comfortable, shifting in her seat every couple of minutes, skipping nearly every song in her playlist since none seemed to satisfy whatever impatient itch had taken hold in her brain. Counting down the hours brought her negative amounts of relief. There were literally a hundred of them after all, and even though the number went down with every hour it was still a huge fucking number. With rest stops and breaks and bus changes, the trip would take a little over four days. She wished she shared Wednesday’s fondness for the darker things in life. Having a penchant for torture surely would’ve made the tedium of watching the side of highway blur by much more enjoyable.

Wednesday was picking her up in Burlington, just as she’d dropped her off. Enid didn’t even had to ask her, just casually mentioned on a phone call that she’d have to get a cab for the last thirty minutes of the journey, and Wednesday told her not to be ridiculous in a tone that gave Enid the impression that she was seriously reconsidering if she had a brain or not.

“You’re going to take a cab from Burlington to Jericho,” she’d said. 

A couple long seconds of grainy phone silence stretched between them as Enid wondered if this was something that required an answer or if Wednesday was just stating a fact in the most aggressive cadence possible.

“Well, considering my only other option is to walk… yeah. I'm taking a cab.

That sentence did not fare well for her. Enid learned that Wednesday really didn’t like being left out of the running when it came to… rides? Cab drivers? Helping Enid? The direct source of her anger was ultimately unclear but the message may as well have been clacked out on her typewriter onto a single piece of paper that read, “I am picking you up from Burlington, you fucking idiot”.

It was a win for Enid either way since she got to see Wednesday thirty minutes earlier than anticipated, and anyone who didn’t think that was a big deal clearly didn’t have a hundred hour bus trip ahead of them, because if they did they would know that every minute mattered (did she mention it was one hundred hours? Because it was).

On two occasions Enid watched a glaring sunset through a grimy bus window, and on one occasion she watched from outside on a bench as she was waiting for a changeover. It was nice to have something beautiful to focus on for those twenty minutes before the ride turned back into agonizing monotony. 

Enid had been enthralled with the sun crossing the horizon for as long as she could remember. Staring transfixed up at the pretty sky in the mornings and evenings as a child was probably the first clue that Enid would be abnormally obsessed with all things bright and colorful as an adult. She couldn’t help it. The sun technically started setting as soon as it came up, but the intense bursts of oranges and reds and pinks at the grand finale and entrance only lasted for about fifteen minutes each. There was beauty in brevity, and something enchanting that Enid had never bothered to put up a fight against. 

It wasn’t a crime, after all, for her eyes to be naturally drawn to the most beautiful parts of life. It was instinct.

So instead of counting hours, Enid started counting sunrises. It seemed much more manageable to get through just four sunrises instead of the alternative amount of time. She could do four sunrises. That was nothing. 

Enid spent the next four days in a repeated cycle of bathroom breaks, quick showers at stops, watching the sun go down and back up over the horizon, and, most importantly, manifesting for that damn trip to come to an end. 

Turns out, she might’ve manifested a little too hard. 

On the day of the fourth sunrise, as they were rumbling through New York, the blurring road outside started to slow down. And Enid wasn’t a mechanic or a doctor, but she couldn’t imagine it was good when a bus started to cough.

The vehicle broke down. 

It didn’t seem fair. She’d gotten past the fourth sunrise, she thought it was over. But she was just a fool stranded at a bus station two hours away from Burlington with no way to get there. If the bus was still functioning she would have accused it of running her over with how gutted she felt.

The driver initially tried his best to calm all the passengers, but people who had just spent ninety-eight hours traveling and were at their veritable worsts didn’t turn out to be the most understanding bunch, so he just called whoever he had to call.

“Okay folks,” was the chipper start to his announcement fifteen minutes later. Enid hoped what came next would be a funny story about how it was just a fuse that needed to be replaced and they could all get back on and live happily ever after. “The next bus isn’t scheduled to pass through here for another four hours, and they’re not sure if they’ll have room for everyone. I’m going to start unloading your bags.”

So… not the best prognosis.

Within the next thirty minutes Enid was inside the bus station with the rest of the passengers. There weren’t enough seats for them all so she sat on the floor with her luggage, trying to drown out the sounds of angry people bullying innocent bus line employees either on the phone or in person. She’d use her earbuds to listen to some music, but her phone was only on five percent the last time she checked and she didn’t want to waste the battery in case an emergency came up. The plan was to charge it in Wednesday’s car, but now that she wouldn’t be making it to—

Oh fuck.

Enid pulled out her phone. A single percent remained.

Out of all the times for Wednesday to pick up on the last ring, this had to be the worst. 

“Howdy, roomie.”

And for all the times for her to answer like that and Enid couldn’t even address it? The universe was truly punishing her for something, and it was probably that time she broke her mothers vase in third grade and put a rugby ball next to the glass shards to frame her brothers. She knew it would come back to bite her.

“Listen, my phone is about to die but I needed to let you know not to go to Burlington.”

“Enid, we already discussed—“

“The bus broke down and I’m stranded at the Glen Falls station in New York.” She wouldn’t usually cut off Wednesday without calculating the risk of something getting cut off of her, but in this case it was necessary. “I’m not getting out of here for at least another four hours, but I’ll try to find an outlet for my charger and keep you updated, okay?”

She waited. No response.

“Wednesday?”

When she took her phone down from her ear, the screen was black. 

In the minutes that followed, Enid tried not to think about how much Wednesday had heard before the line went dead. If she ended up going to Burlington anyway to wait for a bus that would never come, Enid might never get over the guilt.

Since the only outlet not already taken up by someone else’s charger turned out to be broken, Enid had no choice but to wait and hope Wednesday had heard enough. And then, butt going numb from sitting on the dirty tile of the bus station, back leaning against the wall and her temple into the corner of her suitcase, letting the deafening noise of outraged bus passengers blend together into the most annoying adaptation of white noise to ever exist, Enid tried to think of sunrises. 

It didn’t work.

She got through two hours of trying and failing to take a nap on the floor before she had to get up. Every bone protested against moving, and every muscle was either tingling from loss of circulation or dead from underuse. To put it eloquently, she felt like shit, and probably looked worse.

The stranger sitting beside her who also seemed to be contemplating if this whole ‘being alive’ nonsense was worth it anymore agreed to watch her bags while she went to the bathroom. One look in the smeared mirror over the sink confirmed that the bags under her eyes had evolved into impressive sized duffles in the nearly twenty-four hours she’d been awake.

She thought about the rest of the hours she would spend in this bus station. She thought about Nevermore, and how it was just over two hours away and how she could’ve been there in the time she’d spent staring at the set of shoes in front of the chair across from her. She thought about the summer she’d spent at home, and how exhausting it was to exist in a place she’d once longed so hard to belong. She thought of perfect brothers and judging parents and four months of waiting to escape it only to leave and travel across the country for ninety-eight hours, and somehow still be waiting.

Hopelessness welled in her chest like blood from a fresh wound. It was dark and ugly and heavy, and it pressed down on her lungs until it was hard to breathe, crept up her neck and into her head, where her thoughts were drowned and replaced with a dull ringing. She felt like she was a thousand feet away from herself. She needed air.

It was raining when she stepped outside, which was convenient since Enid’s eyes had started burning somewhere between the bathroom and the front entrance, and crying in public was a little less embarrassing when the tears on her cheeks just looked like a result of the weather. It didn’t matter, she was alone anyway. The parking lot was empty except for one person getting out of their car on the other end.

Enid’s vision was blurry and stinging. Her breathing was shaky and she could barely hear the car door slamming over the rain, splashing foot falls and—

“Enid!”

She blinked. Looked up.

And the pouring rain suited Wednesday Addams quite nicely.

Enid’s first thought was that she was dreaming. She had to be. Wednesday couldn’t have driven two hours just to get to her, just to be standing in a parking lot, frozen, letting sheets of rain pelt into her as she looked at Enid like Enid looked at a sunrise. But the air smelled like wet pavement and the endless thrum of rain hitting the ground drowned out distant traffic, and Enid figured if she was dreaming the water running down her skin probably wouldn’t be so cold. 

Wednesday’s bangs were sticking to her forehead, the shoulders of her black hoodie patterned by the falling drops, the fabric becoming impossibly darker the longer she stood there. She was the only solid thing in a world blurring steadily to gray and she was the opposite of a sunrise. She was storm and steel veiled in the muted glow of an overcast sky, with eyes that reminded Enid of standing on the edge of a mountain, falling into the night. She wasn’t golden and she wasn’t orange and red and pink, and Wednesday’s beauty wasn’t from brevity—in the way that things seemed brighter, more intense right before they faded away. Wednesday didn’t fade. She was solid and real and there, just as beautiful in a split second as she would be for a million falls of night and she didn’t fade.

No, Wednesday wasn’t a sunrise, but Enid stared anyway. She didn’t have an option to do anything else.

Then she was moving.

It was automatic—inescapable—the way she ran to her. Water splashed and rain poured and Enid crashed into Wednesday Addams. Rain-soaked sneakers ungracefully stumbled back but she held on tight, curling her fingers into the soggy fabric of her hoodie like she might vanish the moment she let her go. Enid buried her face into her shoulder as they steadied, letting out a shuddering breath. 

But, unfortunately, this Wednesday wasn’t even real. Enid knew because she hugged her back.

Enid’s voice was muffled by fabric, unsteady from tears and very nearly drowned out by the rain. “Are you a dream?”

“Enid,” Wednesday muttered, “please be realistic.” The arms around her back squeezed tighter. “I’m a nightmare.”

A choked laugh broke from Enid’s chest, shaky with disbelief and the aching feeling below her throat that must’ve been all the pieces of her heart finally fitting back together. Her breath fluttered over the spot where Wednesday’s shoulder met her neck and she could’ve imagined it when she shivered. She squeezed Enid again, seemed to press impossibly closer. Her nose was cold against Enid’s neck.

Somehow, insanely, this still wasn’t enough.

They stayed like that for a while, steady against the pelting rain, soaked to the bone but neither willing to let go just yet. Or, more likely, Wednesday was just hanging on because she knew Enid might fall apart if she didn’t. Enid breathed in old books and coffee and Wednesday, and her heart slowed to a heavy beat in her chest. 

She pulled away eventually. Forced herself to drop her arms and step back, hands at her sides curling into fists to keep her from lunging forward again. The rain had lightened to a soft patter now, a little bit of sun starting to poke through the clouds.

“I’m sorry,” Enid said. She sniffed a little and wiped under her eyes, though her whole face was soaked now. Her words came out fast and tumbling over each other. “I know you don’t like to be hugged, it’s just that I was so bummed about the bus and I had a stupid dramatic pity party in the bathroom, and then you showed up like a knight in shining armor and I know I shouldn’t’ve just tackled you like that without consent and I’m so sorry—I really can’t say enough how sorry I am—but God, Wednesday, I just missed you so fucking bad and I—“

“It’s okay, Enid.”

Wednesday’s words were a little quiet, cheeks a little pink. Enid was doubtful it actually was okay and opened her mouth again to spew off at least a thousand more apologies, but Wednesday pressed her lips together and Enid froze as she recognized what it was…

A sorry attempt to wrestle back the smile that wiggled at the corners of her lips anyway.

Something clicked in Enid’s brain. It echoed as it settled into place and left a silence in its wake that caused her heart to pick up. Her breath to catch.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—

“It’s okay.”

It wasn’t. Oh God, it wasn’t.

They went into the bus station and took Enid’s bags, brought them out to the car, then dug through them for dry clothes to wear. Enid was on autopilot, but she had enough ingrained common sense to hand Wednesday her own stolen sweater instead of insisting she burn her skin off by touching any one of her own vibrant fabrics. They both changed in the bathroom where Enid had her mini panic attack not even ten minutes prior, then they were off. Wednesday suggested she sleep on the way back, and Enid didn’t argue, just nodded wordlessly and reclined the seat as Wednesday drove on in silence.

It was the most peace she’d had in over four months, but she didn’t sleep.

How could she when she just realized she was in love with Wednesday Addams.

Chapter Text

Wednesday was a firm believer that every successful life was required to go through a trial of valleys and mountains. Reaching high points without having to endure the struggle of a tenuous climb negated achievement. It meant you were born at the top of the mountain, and just managing to remain up there was the bare minimum. Nothing to be celebrated. 

As someone who valued the dark and dreary as much as she did, it came as no surprise that the lows were of great importance to her as a person. Her existence thus far had been full of ups and downs, but she was never disappointed to find herself at the bottom again. She’d long since discovered that there were lessons to be learned when you were stranded in the dark, wooded valleys of time, surrounded by sheer, seemingly unclimbable cliff faces on every side. Life’s greatest milestones were achieved in those times. 

Like when she’d lost Nero. She’d watched him die, buried his body, knelt in the dirt beside his homemade tombstone, then cried her little black heart out. Afterwards she’d discovered her mother had been watching from the window of their manor and threatened to torch her whole greenhouse if she breathed a word. It had been a big ordeal for a kindergartener. She’d survived, though, and eventually grew to appreciate the wisdom she’d gleaned from such an event:

Tears did not bring back the dead. Nobody could rescue the things she cared about but herself. She needed to find a more secluded place to have her private funerals.

She’d undergone several more trials since then, but she’d always managed to climb her way out, sometimes clawing and scratching and emerging with hands scraped raw and blood beneath her fingernails. But all the lows were worth it. They’d each made her who she was.

As Wednesday sat on the couch in Bianca Barclay’s apartment, listening to a playlist of what she figured was supposed to be music but sounded more like someone had given a microphone to a person with a bass guitar and a lot of cocaine, she wondered what invaluable lessons she’d learn from this specific low.

Bianca herself appeared from the throng of people littering her living room. She glanced at Wednesday, then at the space next to her on the small couch like she was a death row prisoner getting her first look at the electric chair. After a long moment of deliberation, she sighed loud enough to be heard over the music and sat down anyway.

And just like that, a sinkhole opened up in the valley and Wednesday was down at rock bottom.

“I knew you were invited, but I didn’t think you’d show,” Bianca said in greeting. The cushion sank as she settled down, softly jostling Wednesday with the movement.

She didn’t intend to talk to her. Speaking to anyone was generally to be avoided unless completely necessary (or unless anyone was a strange nickname for Enid), and speaking to Bianca Barclay in particular sparked an impressively large flare of disdain in the space below to her ribs. But she promised Enid she’d stay at least an hour, and damn it all if she wasn’t longing for any sound to focus on except for the awful music thrumming through the speakers in the corner.

“I like to endulge myself in a bit of light torture every now and then.” Wednesday replied. “Guilty pleasure.”

“Cute. Where’s your other half?”

Wednesday knew immediately she was talking about Enid. She didn’t know why the instant understanding made her restless. She had too much self-respect to play dumb, but not enough to avoid acknowledging it all together. “You must not be enjoying your party very much if making conversation with me is your next best alternative.”

“Not my party.” She didn’t seem to actually care about where Enid was since she didn’t push for an answer, which meant that it actually had been a feeble attempt at conversation and someone should probably check in on her mental state. “It was Kent’s idea. I offered for him to have it here so he wouldn’t get kicked out of the dorms.”

Wednesday hummed uninterestedly, watching the doorway Enid had disappeared into a few minutes ago to get a drink. 

Bianca was only the third person to wonder exactly why Wednesday was here, after Enid and Wednesday herself. She’d gone through all the possible reasons she could have to put herself in this situation, and no matter which route she took, she always came back to that rainy reunion in Burlington. How Enid had become… different afterwards. It’d only been a couple of days since, but Wednesday noticed the switch as obviously as if someone had turned off the sun. Enid just wasn’t Enid. And Wednesday was aware that was a nonsensical and subjective way to describe someone’s abnormality, but there was no other way to make sense of it. Technically, she was still Enid—bouncy, smiley, colorful Enid, who danced idly around the room to her same generic pop music as she unpacked, who interrupted Wednesday’s writing time with celebrity gossip headlines and musings about “what Jennifer Coolidge is up to these days”. Nothing was noticeably different, but something was off. Like all the furniture in a well-worn room being moved half an inch to the right.

Maybe Enid was still tired from her trip, or maybe four months away from her had been long enough for Wednesday to forget what being around her was actually like. Or maybe Wednesday was just losing her mind earlier than anticipated. There was no evidence yet to think anything was amiss, but when she’d asked if Wednesday wanted to go to a welcome back party at Bianca’s place the night before classes started again, an agreement fell from her mouth so automatically it was like yes was the only word she’d ever learned.

Enid had been understandably shocked. She’d asked the way she always asked—offhandedly, distracted with whatever topic she planned to go into next, already knowing Wednesday would say no. 

But, this time, Wednesday hadn’t said no. And now, here she was. In Hell. Or at least what she figured it would be like if she believed in such a thing.

“How was your summer?” Bianca asked. 

Fuck. Was she really still here? 

“Is there truly no one else for you to talk to?”

“Honestly? You’re about as much energy as I can handle right now.”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

“My summer was fine, thanks for asking.” Bianca had apparently resorted to talking to herself, just furthering Wednesday’s proof that she urgently needed to see a medical professional about her brain. “I got a job at the 7-Eleven down the road. Saved up some money for a car.”

The mention of the convenience store sparked something deep inside Wednesday’s chest—something soft and weak, but undeniably warm. She hated it, and also hated that she wished it never went away. 

As if on cue, Enid finally came into view in the kitchen doorway. The sight of her twisted that sweet, aching knife in her chest a little more, until she saw who was walking out behind her. Who Enid was looking over her shoulder, talking to, laughing to as they went.

Fish-eyed imbecile. 

Wednesday’s muscles tensed to stand, and like she’d sensed it through some vibration in the air, Enid’s head snapped to her. Wednesday froze, gaze unblinking, static in the air between their eyes as she waited for Enid to give any type of signal that she needed the situation handled. Wednesday made it clear multiple times in the past that she would gladly deal with Ajax and his weird beanie the same way she dealt with all her brother's middle school bullies. Regrettably, she didn’t have any piranhas on hand at the moment, but she could make do with the knife in her boot just fine.

But Enid just smiled and sent her a thumbs up as she let Ajax lead her from the room.

And Wednesday… let them go. Granted, it took every ounce of willpower she had not to stalk over and slam him through some drywall, but she didn’t. Because Enid didn’t want her to.

And, as always, that was enough.

“Why didn’t you go home for the summer?” Wednesday asked Bianca suddenly.

“Are we really just going to ignore whatever is going on here? You’re almost tearing two chunks out of my couch cushion and you’re staring at the wall like it killed your—Jesus, that did not mean that you had to look at me, psycho.”

Her philosophy still applied here—talking was to be avoided unless completely necessary and, oddly enough, conversing with Bianca turned out to be one of the only things keeping Wednesday from committing a crime.

Wednesday repeated, slower, “Why didn’t you go home for the summer?” 

Bianca didn’t look as much terrified as she did catastrophically weirded out, but she responded anyway. “You think you’re the only one with mommy issues?”

“What’s wrong with yours?”

Stupid Ajax. Stupid—

“She’s trying to blackmail me into joining her cult who run a secret organization that’s main form of profit is the extortion of innocent people.”

“Sounds like a lucrative family business.”

A bitter and sardonic hum. Then Bianca’s inhumanly frosty eyes caught on something at the other end of the room and rolled so hard it had to be painful. Wednesday followed her gaze and found Xavier approaching. Just as the conversation was getting interesting, too.

“Hey, Wednesday. Long time no see.” Xavier’s hair was in a ponytail, and he otherwise looked as tortured and lanky as Wednesday remembered. Thankfully he didn’t seem like he intended to sit down with them. “Bianca,” he added, like an afterthought.

Bianca sighed. “Forget it, Thorpe. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Wednesday didn’t usually like anyone assuming what she wanted or didn’t, but… well, Bianca was right. 

“And she wants to talk to you?” 

And he was right too. 

In a perfect world she wouldn’t have to talk to either of them, but for some unfathomable reason she found herself in the middle of a custody battle akin to two petty ex lovers deciding who gets the guillotine in the divorce. She remembered from Enid’s gossip session the night before they did actually have a nasty breakup over the summer (“reason unknown,” Enid had said wondrously, to which Wednesday had hummed and said, “let’s keep it that way”). 

But just because Wednesday had time to listen to Enid talking about their relationship didn’t mean she had time for the actual relationship itself, or the petty squabbles following the fallout. She had to make a choice, and, oddly enough, it wasn’t difficult. 

Her eyes shifted steadily to Xavier. “We’re engaging in girl talk.”

“Oh yeah? What about?”

“Typical feminine things. Blood, gore, rampant gender inequality, purses.” Xavier clearly didn’t believe her. She added, “What Jennifer Coolidge is up to these days.” 

“Funny. Look, can I talk to you for a—?”

“Go away, Xavier.”

Her voice was cold, unwavering, and not one bit guilty. He huffed out one of those airy not-laughs he did when he felt sorry for himself, which was, as far as Wednesday could tell, most of the time. “Damn, you don’t mince your words, do you?”

“I prefer slicing to mincing. Or stabbing, but…” She tilted her head as though in thought, but her eyes stayed on him like a pin in a dissection board. “That tends to get messy.”

That seemed to do the trick. He put his hands in his pockets and walked away with a defeated message received. Bianca watched him go, satisfaction curling at her lips. Wednesday’s eyes cringed shut at a particularly loud bass chord vibrating through the speakers.

“Do you even know who Jennifer Coolidge is?” Bianca asked.

“Author?”

She laughed. Wednesday didn’t hate it, and couldn’t find even a sliver of resentment in her spitefully beating heart to direct at her roomate for how much she’d clearly rubbed off on her. Not that Wednesday would find herself dancing around to upbeat pop music sporting every color of the rainbow anytime within her next twenty lives, but her blood not recoiling at the sight of someone else’s happiness was about as significant as a shifting fault line when it came to her morbid track record.

“You know, I think I’m starting to understand why Enid likes you so much.”

Soft and weak. The knife twisted more.

“That makes one of us.”

Someone else battled their way through the loose throng of college students littering the room, two drinks in her hands. She wasn’t wearing her usual round sunglasses tonight, but thankfully her jet black, whip straight hair was just as good an identifier.

“Ladies.” Yoko greeted both of them without the slightest glimmer of apprehension that usually accompanied anyone else who so much as looked at Wednesday. She was Enid’s closest friend out of their little dinner group, and Wednesday often wondered what Enid had to have told her to make her so casual. Unafraid. “I saw Xavier over here. Figured you might need this,” she said as she passed a cup to Bianca, who muttered her thanks and took a long sip. Then Yoko offered the other cup to Wednesday. “Don’t know what your drink of choice is, but I’m getting a vodka vibe? Tell me if I’m wrong.”

Wednesday’s surprise must’ve been evident in the following silence (or worse, on her face), because Bianca added, “Yoko looks for any excuse to mix a drink. But watch out, ‘cause she makes them strong.”

“I do,” Yoko confirmed proudly, then, to Wednesday’s horror, winked amicably at her. “But you seem like the type to appreciate a good burn on the way down.” More silence. The cup waited in the space between them. Yoko lowered her voice and leaned in a little, letting go of the teasing tone from before. “Don’t feel pressured or anything. If you don’t take it, I’ll just drink it myself. No worries.”

Wednesday wouldn’t take it. Shouldn’t. Never in her life had she allowed herself to be anything less than sharp-eyed and capable in a room full of veritable strangers. 

But something was different about tonight. There was a tension in the air that only seemed to be affecting her, a poison sitting low in her gut, working its way up her throat every now and then like boiling acid. Ajax popped into her mind against her will, how he hadn’t even bothered to text Enid last year before he left her waiting out in the dark alone, and now he was leading her out of the room to some unknown location to do god knows what (realistically, probably nothing bad by Enid’s definition, but still). The boiling turned into flames, and Wednesday was nauseated by the stupid boy.

“Promise it’ll burn?” she asked. 

Yoko’s eyes lit up.

.     .     .

“Yoko, what did you do to her?”

“It’s not my fault! She kept telling me they weren’t strong enough and she drank them so fast—“

“She’s, like, the size of a chihuahua. Her body can’t handle a double, a triple, and then a quadruple in the span of two hours.”

“First of all, she said she could, so that's not on me. Second, I know she’s obviously super wasted but she should be way worse. This is actually really impressive.”

Silence for a moment. Two.

“See! She blinked.”

“That’s actually abnormal behavior. Go find Enid.”

Everything was blurry. Everything was muffled. Wednesday forgot the words that were spoken the second they disappeared from the air. She was still on the couch, but staying sitting up by herself had become impossible halfway into her last drink. There was weight across her shoulders, keeping her upright and tucked in tight to the warmth against her side. Not that her spinning head would have allowed her to go many other places anyway, and—actually, that was heavy too. Why hadn’t she dropped it by now? 

She dropped it.

Her temple hit whatever solid thing she was leaned up against and the solid thing sighed. The arm around her shifted slightly, a hand gently rubbing up and down her shoulder on the other side.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Bianca muttered.

Wednesday couldn’t agree more. Then she forgot what she was agreeing with.

The passage of time was a muddled, tricky thing that came and went with each blink, so there was no telling how long she sat there, watching the blurry colors of what she used to be able to tell were other human beings milling around the open room. Then pink was one of the colors. It moved closer than the others, until it was right in front of her, dropping to her level and—

“Wens? Hey, can you look at me?”

That knife again—twisting, welling up blood in that soft spot behind her ribs. It was a sweet pain, one that fluttered and ebbed, soft and warm and fuzzy like the pink in the sky right before dawn. Fingers threaded through hers and squeezed gently and Wednesday blinked. Once. Twice. She blinked a lot.

Finally the image in front of her focused. Blond and blue and pink curls, eyes like breaking waves. The sun broke over the horizon and her skin tingled. Wednesday had butterflies.

“Holy fuck, she’s smiling.”

“Should we take her to the hospital?”

“The hospital won’t be enough. Take her to a priest.”

The voices came and went, but for Wednesday they might as well have not even existed. Enid’s eyes were looking right into her’s and when she smiled softly back the knife stopped twisting. Fell out and clattered to the floor.

Enid whispered, “There you are.”

“Can we go?” Wednesdays tongue felt too big and her lips didn’t work right. “Bianca s’here somewhere ‘nd I still can’t beat her’n fencing.” 

Enid pressed her lips together in the way she did when she really thought she shouldn’t laugh. Her eyes lifted somewhere to the left of Wednesday’s face, where there was a disgruntled huff. 

“Kay, I’ve only been holding you up for the past thirty minutes. Guess I’ll go fuck myself.”

A drunk, agreeable hum. The laugh Enid was holding in broke free. “Yeah, we should definitely go. Come on.”

She stood up and offered her hands, and in a miraculous display of pure coordination and athleticism, Wednesday managed to grab them on her third try. Enid pulled her up and—oh, her bones were not bones now. Her bones were thin-cut pieces of loose leaf and her muscles were jello, and her whole millisecond of being on her feet would’ve come to a disappointing conclusion on the hardwood floor if Enid allowed gravity to take over.

But she didn’t, because Enid was quick and strong and Wednesday liked that about her. She liked everything about Enid—her hair, her voice, her face, her squeak of alarm and how fast she grabbed Wednesday’s elbows to keep her standing. 

“S’fine, Enid.” Wednesday was still smiling. She knew because when her eyes slid up to Enid’s face—which was way closer than before—she found her friend still losing the fight against keeping her laughter at bay. Also, Wednesday’s cheeks hurt. The muscles weren’t used to working so hard.

A giggle. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So I can let you go? You’re fine?”

Now that the initial shock of standing was over, Wednesday did find her legs holding most of her weight again. It was unsteady though, like one of those skyscrapers designed to move with the wind so they didn’t collapse, except that there was no wind and she was dizzy. Really really dizzy.

And Enid was holding her.

She mumbled, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Let go.”

Enid’s eyes were soft. So soft when she looked at Wednesday. It was a mistake, because Wednesday was sharp and prickly and Enid should have been scared of getting cut. “I won’t.”

Enid tucked her into her side, said some quick goodbyes, and then they were gone. They were only a five minute walk from the university, but even Wednesday was conscious enough to know that it took them much longer than that. It was mostly a quiet journey, but Enid’s laughter would break the hazy stillness of the night every now and then, and Wednesday never knew quite what she was laughing at but was sure it had something to do with her.

“I’m okay,” she’d say, words slow and slurred together. Enid would hum and Wednesday would say with significantly more emotion, “I’m fine.”

Enid would laugh again. The cycle continued. It was a good walk.

How they got back the the dorm house and up the stairs Wednesday had no clue. The journey was a series of muddled bits and pieces—a long walk down the hall, insisting Enid let her walk by herself, then a loud thud against the wall and Enid’s hushed train of giggles as she caught her again, telling her to be quiet because it was two in the morning and “oh my God, people are sleeping, Wens.” A door. Their door. Fumbling with a key, the twist of a lock, a line of lighter hardwood where a strip of black duct tape used to be, and a bed. Oh sweet Lucifer, a bed.

“Hold on, that’s not—wait, Wednesday, don’t—“

Too late. Wednesday unhooked Enid’s arm from around her waist and promptly collapsed face-first onto the mattress. 

The last thing she heard before she passed out was Enid’s sigh, then, “Whatever. It’s fine.”

Sleep had taken her that night, surely and completely. The time she spent laying on her bed before the world faded to nothing might’ve been the most peaceful couple of seconds she’d ever had. Every muscle was relaxed, every nerve tingling and happy and comfortable. 

But all good things must come to an end.

She knew this to be true because the sun rose the next morning and she hadn’t died in her sleep. She’d always judged her peers for their continuous partying, for choosing a brief couple hours of alcohol-induced gratification every weekend over the long-lasting benefits of studying and a healthy liver. 

But the hangover she woke up with was a formidable level of torture, even for her high standards. She had to admire the masochism of college drinking culture.

Her head throbbed, her eyes burned, and someone had obviously replaced her tongue with an uncannily tongue-shaped roll of cotton while she slept. Her muscles were full of rocks, and as she laid there, pushing her face into her pillow in an effort to keep her skull from cracking apart, a wave of nausea rolled over her so sharply that she shoved herself to the edge of the bed so she wouldn’t have to buy a new mattress. The quick motion just jarred her head more, driving a spike of pain all the way from crown to forehead, but through some miracle she managed to keep the contents of her stomach from becoming the contents of the floor. 

When she finally worked up the nerve to open her eyes, she came to a couple of realizations.

One: It was past eleven o’clock. She would not be going to class considering her third and last one of the day was now a good fifteen minutes in.

Two: She was in Enid’s bed.

Another realization, following the blinding mortification of how she’d drunkenly stolen Enid’s bed and Enid just let her, was that her roommate wasn’t even present. The black comforter on the other side of the room was tidily pulled up and her shoes were gone from the space by the door, and it was both a little disappointing and enormously relieving to know that Enid wasn’t here to witness the penurious struggle that were her first waking moments. Instead she’d left a bottle of water on the nightstand with a couple painkillers, a red Gatorade, and two pale pink sticky notes, loopy letters written across them in Enid’s favorite glitter pen.

Morning!! Don’t worry about class—Yoko volunteered to take notes for you in your abnormal psyc, Bianca will let you know what you missed in bio, and I’ve had Professor Green before and the first class is always just reviewing the syllabus so you’re good. Sweet dreams, I’ll be back around 12-ish. Lmk if you want me to bring you lunch :)

- Enid <3

Wednesday never liked to be taken care of. Always strived never to need anyone’s care. But Enid was Enid, and while something was off, not enough had changed to dampen that fact. Enid would still care, and Wednesday would still hate the warmth that unwillingly bloomed in her chest every time she did. It was their thing.

But the way she’d signed the note made doubt claw ever so slightly at her insides (barely imperceivable next to everything else that was trying to claw its way out, but still). Since when did Enid address herself to Wednesday with her name instead of the multitude of best-friend-centric nicknames she’d made up for herself? Of course, it was typical that even in her foggiest, most miserable moments, Wednesday still found the mental fortitude to nitpick probably normal Enid behaviors. 

Enid and her were fine. She was just paranoid. And being stupid. And extremely nauseous.

Like, seriously, really fucking nause—

Thankfully the bathroom was only a couple doors down the hall. Running to throw her guts up was not an elegant look, but it was a blessing in disguise because she would’ve had to get up in the next half hour anyway to make sure she looked to be at least halfway alive when Enid got back, and she wasn’t sure anything else would’ve been a strong enough motivator. She sent her a text while she was brushing her teeth.

11:24 AM: Lunch.

And that sat there for a second until she remembered that her parents had raised her right.

11:24 AM: Please.

Enid just sent her a thumbs-up and a heart emoji in response. And for the first time since she activated the phone, Wednesday had texts that weren’t from Enid—one text from “Bianca Barclay”, and three texts from “Tell Enid she owes me ten bucks.” The latter turned out to be Yoko, proven by the two pictures of an open notebook with psychology notes taken neatly enough to make Wednesday’s eyebrows raise in appreciation. There was a message after that said, “hope you’re still alive”, to which Wednesday replied “that makes one of us”. Bianca’s texts just consisted of a brief synopsis of the class that day along with a reminder to drink lots of water. It went without saying that she didn’t remember giving either of them her number.

A simple thank you was enough for both of them, and Wednesday went back to reviving herself from the dead and refraining from punching out the white light bulbs over the sinks.

She was sitting at her typewriter when their room door creaked open. Wednesday didn’t look, but it was Enid, because it really couldn’t be anyone else.

Footsteps entering the room. The soft click of a closing door. Wednesday kept her fingers stubbornly on her typewriter keys, spine straight against the back of her chair.

Enid finally said, “I think we’re at the point now where, if you’re feeling shitty, you can act like you’re feeling shitty.”

And Wednesday dropped her head to her desk with a painful-sounding thunk and groaned.

It was pitiful and weak and everything she vowed she’d never be around anyone else, but Enid wasn’t anyone else. Enid was the only light Wednesday would welcome that morning. She giggled through a sympathetic “awe” and squeezed her shoulder.

Wednesday mumbled against the table. “You owe Yoko ten bucks.”

“Hm? For—oh my god! You asked for her number?”

She did? Whatever, it didn’t matter. She didn’t have the energy to be alive, let alone to care that they’d been making bets about her.

“I’m sorry.” 

The hand disappeared and Wednesday lifted her head. But Enid wasn’t gone. Her bed frame creaked as Enid sat on the bottom corner of her mattress. “I mean, you’re allowed to have people’s numbers other than mine.”

“I have Bianca’s too.”

A soothing hum. “And I’m sure Bianca is just as devastated by that as you.” 

That was actually comforting. But it wasn’t what Wednesday was apologizing for. “I’m sorry for me. Last night.”

Enid was looking somewhere north of her eyes. Before Wednesday could wonder if there was a dick drawn on her forehead in sharpie that she hadn’t noticed, Enid titled her head and reached forward, fingers light as she used her thumb to softly rub at what must’ve been a pretty prominent red spot on her forehead from the table. 

“You don’t need to be sorry.”

What was she sorry for? Did it matter? Enid’s eyes were blue and Wednesday’s headache ebbed. No. Didn’t matter.

“I liked drunk Wednesday.”

Yes. Yes it did.

“I can’t remember much of her,” Wednesday admitted. “But she took your bed.”

“She was also very smiley.” The spot must’ve been beyond immediate repair. Enid ruffled her bangs a little to hide it before taking her hand back. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but everyone knows you have dimples now.”

Well, wasn’t that a nightmare. And not the good kind.

Wednesday went back to bed shortly after finishing the soup Enid had brought her, and Enid seemed to be attempting to absorb the contents of her textbook through some type of osmotic process as she completely ignored the open pages and typed of her phone instead. When Wednesday woke again around four o’clock, her headache had almost dissipated and Enid was gone, like she’d appeared in a dream just to deliver some chicken noodle and leave again. No note this time. The textbook was still open on her bed. 

A few possibilities cycled through Wednesday’s mind, ranging from a trip to the on-campus convenience store to actual kidnapping, but when Enid returned an hour and a half later, the real answer was much more disappointing.

“Hey!” came her bubbly voice as she noticed Wednesday alive and well and sitting at her typewriter for the second time that day. “Sorry, I would've woken you up before I left but you seemed like you needed the sleep. I was just meeting Ajax for some frozen hot chocolate.”

And, just like that, any of the lingering peace she’d found when Enid brought her lunch that afternoon was gone.

The same boiling, sticky feeling started bubbling in Wednesday’s stomach as the night before. It felt very similar to her nausea of the morning, actually, but ten times more bitter and and hundred times more pathetic. She attempted in vain to stuff it down, deliberately clacking one final word as the last minute of her writing time ticked to a close. She slowly and carefully removed the paper and placed it in the pile with the rest. 

“He didn’t stand you up this time, I presume?” 

“Behave,” Enid chided, then, after a short pause in which she likely realized Wednesday planned to do no such thing, added, “He actually apologized last night and had a really good reason for missing our date.”

Wednesday let out an unimpressed humph, sliding the lid onto the box that held the pages of her novel before putting it in her desk drawer and shutting it with a little too much force. 

Enid continued. “He was on the way there when he literally got kidnapped. Turned out to be an intense hazing ritual for some secret student society.”

At least Wednesday could keep her scoff internal this time. Kidnapping. What a lame excuse. “I guess we should give him an award for managing to give you an explanation a whole year after the event.”

“Did you miss the part where I said it was a secret society? Obviously he couldn’t tell me.”

“Well, it seems convenient that he can suddenly tell you now.”

“He—“ Enid fumbled when Wednesday got up from her chair, but quickly recovered—stood a little straighter, clasped her hands behind her back, and looked Wednesday right in the eyes. “He got kicked out.”

Wednesday took a couple measured steps foward. “Why?”

“He was just there for the parties.”

“Seems like a great mind at work.”

A muted expression of anger passed over Enid’s face—furrowed eyebrows, tightening lips, a couple of fast blinks. Wednesday stopped in the middle of the room where the duct tape used to be, just inside the border of that now-imaginary boundary. She was right in front of Enid, but Enid stayed on her side too.

“I don’t think you’re in the position to judge considering you seemed to enjoy yourself last night.”

“Getting drunk was a means of preserving my sanity in those conditions. I assure you, it had nothing to do with enjoyment.”

“We could have left at any point, Wednesday. You didn’t say you wanted to.”

“And you didn’t say that the only reason you were going to that party was to meet up with that beanie-wearing gargoyle.”

(It was safe to say ‘beanie-wearing gargoyle’ would not be going in the books as one of her best insults. Wednesday was actually fond of gargoyles, but creativity eluded her in that moment, and, in any case, she knew for a fact that Enid found gargoyles unsettling. So there was that.)

“So?” Enid challenged. “Now I have to report to you whenever I want to hang out with someone?”

“If they have as little character as your boyfriend then I’d rather be left in the dark.”

The tension left Enid’s face, lips parting slightly in a moment of surprise until she squeezed them together again.

Wednesday hadn’t meant to be so cold. She hadn’t meant to be a lot of things. But there she was anyway, standing across from her roomate, intentionally insulting the boy she was so infatuated with. The scene was really a repeat from the year before, minus the duct tape on the floor, a candle and a cupcake, a birthday song, black sprinkles and Wednesday telling Enid she shouldn’t have bothered with any of it. But her voice was sharp and calculated, every syllable begging for a fight. And intention didn’t matter when the edges of her words had been crafted to cut.

Enid had fought back the year before. She’d been annoyed and angry, and Wednesday didn’t know why she found herself itching for that again. Why she found herself poking the puppy, trying to draw out the wolf.

But there was no wolf this time. And Enid didn’t hide hurt well. 

“Don’t worry, Wednesday,” she said, and whatever she was now was so much worse than mad. “You will be.”

Like the first time, Enid left, slamming the door behind her. And, like the first time, Wednesday stayed standing in the middle of the room, staring at the space where Enid had just been and wondering when exactly she’d become such a unbelievable bitch (the answer was the moment she was conceived, but she’d only started caring about it when she met the very girl that she’d just idiotically driven away for a second time). Whatever fire that she’d had in her had burnt out, and now she was left with the smoking, stinging aftermath.

She let the self-disgust linger for an appropriate amount of time, then she sighed in resignation, got dressed in something other than sleeping clothes for the first time that day, and left to do what had to be done.

Wednesday apologized. Of course she did. It was a grand, embarrassing gesture, wherein she fought through her lingering hangover to go down to the cafe on campus and pick out the most colorful cupcake they had in the display case. And then when none of those fit the bill, she got in her car and drove her sorry ass to the nearest bakery, requesting the most obnoxious rainbow abomination they could possibly throw together. In half an hour she was presented with a pastry even her worst nightmares would scurry away at the sight of. It was perfect.

The speech she gave Enid when she returned later that evening was a spectacle in and of itself. 

“I was irritable from the hangover and still judged Ajax for his inadequate behavior last year, but that’s not an excuse and I’m sorry for what I said. If you are willing to give him a second chance, I trust your judgment, and so will I.”

Enid, of course, had melted immediately. She forgave her, imparted one of her signature brief hand squeezes, and offered Wednesday one half of the cupcake for sentimentality’s sake, which Wednesday only accepted since she got the feeling Enid might revoke her reassuring hand squeeze if she also didn’t honor their little Wednesday-apologizing-for-being-an-ass-and-for-some-reason-there-must-be-a-baked-good-present tradition. To Wednesday’s horror, the inside of the desert was also infested with rainbow bits. It was delicious, though—an admission that she would take to the grave and beyond if the powers of the universe allowed.

As nice as it was to be back in Enid’s good books, Wednesday acknowledged that it wasn’t exactly a prideful achievement since she was certain a bad book was not something that had ever been possessed by Enid Sinclair (Wednesday, on the other hand, had several volumes for every year of her life so far, and she was always eager to expand the collection). At most, Enid might’ve had a ‘mildly not-good’ book, and it would only include the guy in the sham-wow commercials and whoever Leah Remini was because I can’t explain it, Wednesday, she just gives me a weird vibe. 

Another reason she couldn’t find pride in her apology was because the entire thing had been a lie.

The hangover hadn’t made her any more irritable than her usual level caused by the earth and its inhabitants, and she didn’t just judge Ajax for what he did to Enid last year—she’d condemned him. There would be no second chances. 

As for trusting Enid’s judgment? Absolutely not. Considering she had been documented previously doing everything in her power to forge a friendship with someone she legitimately thought was a serial killer, her judgment was frighteningly spotty at best and lethal at worst. Wednesday trusted it about as much as she trusted the popcorn setting on the microwave not to char every kernel.

Also, she wasn’t sorry for what she’d said. She was sorry for how she said it and that her crassness had hurt Enid’s feelings, but her remorse extended no farther than that.

Like any good mystery, it took Wednesday some time to put a name to the sickening bile that rose from the pit of her stomach every time Ajax’s name fell from Enid’s mouth. It was like solving a crime—picking up little pieces here and there, comparing patterns, analyzing her reactions as though she was a test subject in her own morbid experiment. Then came the moment where it all clicked together. The epiphany. 

One night when Enid came back to the room positively beaming.

“Ajax asked me to be his girlfriend.”

And jealousy, Wednesday realized, was an ugly emotion. Even for her gruesome standards.

.     .     .

The following months continued to be an ongoing web of mysteries. Wednesday would’ve delighted in it if the crime wasn’t the hijacking of her own emotions only to drag out the most pitiful one in existence. Due to the subject at hand, and her lack of expertise in such mental warfare, solving it progressed slowly. Understanding what she was feeling was one thing, but dissecting why she was feeling that way was another monster entirely—and not one of the gory, murderous ones Wednesday was well-versed in. 

She considered making one of her link charts she used for true crime mysteries, but decided against it since it would really just be a picture of Ajax in the middle next to the word ew. It wasn’t very helpful and a waste of string and thumbtacks, and she refused to look at his face any more than she already had to since it was now often next to Enid’s face. Also, Eugene would question why it was in the bee shed, and out of all the suspicious things she’d housed there previously, an Ajax mood board was bound to be the most alarming.

It’s not like she needed the whole setup anyway. There was really only one thing happening and one question to be asked.

The thing? Wednesday was jealous of a boy who looked like a dashboard bobble head and had the mental capacity to match.

The question? Why.

Working theory number one featured the events of the past. He’d hurt Enid’s feelings before and now Wednesday was suspicious. Admittedly, this one was weak from the start since even she wasn’t emotionally stunted enough not to recognize that distrust did not equate to jealousy. It would also mean Wednesday’s role in all of this boiled down to being a tiny overprotective pit bull, which was not a thought she was fond of or would accept.

Her next theory came to light when he started frequenting their room. Enid was nice about it. She always made sure it was fine with Wednesday, and it wasn’t, but she told Enid it was anyway. Unfortunately, Wednesday had grown to give a fuck about Enid’s happiness more than any feelings that managed to claw their way up to the dark surface of her own grim psyche, and it would be selfish of her to make it difficult for Enid to spend time with someone who made her happy. 

It didn’t make walking in on them making out one day any less vomit-inducing. It was Wednesday’s fault, though. She’d missed Enid’s text.

She’d been coming back from class, debating whether or not she should forgo her writing hour that evening in favor of taking an early supper followed by an early sleep, when she opened the door to find Enid and the guy who seemed to be constantly cosplaying a late-stage coma patient pulling apart from each other like a fire had sprung up between them. There was a moment of silence, in which Enid seemed to be collecting herself and Ajax seemed to be contemplating the great mystery that was managing to rub two brain cells together. 

Looking at Ajax never failed to make her ponder exactly what Enid’s type was. It was becoming dangerously likely her attraction sat somewhere between the traits of ‘failed kindergarten’ and ‘someone should probably check their pulse’.

Enid finally opened her mouth to say something, but Wednesday beat her to it.

“Apologies. I’ll come back later.”

She left, but not before she just barely heard behind the closed door, “Are you sure she still doesn't want to kill me?”

“Trust me, if she did you would not be around to have this conversation.”

This was false. The only things so far in her life to keep Wednesday from doing exactly what she wanted was Enid not wanting her to do those things and her brief head cold from the year before. So no, Wednesday would not do any harm to Ajax unless Enid gave her the okay, but she would make herself scarce.

She’d go to the library mostly when Ajax was there. Or to the gym. Or to get groceries or go for a drive or walk aimlessly around campus until enough time had passed for him to be gone and for Enid to think she’d done something productive with her time instead of just using it to fuel her ever-growing hatred for her new boyfriend via getting her steps in.

But being jealous because she occasionally had to leave the room didn’t work out either. There were many times in the previous year that Wednesday had come back to find Yoko, Divina, or Kent in their dorm. She’d fled then too, but only because the noise level had increased and not because all the acid in her stomach was suddenly trying to burn its way out. It wasn’t just Wednesday’s space. Enid deserved to have people there as much as Wednesday deserved her privacy.

It also turned out that, as much as he was in their room, Enid was in his room too. Or wherever else they went. The point was she wasn’t in their room, and Wednesday started to think she was jealous for the simple reason that she didn’t get to see Enid as much as she used to.

It was true. By November, their time together most days was reduced to brief conversations in the morning before classes, and maybe a word or two when Enid popped back in later to get changed for a date or to inform her that Ajax would be stopping by. There were a couple days a week when they both had early practices—one would leave while the other was still asleep, and sometimes Wednesday wouldn’t see Enid for the entire day until she was woken up to the light in the hallway entering the dark room while she was in bed. Sometimes they’d still go to the dining hall together for supper, but Ajax was there now too.

Seeing Enid so little was strange. It was… off-putting. Unusual.

Okay, fine.

It hurt.

She loathed it, but she’d become accustomed to Enid just being… there. On her bed looking at her phone, pacing around the room trying to memorize a line from a textbook, talking her ear off when they were both supposed to be studying. Wednesday often found herself sitting at her desk, unable to shake the feeling that there was some unexplainable gap in the world around her, only to look over her shoulder and find herself surprised, again and again, that she was alone. The room was mostly silent now, and it took Wednesday a little while to realize that she was always waiting for Enid’s voice to break it. 

Oh, how she missed the days when she loved to be lonely. 

It’s not that Ajax himself was monopolizing Enid’s time. Between Wednesday and Enid’s differing class schedules, sport practices and events, and other general individual activities, it was hard to spend much time together in general that didn’t also include running errands or walking to the gym together, or even mutual silence as they studied. Ajax was just another thing added onto Enid’s list that she had to slot in time for. It just so happened Wednesday’s slot was the only one available to give him.

So it seemed her jealousy toward Ajax wasn’t really because of him at all. Clearly Enid was at the center of it all, which wasn’t surprising since Enid seemed to be at the center of most of Wednesday’s personal mysteries as of late. If Enid was the sun, Wednesday was one of the moons of some other orbiting planet—revolving around something just to pretend it wasn’t revolving around the same thing everything else was revolving around. And, okay, nobody else really orbited Enid except maybe Ajax, but even then at least he had the nerve to not bother to hide it, so that meant he was Mercury in this analogy while Wednesday was stuck being some dingy distant moon and that was…well, she was really looking too deep into this.

The point was that Wednesday had been so focused on her jealousy toward Ajax just so she could ignore the soft, bleeding, disgustingly vulnerable fact that Enid was important to her, and now that she was gone, Wednesday wished she wasn’t. It hurt to acknowledge it.

She spent less and less time in the room herself as she worked through it all, thus she found herself in the library more—one of the only places where Enid’s absence wasn’t glaring since she didn’t spend much time there anyway. Unfortunately (or fortunately, from the perspective of her new, undeniable need to just have another person around, which, she would forever reiterate, was pathetic and beneath her and happening anyway), she often found Yoko there.

At first she’d just notice her as she passed through the common room to go to the quiet area. Yoko would wave. Wednesday would acknowledge the uncomfortable fact that she’s lost enough of her mysterious and unapproachable reputation to not send people scurrying for cover with her eye contact, and nod back. That was it.

Then one day she was sitting at a table in the silent part of the library, the press of white noise and flipping pages almost lulling her into an early afternoon nap when her phone buzzed with a text message. 

From Yoko.

1:13 PM: Where are you?

1:13 PM: Library.

1:14 PM: I know. You live there now. Where?

Should she be embarrassed or threatened that Yoko was keeping close enough tabs on her to know where she spent most of her time? 

1:14 PM: Second floor. Table in the corner.

1:14 PM: Which corner?

1:14 PM: There’s only four. I suggest a process of elimination.

1:15 PM: Bitch.

Definitely threatened.

Wednesday stared at her phone like she was watching the grudge girl from The Ring crawl out through the screen. She wasn’t offended so much as hopelessly confused. The only conclusion she could come to was that Yoko hated her now and was either coming to strangle her or using Wednesday’s location information to actively avoid going near her ever again. Only time would tell. And time told fast.

Within a minute, the soft click of the doors opening announced her arrival. Wednesday wondered how Yoko could see anything with sunglasses so black, but darkness must’ve called to darkness because she spotted Wednesday nearly right away and made her way over. 

And Yoko just sat across from Wednesday. She pulled out a textbook, a notebook, and a couple pens, and didn’t say a word. She was just… there.

And… it was nice.

“Yoko called me a bitch today,” she told Enid later that night. It was a rare evening when Enid was present for more than a few moments at a time and Wednesday hadn’t even known. She’d texted Wednesday around five asking where she was and if she wanted instant ramen for supper, and Wednesday hadn’t really been hungry but she hustled back anyway.

They often had conversations like this, late in the night or early in the morning, skipping the usual hello ’s in favor of jumping right into whatever topic needed to be discussed with the limited amount of time they had. It was probably the type of relationship most people had with their roommate anyway, but Enid used to be there almost all the time and Wednesday hadn’t realized what a luxury it had been to be able to waste seconds talking about stupid little not-things.

“In a good way or a bad way?” Enid was sitting on her bed, facing the wall. She’d turned around automatically to give Wednesday some privacy when she saw her getting out her pyjamas.

Wednesday pulled on a pair of track pants. “There’s a good way?”

“You’re hopeless. It was in a good way, don’t worry.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” Enid said, which made sense because Enid just did a lot of things. Wednesday didn’t. Wednesday needed reasons, and Enid must’ve known this because, after a moment, she asked, “What was the context?”

Wednesday underwent a short mental debate, which, in the end, amounted to an eloquent fuck it as she swiped her phone off her desk and climbed onto Enid’s bed. Enid actually jumped at the sudden creak of her bed frame, hair swinging around as she looked over her shoulder. Wednesday pretended not to notice her surprise as she settled down beside her. She’d never gotten on her bed with her before without being explicitly invited, but it didn’t occur to her that Enid, a self-proclaimed “stage five clinger” would mind. 

Maybe she did. Maybe Wednesday was overstepping. Why was her heart beating so fast?

Wednesday acted like she was normal (a performance that was worthy of several Oscars considering she was an Addams and being notably abnormal was the one trait that tied her entire bloodline together) and opened up Yoko’s text window. Enid leaned in to look at it, their shoulder’s brushing. A moment of silence as she read. Then a giggle. 

“I love that you and Yoko are friends now. It’s like my two worlds are merging into one.”

Wednesday would’ve asked her what part of being called a derogatory curse word screamed ‘friendship’ to her, but the knife from the party was back, twisting into Wednesday’s chest with a little more vigor. Warmth bloomed, blood and sunlight, and some invisible force pulled Wednesday to the right. Whether it was gravity or instinct, she didn’t know, but the outside of Enid’s arm pressed into her’s. Just a little. Just enough.

Wednesday was one of Enid’s two worlds. Enid’s friends were the other. More importantly, Ajax was neither.

“I didn’t know we were friends,” Wednesday said.

“Yoko is like that. Kinda just shows up one day and acts like she’s known you forever.”

Wednesday might agree if she even cared about the conversation anymore. As it was, they were both sitting cross-legged on Enid’s bed, facing the wall like weirdos, pretending there was still something on her phone to look at even after the screen dimmed and cut to black. 

Enid said, “I wore your sweater after, you know.” As if there was any questioning what sweater she was referring to, she used the hand that had been resting near Wednesday’s knee to lazily pinch the bottom of her sleeve and give it a little tug. “You were right. It’s warm.”

“It is.”

“It smelled like… here. Which was nice, because I was missing it a lot.”

“I’m glad it ended up with you, then.”

Enid took a breath like she was about to say something, but no words followed. It occurred to Wednesday that she’d never actually asked how Enid’s summer went. They’d talked almost every day during it anyway so she hadn’t felt like she needed to. Plus, they were a week into December at this point—there was snow on the ground and frost around the edges of their window, and it felt stupid to ask about summer when Christmas lights were twinkling in the glass. 

But out of all the things Wednesday became around Enid Sinclair, smart was decidedly not one of them. So she asked anyway.

“How was your summer?”

Enid didn’t answer. The breath she’d apparently chosen to hold instead of speak with left in a soft sigh, and then, without warning, she tipped over into Wednesday. 

It’d been a while since she did that. Wednesday almost forgot what to do, but muscle memory kicked in and she pressed back before Enid could topple them both off the foot of the bed. And like a puzzle piece tucking itself comfortably into place, Enid let her head drop onto Wednesday’s shoulder.

Neither of them said anything. Wednesday’s phone screen stayed dark. Enid’s breathing slowed until it was barely audible, but somehow Wednesday knew she wasn’t asleep. She stayed anyway, until her back hurt from sitting up and her arm was dead from supporting the weight of the girl next to her and her eyes started blinking slower, chin dipping down to her chest. She nodded off.

Then jolted awake from a sudden shift in gravity, eyes snapping open to find herself falling into the wall. She hit her head. Enid laughed for a minute straight.

Wednesday didn’t want her loneliness to be the reason she was jealous. The idea that Ajax was stealing Enid away from her implied that Enid was something to owned and traded, given and taken and she wasn’t. Enid was her own person. It was up to her what she did with her time, and she didn’t owe Wednesday any of it. Being jealous over how Enid chose to spend her own waking moments was possessive and weird and it made her feel gross. She refused to give it power over her any longer.

So she didn’t think about Ajax, and she tried not to think about how much less she saw Enid now than she used to. It would just dampen the time she did have.

She’d take what Enid could give her. And that would have to be enough.

.     .     .

Christmas and New Years came and went much the same as the year before, minus the storm, power outage, bed-sharing, wind-up flashlights, and alcohol, and plus a family of snowmen they build in the quad—seven in total, featuring three children, two parents, one dog, and a very misshapen tarantula that looked more like an accidental lump. They went to the store and got cheap hats for all of them. 

So really it wasn’t like the year before at all. Except that they both stayed.

They kept up the pancake and champurrado tradition, except this time they were both awake when Wednesday was making it and Enid demanded she teach her how. She sat on the counter, watching intently as Wednesday explained what she was doing in every step. Then Enid made pancakes, and Wednesday watched intently as she went through the five stages of grief about the fact that Santa was a marketing campaign invented by Coca-Cola.

Apparently getting each other personalized Christmas ornaments was another tradition they were both determined to upkeep. Enid got Wednesday a little scythe with a Santa hat on the blade, and Wednesday didn’t want to imagine the amount of Amazon searches she’d done to find that oddly specific ornament. Wednesday got her a puppy with a pink scarf because it had not only screamed ‘Enid’ when she saw it, but nearly punched her in the face with how spot-on it was. They went up on the tree alongside the two from the year before.

Enid introduced her to Hallmark Christmas movies, and Wednesday felt the urge to introduce a bullet to her own head. She was certain there’d never been such a lack of originally among a genre of anything else in the entire history of entertainment.

“She’s going to save his bakery.”

“She’s going to save his farm.”

“She’s going to save his restaurant.”

“She’s going save his—oh, no she’s not. Grandma died. Dark.”

Enid cried at that one. Wednesday reasoned that they probably shouldn’t even be trying to save a hospital that has a habit of killing grandmas, but then they saved it anyway and named it after the dead grandma. It was truly inspiring cinema.

“How has a candy shop that refuses to produce anything but candy canes all year round and only sells locally to their town of 150 people survived for five generations?”

“Through love, Wednesday.”

“Is love edible? It better be, because if it’s not they should probably start drawing straws to figure out who they’re going to kill first to feed the rest.”

“Wednesday, be realistic. They’re not going to starve to death, they have a warehouse full of candy canes.”

“Yes, it’s me who needs to be realistic, not the family of fifteen that has dedicated their lives to filling an entire warehouse with candy canes nobody will buy.”

Admittedly, she might’ve gotten a little too into the movies.

Like the year before, Enid pulled her through the rest of the holiday, outwardly kicking and screaming (i.e. being a grouch) but inwardly just letting herself be pulled along like a scorpion on a tinsel-threaded leash. It was nice, after all, to be spending time with Enid again, and even if it was only possible because of a retched holiday based around jolly music, twinkling lights, and sentimental social gatherings, Wednesday wouldn’t complain. 

When New Years came around, they went to the dollar store and got a bunch of new years glasses to put on their snowman family. Wednesday was about to go to the liquor store when Enid told her she didn’t want to have a party this year.

“Why?” Wednesday asked maybe a touch too quickly. She wasn’t eager to drink again anytime soon after her last experience, but all their other traditions had been upholded. She’d do this too in a heartbeat if Enid wanted.

“Well, I was too drunk to remember New Years last year. I wanted to see fireworks but I fell asleep.”

So it was about the fireworks. Well, that was easily fixed.

They left for the Jericho town square around 11:30. It was a cold, windy night, and Wednesday made absolutely certain Enid remembered her own hat because if she had to donate her’s she might actually freeze to death. The entire town must’ve been there judging by the amount of cars parked in the surrounding streets. Wednesday coasted through the area at a snail’s pace, wrinkling her nose at children lagging behind their parents as they crossed the street. 

Enid pointed up a side road. “Go up there.”

“But the fireworks are going off here.”

“Trust me?”

There was truly no need for a question mark after that statement. Enid was, after all, one of the only people Wednesday fully trusted (even her parents were out of the running on that one). So she took the turn. 

Enid directed her down a few more streets, buildings and houses becoming farther and farther apart until they finally pulled down a dirt road. There were no street lights, no houses, the woods on either side of the car two huge oceans of shadows. If not for the headlights, the road would be pitch black too. Suffice to say, it was not the type of place she’d been expecting Enid to lead them to.

She also didn’t expect Enid to immediately open the door and get out when they stopped at the end of the road.

“What are you doing?” Wednesday asked, although it was pretty clear what she was doing was leaving the warmth of the car in favor of sacrificing a couple fingers to frostbite.

“There’s three minutes till midnight.” Slamming off the front door. Immediate opening of the back. “We’re going to miss it all if we don’t hurry.”

Wednesday looked over her shoulder, where Enid was rushing to collect the million blankets she’d thrown in the backseat before they left. “Miss what? I thought you wanted to see the fireworks.”

“They’re explosions of light that shoot a hundred feet up in the sky. You can see them for miles, Wens.”

“But why did you want to come here ?”

“Because—“ she huffed a little as she leaned across the seat to grab a pink blanket that’d fallen to the floor—“you hate crowds,” 

“You’re scared of the dark.”

“Not when I’m with you.”

Wednesday blinked. Enid froze. The wind whistled outside the door. 

Enid glanced at the clock and cleared her throat. “Two minutes,” she said, pushing herself up with some struggle. Her pile of blankets was nearly spilling out of her arms. “Come on.”

She slammed the door. Wednesday reached back to grab the pink one she’d abandoned and joined her outside.

Snow crunched under her boots as she made her way to the front of the car, where Enid was spreading a couple blankets across the hood. She gingerly climbed up and crossed her legs while Wednesday tucked her snood into the neck of her jacket and shivered. 

There was only a half moon in the sky, and its glow wasn’t enough to highlight much about the world except for the reflection of itself in the windshield of Wednesday’s car. But she could see Enid, just barely visible under the muted silver of the sky, but visible enough for Wednesday to conclude that she must’ve been made for the moonlight. 

Enid checked the time on her phone, then there were two hollow thumps against the hood of the car. The moonlight inviting her up. “One minute,” Enid warned.

So Wednesday climbed up beside her, and even covered in a blanket, the metal was cold as ice. Wednesday distantly thought this was entirely unnecessary. They could have stayed in the car and not been one step closer to becoming frozen remains at the end of a sketchy dirt road, but she didn’t say this. She just shivered again and Enid giggled, scooting closer until their legs were pressing together. 

“Here,” she said, wrapping a blanket around both of them. 

Wednesday snatched the end that fell over her shoulder and tugged it tight in a feeble effort to retain the single degree of warmth that remained in her body, unintentionally tugging Enid closer with it. There was virtually no space between them now, but Wednesday still wanted less. She had the insane urge to climb inside Enid’s jacket to take advantage of the inhuman amount of body heat she produced. Enid piled the rest of the blankets on their laps and added another one around their shoulders, and Wednesday supposed that would have to do.

The fireworks were bright. Much too bright for Wednesday’s eyes in general, but definitely too bright for eyes that had been adjusted to the pitch dark. So that was probably why she looked at Enid instead (definitely not because she just tended to look there whenever there was something else she didn’t want to look at, or something she did want to look at but looking at Enid was better). The pinks and blues and golds scattering across her cheeks were softer and much easier to tolerate, but in a flash of glittering red, Enid’s eyes were on hers too. Wednesday’s heart jumped like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t, like looking at Enid was suddenly a crime (thankfully it wasn’t, or she would be rotting in prison at this point). Her gaze snapped to the sky again, and even as a headache built behind her eyes from all the flashing, she refused to look away.

The show went on for about five minutes, which seemed like an excessive amount of time to spoil something as endlessly dark and lovely as the night sky with sparkling flashes of color. But somewhere in the middle of it Enid’s hand moved—slow, millimeter by millimeter, fingertips trailing down Wednesday’s wrist. 

For the first time, Enid’s touch was hesitant. Featherlight. Maddening.

Icy air stung the inside of Wednesday’s nose when she inhaled, cheeks tingling from the cold, heart in her throat, pulse hammering in her ears. Warm fingers inched their way down Wednesday’s palm. Stopping. Starting again. Wednesday was frozen, hyper-aware of the body pressing into her’s, knowing it could feel every twitch of muscle and catch of breath. 

Finally, Enid’s fingers found the spaces between her own. They nudged and wiggled until they made their way through, lacing together beneath the blankets, mercifully out of sight. A last burst of color exploded above, fizzled out, and they were left in dark, frosty silence. Wednesday didn’t dare breathe, terrified of what would happen if she broke it.

For a few moments, nothing changed—cool wind, soft blankets, dark forest, pounding heart beats. The pressure against Wednesday’s side was steady and unmoving. Enid squeezed her hand. 

Ebony night and fireworks. Sparks bouncing around between their palms.

Eyes locked on the night sky, Wednesday squeezed back and forgot she was cold.

.     .     .

Enid and Ajax broke up a week after classes started again.

As far as Wednesday could tell, it wasn’t for any deplorable reason—no big fight, or infidelity, or one of them standing the other up on a date (again). It was nothing bad, but, in Wednesday’s defence, she didn’t know this when she entered the room one night after fencing practice to find Enid sitting on her bed crying. All she knew was that no amount of Enid’s pleading could spare Ajax this time.

“Where is he?”

Enid sniffled, staring down at her lap. “We aren’t going through this again, Wednesday. I’m not telling you where he is.”

Wednesday anticipated she would say that. It didn't matter. 

“I will find him.”

She dropped her fencing bag on the floor, turned on her heel, and went straight back out the door.

Or at least that was her plan . But Enid was faster than she anticipated (probably due to her being a collegiate runner and all), and her whole strategy to already be gone before Enid had a chance to protest was thoroughly thwarted by a squeak of alarm, the creak of a bed frame, and hurried footsteps before a hand grabbed her wrist just as she was closing the door. And she couldn’t exactly continue closing that door now with Enid’s entire forearm in the way.

“Enid, let go.”

“No.” Enid shook her head. Sniffled. Again. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand that he made you cry again. I was lenient last time against my better judgment, and I will not be making that same mistake again. Now—” she lifted her eyes to Enid’s, and they were so filled with tears she knew her own face was just a blur of features from her point of view— “let go.”

Once again, Enid shook her head. She was trying to draw herself taller, press her lips together to hide their shaking, become something a little solid and stronger. But when she blinked, tears spilled over and rolled down her cheeks. The urge to comfort and the urge to maim the reason Enid needed comfort warred so powerfully in Wednesday’s body that she found herself momentarily frozen, battling between doing what she knew how to do and doing what she should. What Enid would do.

But in the end, it wasn’t a battle at all.

Wednesday let go of the doorknob and tugged Enid into her arms.

It was a little embarrassing how easy Enid’s fingers fell from her wrist to wrap around her middle, proving Wednesday’s demand for her to let go was complete and utter bullshit since she could’ve twisted out of her grip at any time if she really wanted. But Enid came first—over revenge, over dignity, over rage, over muscle aches from holding her up and headache-inducing bursts of light in the night sky. The rest of Wednesday’s motivations, no matter how violent or brutal or insatiable, crumbled to dust under the teary gaze of moonlight. And Wednesday had no choice but to stay.

It was still a little unnatural—hugging Enid. Wednesday didn’t know how long it should last, how tight she should squeeze, if she should say something or just hold her quietly. She didn’t need to worry though, because Enid was a good teacher and Wednesday had a particular knack for paying attention to her. She held on for as long as Enid did, just as tight as Enid did, and didn’t say a word as she buried her face into her shoulder and cried a little harder. Wednesday felt a little bit bad that, for some reason, every time Enid cried about Ajax it became a spectacle for the entire hallway to witness, but Enid was clinging to her and her breaths were getting less shaky and Wednesday could only vow to deal with the couple of students who passed by and looked for a millisecond too long at a later date.

Because Enid came first. Always.

Eventually Enid retracted herself, which was helpful since Wednesday would’ve ended up standing out in the hall hugging her until her muscles seized up or she starved to death or something as long as Enid gave no indication she wanted it to stop. Enid pulled her into the room and closed the door softly behind her. Her eyes were still a little wet but her cheeks were dry from being pressed against Wednesday’s sweater. Her nose was red.

“Would you…” Wednesday trailed off and pressed her lips together. She wasn’t good at any of this. She started over. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

What she really meant was what did that bastard do and would it make sense for me to do the same thing to him or should I just get my knife but Enid was a little too delicate for that right now. Revenge plots would have to wait at least until the shakiness left her voice.

But Enid knew her too well, and huffed a watery chuckle like she’d heard all the words Wednesday didn’t say anyway. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” she assured, ambling back to her bed and dropping down right where the wrinkles in the sheets already were from the first time. “I broke up with him.”

“I thought you liked him.”

“I did. That’s what made it so hard.”

Wednesday was hopelessly lost, but that wasn’t a surprise. Far be it for her to understand the depths and intricacies of normal human emotion, even if she did feel it herself on occasion. She didn’t know what to do, so she just walked over and sat beside Enid on the bed, hoping proximity would somehow help.

“Then why did you do it?”

Enid pressed her lips together and blinked down at her lap. For a long time she said nothing, so long that Wednesday thought she might not answer. Wednesday would accept it if she didn’t. Enid didn’t owe her anything. But, after a while, her eyes flicked up to Wednesday’s anyway and stayed there, and Wednesday wished she could read her mind. 

Because it looked like there was a lot Enid wanted to say, but when she took a soft breath in, all that came out after was, “I just felt like I had to.”

It wasn’t really an answer, but Enid was sad right now and still kind of seemed like she could burst into tears with a misplaced breath, and Wednesday wasn’t emotionally intelligent enough to know how far she could push before Enid toppled over the edge. Again. 

“Do you want to get slurpees?” she asked awkwardly.

Enid snorted, and Wednesday didn’t let logical thought get in the way as she laced their fingers together and squeezed gently. 

Enid squeezed back.

Wednesday thought of fireworks.

Chapter Text

Enid had a boyfriend in ninth grade. He was a lanky dude, objectively cute for a fourteen year old guy from the perspective of a fourteen year old girl. His name was Brandon. Brandon had brown hair and rode a skateboard and Enid thought that was pretty cool, and thought it was even cooler when he pulled her aside on a school field trip to a museum and asked if he could kiss her. It wasn’t a great kiss. There was a moment too long between her yes and the actual kissing part, in which she assumed he wanted her to move in first, and then they both moved in at the same time, causing a little bit of clashing teeth and bumping noses that they never spoke of after. They also didn’t know what to do with their hands so Brandon had kept his in his pockets and Enid to this day didn’t know what she'd done with her own, only that she hadn’t touched him.

It was awkward and they didn’t really look each other in the eyes again until a few days after, but he was polite and as nervous as she was, and, all things considered, it was a good first kiss. He was also a good first boyfriend up until that summer when his family packed up and moved to Ohio and Enid never saw him again. 

It had been her first heartbreak, and it was also when Enid learned that her heart broke easier and messier than most—more like a rip instead of a clean crack down the middle, blood spilling and tendons snapping, and frayed pieces were harder to fit back together than two perfect halves. Connor found her crying in her room when he came back from hanging out with his friends just before curfew, and in true brotherly fashion, threw a rugby ball at her head. But he came back later to sneak her out the back door after their parents went to bed, then they walked to the nearest 7-Eleven, where they got slurpees and he made fun of Brandon's weird side bang until she laughed. 

Enid was glad that, even thousands of miles away from home, she still had somebody to drink slurpees with after a breakup. Wednesday’s insults were arguably more creative than her brother’s though.

“The beanie thing was odd. Yoko said he probably wears it constantly to hide his greasy hair, but I prefer to consider the possibility that he has no hair.”

Enid sat in the passenger seat of Wednesday’s car, trying really hard not to laugh. Up until an hour prior, she had been dating that odd beanie guy, after all. It felt wrong to participate in this line of conversation, especially since he hadn’t even done anything wrong.

“You can tell there’s something under the hat besides his head,” Enid defended. 

“That’s what Yoko said.”

“And what did you say?”

“Abnormally large cranium.”

Game over. Enid spit her latest sip of slurpee back into her cup before she could spew it all over the dash of Wednesday’s car.

Wednesday took a sip of her own slurpee before continuing, voice flat and factual even as Enid was doubled over, cackling, half a foot to her right. “It caused him to be the target of constant ridicule and bullying in his younger years, creating deep emotional scars that will never fade and are the crux of his fall into villainy.”

Enid was going to die. Wednesday Addams had invented a Dr. Doofenshmirtz-level villain origin story for a guy whose only act of villainy thus far was wearing a beanie more than most people wore a beanie. 

The sad fact was that nobody would ever believe Enid if she told them that Michael Myers’ slightly more talkative cousin was actually one of the funniest people she knew, least of all Wednesday herself. But Enid laughed so hard her stomach hurt, and she knew, deep in her heart (and also right there on the surface), that this girl was going to be the death of her. 

Finally Enid sat up and tipped her head back into the seat as she tried to control herself. She breathed out a last few giggles and looked down at the pink ice in her cup. For a moment or two, there was only the quiet humming of the car’s electric engine. The scraping of a straw against the side of Wednesday’s cup as she stirred her drink, then took a sip.

Enid whispered, “My theory was that he had a receding hairline.”

Wednesday snorted and spit out her slurpee, and Enid was gone again.

Not for the first time, Enid started to wonder what would happen if she told Wednesday how she felt, but, as usual, she never got very far. It was kind of like that feeling when you’re standing on the edge of a cliff and get the sudden urge to jump—the heart skipping, breath catching kind of shock that startles you into taking a hasty step back just in case you forget that finding out what it would feel like to fall still meant actually falling.

The same would happen when she was with Wednesday. They’d just be doing something notably uninteresting and Enid would look at her, open her mouth to speak, and the words I think I’m in love with you would pop unwillingly into her mind. It was so casual and so almost out that her heart would jump as she shoved it into some dark dusty drawer in her mind and slammed it as fast as she could. It was something a uncontrollable and terrifying and she ran from it, partially because of what it meant for her and Wednesday, but mostly because of what it meant for herself.

So it’d been an experiment, that night that was frosty breaths and blankets and the reflection of fireworks in midnight eyes. Enid held Wednesday’s hand that night. Just to see.

And she almost had a heart attack.

(Luckily she didn’t. Dying from cardiac arrest on the hood of Wednesday’s car would’ve been kind of a sucky way to ring in the New Year.)

It was kind of ridiculous since holding hands was, like, their oldest, tried-est and truest form of contact ever since that first time Enid used it to deter her from nail-gunning any of Ajax’s vital organs. She’d noticed then that Wednesday hadn’t pulled away or put a nail through one of Enid’s organs, and the skin hadn’t melted off her bones from the contact. It had been a huge relief to find that there was a form of touch Wednesday would tolerate, and, as a result, Enid might have overused it at every opportunity after. 

But New Years had been different. It’d been something careful and hesitant, drawn out for an agonizing minute, and even hidden under a mountain of blankets it’d felt oddly forbidden. For the first time in four months, there was only night and stars and Wednesday—absolutely nothing to distract Enid from the fact that holding her friend’s hand meant something very different for her than it did the year before.

She’d loved Brandon. She might’ve even loved Ajax. But holding Ajax’s hand didn’t feel like holding Wednesday’s. 

Nothing felt like that.

And as eager as Enid was to beat her feelings away with an Ajax-shaped stick, even she wasn’t selfish enough to continue dating someone whose best quality in her eyes was being emotionally comfortable. 

Ajax took the breakup hard, which just made Enid feel worse. Wednesday had done exactly what Enid expected her to do—attempt to exit the room and go all bloodhound on his ass and then, once she found him, all cage fighter on his ass (probably. Even at this point in their friendship Enid still wasn’t exactly sure what activities were involved in an Addams revenge plot, but she did feel pretty confident in maintaining the stance that it was nothing good or particularly legal). Enid wouldn’t let her do it, because she had liked Ajax. It wasn’t his fault.

“Then why did you break up with him?”

You, Enid had wanted to shake her by the shoulders and scream. You, you beautiful, emotionally constipated idiot.

“I just felt like I had to.”

Not a lie. Not the truth. It seemed to be how she was living her life these days.

She debated, sometimes, if she should bother to to stuff her feelings down anymore or just let them out, consequences be damned, but it was more complicated than that. She was still working through it herself, and acknowledging that she felt something for Wednesday opened up more metaphorical cans of worms than just the run of the mill ‘I’m in love with my best friend’ one. That one was easy compared to the ‘I’m definitely not straight’ can.

“I think I’m bi.”

Yoko, who was sitting on the running track, leaning out over a stretched leg and grabbing the toes of her sneakered foot said, “Kay.”

And Enid was… affronted? “That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you already know or something?”

“A little.”

“How?”

She stretched out the other foot. Leaned. Grabbed her toes. “My gaydar is never wrong.”

Enid stared blankly across the track. It’d taken her a whole four months after realizing she was in love with a girl to figure out what that meant for her sexuality, and she’d been pinging on Yoko’s gaydar since day one. Fantastic. 

She asked quietly, “Why do I kind of hate myself for it?”

Yoko looked up. 

“I'm not homophobic,” Enid blurted, and she only realized after it was out that it was totally something an actual homophobic person would say. Cue the word vomit. “I’ve been to parades and drag clubs and I’ve voted for the right people but—God, now that it’s me it’s… it’s different. I feel like it’s wrong. Does that make me a horrible person? It does, doesn’t it?”

“I—“

“Fuck, you’re right. Horrible person. I’m just gonna shut up and never talk again and—“

“Don’t spiral,” Yoko said, and it was kind of like telling a person that had already slipped to be careful. 

Enid pressed her lips together and looked stubbornly down at her untied sneakers, and Yoko made some gentle shushing noise like she was Caesar Milan and Enid was a particularly anxious shelter dog and knelt in front of her to start tying her left shoe. 

“It’s called internalized homophobia,” she said. “It comes with the territory when you grew up the way you did, but doesn’t make you a horrible person. It just means you need to be as accepting toward yourself as you are of everyone else. Okay?”

Well, that was a relief. What wasn’t a relief was what Yoko said next.

“Have you told Wednesday?”

And that really was the next logical step in all this, wasn’t it? How would she ever figure out what to do about her feelings for Wednesday if she didn’t acknowledge to her that those feelings were possible? 

Enid expected Wednesday to be at least a little more shocked than Yoko. She avoided human interaction and pop culture like the plague, she probably didn’t even know the term ‘gaydar’ let alone have one.

“Wednesday, I’m bi.”

“I figured.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Wednesday hadn’t even stopped typing. “Some people find it necessary to display their sexuality on their bodies for the purpose of social connection. As such, I’ve never felt the need to partake.” 

A ding of her typewriter. She took out the paper. Enid stood in the middle of the room, raising her eyebrows at the back of her neatly braided head, impatiently waiting for her to clear that the fuck up. 

Finally, Wednesday added, “Your hat.”

“What about it?”

“It’s pink, purple, and blue.”

“It’s…” Enid furrowed her eyebrows and, finding the wool beanie thrown haphazardly on her nightstand, stared, absolutely gobsmacked at the garment that she’d crocheted herself two years prior.

Are.

You.

Fucking.

Joking.

Even her subconscious knew before she did? For fuck’s sake.

“I just thought those colors looked nice together!”

“That’s a brave opinion.”

“And—I mean—Jesus, you seriously—?” Enid stopped, closed her eyes, and took a steadying breath. Nobody was treating this news as the earth shattering, mind numbing, absolutely world rocking revelation that it was, and it was making her feel crazy. “If you thought I was bi all this time, why didn’t you ask me about it?”

“It was none of my business,” Wednesday said. She still hadn’t looked at Enid, and she was still typing. “And even if it was, I wouldn’t have cared.”

Right. Because Enid was the only one who cared. Wednesday had made that abundantly clear in the past.

It was convenient that she still had her coat and shoes on from entering just a couple minutes ago, because she didn’t have to fuss with it when she went right back out the door.

Upon reflection during her angry (super dignified and not stupid-looking at all) power walk to the quad, Enid came to the conclusion that her dramatic exit might have been a bit overkill (and by a bit, she meant completely unnecessarily and borderline insane). Wednesday clearly didn’t mean she wouldn’t have cared about Enid, she just meant that her sexuality didn’t change the way she saw her, which was actually a really sweet message under all the monotone. Enid couldn’t expect Wednesday to magically know how she was feeling. It wasn’t her fault she was raised to regard sexual identities with the same level of casualness as a mid morning weather report and Enid was raised not to see them as anything worth regarding. She couldn’t expect her to understand the atomic bomb impact this was having on her entire sense of self. 

She found a bench that didn’t have snow on it and dropped ungracefully down onto it. Predictably, about five minutes later, crunching footsteps of platform boots stopped in front of Enid’s bench. 

“You forgot your hat.”

Because Wednesday didn’t know why Enid was so angry, and she definitely didn’t know why she’d stormed out of their room, but God damn it if the fucking hat police wouldn’t track her to the ends of the earth if she went outside with a bare head when there was even a single snowflake remaining on the ground.

Enid looked up, and snorted. Wednesday was wearing Enid’s hat, and it was funny how she looked so much better in pink, purple, and blue than Enid ever could. 

“Thought you were allergic to color,” Enid said. 

Wednesday dropped her black beanie onto Enid’s lap before sitting down next to her, hands sliding into her jacket pockets. “I’m partaking.”

“In?”

“Displaying my sexuality for the sake of social connection.”

It took Enid a moment to understand. She’d thought Wednesday donning color was a self-sacrificing gesture to cheer her up, but that wasn’t so. 

Wednesday’s black hat was still in her lap and Wednesday was wearing Enid’s. She was wearing Enid’s hat. 

Oh.

“You’re… bi?”

“Gender has never had any sway in my decision to hate someone. As far as I can tell, it’s no different the other way around.”

Oh.

And to think, all this time Enid just assumed Wednesday was straight because she’d dated one guy. She really was a Sinclair.

Enid didn’t realize until Wednesday’s voice filtered through the cold February air again that she’d forgotten to speak. “I thought it might help you feel more comfortable to know that…”

What? That Wednesday was bi too?

Enid almost laughed, not because anything was funny, but because Wednesday was legitimately trying her best, unknowing that the ‘comfort’ she was attempting to provide was actually causing Enid to spiral further. She’d made her peace with having to get over Wednesday. The fact that she would never return Enid’s feelings was oddly comforting—it meant that the only thing she had to do about them was wait for them to go away. But now…

There was a difference between loving someone unattainable and loving someone who, in some alternate universe or dimension, actually had the capacity to love her back. 

Both options were equally as damning, but one was far more petrifying than the other.

Her voice was a frosty whisper. “I don’t know what to do.”

Finally. Something true.

Wednesday didn’t seem like she knew what to do either. Enid wasn’t watching, but she could see eyes on her from the corner of her own, Wednesday pressing her lips together. Looking away again. The frosty outline of her breath as she let out a helpless sigh.

Then Wednesday did something weird. For the first time ever, she purposely leaned into Enid . It wasn't sleepy Wednesday tipping to the side and finding something warm and comfy, and it wasn’t drunk Wednesday using her for balance—it was just regular, adorably awkward, emotionally confused Wednesday leaning into Enid for no reason other than because she’d learned that Enid liked that sort of thing. Taking the weight of someone proved to Enid’s panicked mind that she was still attached to the earth through gravity and not spinning uncontrollably through space. It probably did the opposite for Wednesday, but she stayed anyway.

Wednesday hesitantly rested her head on Enid’s shoulder. “I realize now that this was a coming out.” 

Enid snorted. Wednesday went on. 

“Thank you for telling me.” Her voice was uncharacteristically gentle, soft and quiet, freshly fallen snow and a black wool hat. “I’m proud of you and admire the courage I’m sure it’s taken to come to this realization. I… accept and support you no matter what.”

Okay, so Wednesday had obviously googled ‘how to respond to a friend coming out’ in the minutes after Enid stormed out of the room. And Enid was a huge advocate for the internet knowing absolutely everything, but she didn’t know how much she’d needed to hear those words. But there they were, threading through the winter air, creaking and crackling into Enid’s chest. Her throat. Stinging her eyes.

And Wednesday, who hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction that entire time, of course chose that amazing moment to sit back up and look at her. It was probably because Enid had been silent for longer than five seconds and Wednesday had to check to make sure she wasn’t dead, but from the way she froze and her eyes widened to the closest expression of horror Enid assumed she was physically capable of making, she looked like she’d discovered something far more devastating.

“You’re crying,” she stated. There was a note of fear in her voice, the type of tight, barely-keeping-it-together tone of someone who’d cut the wrong wire trying to dismantle a bomb and the timer suddenly ticked down to zero. “I’m sorry.”

Did Wednesday even know what she was apologizing for? Enid didn’t. She hadn’t really done much wrong besides assuming Enid’s sexual identity and being right, and that was barely a thing anyway since Enid had done the same to her and gotten it wrong. 

Wednesday went on, sounding more and more lost with each syllable. “Do you… slurpee? Ice cream?” 

Apology. Slurpee. Ice cream. Was Wednesday just offering Enid all the things that had made her feel better in the past? 

If that were true, then there was only one other option.

“A hug?”

And Enid would take that one.

.     .     .

It took a while for Enid to come to terms with… herself. She hated the voice in the back of her head (that sounded uncannily ester-like) that told her she was wrong about herself. It was just a phase, or she was mistaking feelings of friendship for something that wasn’t possible to feel about who she felt it for. 

It wasn’t exactly the idea of being bi that was so hard to accept for her, but instead the fact that she wasn’t straight. Not being straight wasn’t something she thought was ever in the cards for her life, let alone that she’d have to deal with it while the reason for her unexpected sexual awakening was living on the other side of her room. It was kind of a lot. Either way, she had a feeling it didn’t matter much what part of the rainbow flag she’d ended up landing on, the pit in her stomach every time she remembered she was simply on it would’ve been just as big and empty, and just as present every minute of every day.

Yoko assured her she wasn’t a secret homophobe for feeling this way when Enid brought it up. 

“Give yourself some time. It’s going to take a while to let go of biases that have been taught to you over your lifetime.”

The second time Enid brought it up, Yoko patiently reminded her that they already talked about this. The third time, Yoko made a good point.

“Enid, I’m gay. Divina is gay. Your roommate is also partially gay. If you were homophobic, I don’t think you would’ve unintentionally surrounded yourself with queers.”

This was true. This was very true.

The fourth time Enid brought it up, Yoko just sighed. She led Enid from the class they’d just been in and back to Enid’s own room, where she demanded her laptop, set up some pillows by the wall, and patted the space next to her on Enid’s bed.

Enid settled in a little awkwardly. It wasn’t long ago that she wouldn‘t have hesitated to snuggle into Yoko’s side, her chin on her shoulder as she watched her find whatever show she’d picked out for them. But she didn’t now. Knowing that Yoko knew that she was… what she was, it felt like overstepping a boundary. Enid hated it. She knew it wasn’t true. Nonetheless, she couldn’t let it go.

She made sure there was half an inch between their shoulders and asked, “What are we watching?”

But Yoko leaned into her—no hesitation, all her weight, head on her shoulder as she reached out and pressed play. “Gay cartoons.”

“Why?”

“They didn’t exist when we needed them so now we have to watch them as adults. Kinda tells the little kid inside of you that it’s okay.”

They started watching one about a blonde girl with a magic sword and Wednesday walked in right in the middle of the first episode. The sight of her was always a little jarring to Enid now, not in the sense that Wednesday herself was any more scary that she used to be, but in the sense that the whole self-acceptance journey Enid was currently struggling with was all due to Wednesday to begin with. It felt wrong for Enid to even be existing around her without having told her that she was the catalyst for the whole thing. Just the simple act of having her eyes on her without Wednesday verbally telling her it was okay (which she never did, because what even was that) felt like a violation.

Yoko regarded Wednesday with a solemn nod, which Wednesday returned, equally as solemn, and how they hadn’t become friends until recent months Enid would forever wonder. 

“Question,” Yoko said, pausing the show, “as a child, did you ever have any preconceived notions about sexuality and gender norms that you still carry into adulthood and hinder your growth as a person?”

“I have a cousin that identifies as a curtain of hair rather than a human being. Gender is arbitrary for an Addams.”

Yoko and Enid both let out little hums of acknowledgment, like Wednesday had just delivered a particularly boring weather report. At least one sentient curtain of hair was kind of on par for what Enid would picture at an Addam’s family reunion.

“We’re watching gay cartoons,” Yoko informed her. “Wanna join?”

Wednesday’s eyes shifted from Yoko to the laptop. Laptop to Enid. Enid back to Yoko. “Is it the one with the magic sword?”

And the heteronormative rock Enid had been living under must’ve been the size of Russia if Wednesday Addams knew more about gay cartoons than she did. 

This, at least, managed to get a note of surprise out of Yoko too. “Um… yeah. It is, actually.”

“I’ll pass. Puglsey already told me how it ended.

Then Wednesday started her writing hour and Yoko turned up the volume to drown out the sound of clacking typewriter keys. 

Enid watched the last episode of She-Ra at two in the morning in their dark room while Wednesday (and everyone else who had a sleep schedule that wasn’t dependent on finishing an animated Netflix series that was single-handedly healing her inner homophobic child) slept soundly. The music swelled, the two main characters kissed, Enid blinked a burning sensation out of her eyes and felt a lot of things. There was an odd kind of excitement in her heart that she couldn’t explain, and then, more importantly, the overwhelming stillness that settled into her bones and brain—no bouncing leg, no tensed muscles, no irrational thoughts running amuck through her synapses. Just the comforting buzz of nothing at all and the feeling, for the first time since September, that she was okay.

It was okay. Even if it was just for a moment.

So Yoko got some points there. The gay cartoon had struck a chord inside her that no amount of adult-directed reassurance about her sexuality could touch. Of course, this didn’t mean Enid was just magically able to 100% accept herself quite yet, but it was a definite start. 

She was still weird around Wednesday. She chased away every romantic thought she had about her with mental pitchforks and torches and went very quiet and very still everytime her roommate passed within a couple feet of her, lest she broadcast her true feelings through some disturbance in the air. She hated this version of herself. It simply wasn’t sustainable. For one, her and Wednesday literally shared a living space, so the amount of time Enid spent tensing her muscles was nearing at least one full body workout per day. For two, she had a feeling Wednesday was getting worried her presence might be causing Enid to have sporadic strokes. 

There was also a notable decrease in the amount of contact between her and Wednesday from Enid’s end. Wednesday still tried sometimes—a hesitant arm squeeze here and the odd intentional brushing of their shoulders as they walked there. Enid knew she sensed the change in her, but she didn’t say anything. She just let her go through whatever she was going through, and kept trying. 

Then Valentine’s Day rolled around.

The year before, Enid had gotten Wednesday a box of dark chocolates in the shape of hearts, not really knowing if Wednesday liked dark chocolate but being pleasantly surprised when she proceeded to use them as a study snack and even offered some to Enid at seemingly random times. Enid had been touched until she realized the timing of Wednesday’s chocolate offers coincided suspiciously with every time she flipped a page in her textbook, and she subsequently realized Wednesday was essentially Pavlov-ing her into being an effective student and it had worked.

But this year Enid didn’t get her anything. Ever since that frosty day on the bench about a month prior she’d developed an irrational fear that Wednesday would think any instance of thoughtfulness was Enid nonconsensually coming onto her. It was as ridiculous as it sounded since Wednesday had thought Enid was bi all this time anyway, and to change anything about their relationship only on the basis that Enid was now in the loop reached uncharted levels of dumbassery.

Enid knew all of this. She still didn’t get Wednesday anything for Valentine’s Day.

But she came back from running practice late in the night to find a vanilla cupcake with pink frosting and little heart sprinkles on her nightstand. Alongside it was a note—a piece of typewriter paper ripped in half, letters crisply typed in black ink, looking more like a ransom note than a heartfelt message.

Please eat this by the time I get back. It’s insulting to my eyes. 

Happy Valentine’s Day, Enid.

- WA

And Enid realized (like, really realized) how stupid she was. If a girl who had the social intelligence of Tarzan when he was still living with the apes could figure out that acts of affection between friends didn’t have to mean anything beyond ‘you’re important to me and I value our relationship,’ Enid could suck up her nervousness and be a normal fucking person about it. 

So she put in a monumental effort to stop being on edge every time Wednesday was around, worrying about looking her in the eyes for too long, or going against Wednesday’s wishes and saving her half of that pretty pink cupcake anyway. Just because Enid was bi, it didn’t mean her relationship with Wednesday had to be any different. 

It was a thought that was somehow both comforting and immensely… disappointing. 

She’d spent all this time grappling with her sexual awakening, but only now was she comfortable enough with herself to deal with what had started the whole business to begin with.

It was no secret at this point. 

Enid had a massive crush on a pretty girl with dimples. Sue her.

She spent her days pent up with emotions she refused to feel and her nights tossing and turning, blaming the soft, barely audible breathing of the girl in the bed across the room for her sleeplessness. Sometimes everything—the temperature of the room, the clothes on her skin, the cycling of thoughts over and over in her mind—would start to feel like too much and she’d angrily kick the blankets off herself. Wednesday would stir, and Enid would lie, frozen for a minute, irrationally terrified that the girl who wouldn’t recognize her own feelings if they came alive and punched her in the face had deduced everything she was keeping in through that kick alone. 

Enid had to tell someone about this or she would explode (and Wednesday already hated color, so an Enid-sized splatter of red on the wall probably wasn’t part of her dorm room decor vision board and would not gain Enid any favors. Then again, it was blood so… maybe that might be the thing to get Wednesday to fall for her). 

It all came out one day after an hour too many of staring at a sociology textbook and Enid was getting delusional.

“I think I’m in love with Wednesday.”

And Yoko said, “No shit.”

It was both comforting and a little embarrassing that Yoko seemed to know more about Enid than Enid knew about Enid. But Yoko had an impressive resume:

She knew a lot about Wednesday—not necessarily things about her life or past experiences, but how she operated.

She knew a lot about liking girls. And dating them. 

She was proficient in Microsoft Word and Excel.

So Yoko became Enid’s go-to correspondent for all things Wednesday and sapphic, which were two issues that coincided much more nowadays than ever before.

“You should just tell her,” was her brilliant advice the day Enid spilled her guts all over the library table they were sitting at, and Enid was immediately underwhelmed by her choice of gay sensei.

“I can’t just tell her, Yoko. It would be relationship suicide.”

It was true. Throwing something that big at Wednesday would be like softball pitching an apple at a skittish deer on the side of the road. It would sprint away in panic, maybe into oncoming traffic or something. It was best to take things slow to avoid trauma. 

In case it wasn’t obvious, Wednesday was the deer in the analogy, Enid’s feelings were the apple, and Enid was… probably also another skittish deer.

That is to say, if Enid told a person that was about as comfortable with emotions as slugs were with salt that she was in love with her, she risked Wednesday running away (or shriveling up and dying from pure force of will if she was still following the slug analogy). She wouldn’t do it. Wednesday’s friendship was too important, and if Enid had to live bottling up her feelings for the rest of her days, she would happily do it to still have Wednesday around.

“I never meant that you should tell her outright,” Yoko clarified, talking slowly, like she was explaining rocket science to a particularly dull child. “I meant, like, tell her without telling her.”

It was still a gamble. Her relationship with Wednesday was too special to fuck up. They’d come so far, and doing anything to put it even slightly at risk at this point would be a huge tactical error.

No. She wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t. She told Yoko as such and that was that.

That same evening her and Wednesday went out for groceries. They coasted through the aisles leisurely, picking up things here and there and Enid babbling on about everything her parents never let her put in the cart as a child, despite her absolutely needing a tire-sized roll of hubba-bubba gum for her survival. 

Wednesday didn’t say anything, but as they were waiting at the checkout, she casually took a pink roll of gum from the candy shelf and placed it on the sliding track to be rung in.

The next day, Enid found Yoko in the common room in the library, dropped her books on the table, sat down, and said,

“Fine.”

And the wheels of “Operation: Woo Wednesday” slowly started rolling.

.     .     .

It was difficult.

It was so fucking difficult.

Enid thought the hardest part about hinting to Wednesday that she liked her would be working up the nerve to do the hinting. Never did it occur to her that Wednesday Addams was incapable of taking a fucking hint.

In Wednesday’s defence, she’d started off subtle.

“I love that sweater,” Enid told her one day as she was leaving for the library.

Wednesday had stopped as she was about to go out the door, turned, and asked, “Do you want it?”

Then she took the sweater off and gave it to Enid. And left. And Enid was left sitting on her bed, Wednesday’s giant zip-up in her lap, struck with the unbelievable reality that the biggest challenge about this whole endeavor would not be the flirting, but getting Wednesday to understand she was being flirted with .

To be fair, Enid wasn’t really trying yet. She was just testing the waters.

(To be fairer , wearing Wednesday’s sweater was objectively a win in itself, so she couldn’t be too disappointed.)

Yoko told her to be more obvious.

“I love that outfit,” Enid tried again the next morning. “On you,” she added hastily when Wednesday turned to her, just in case Wednesday decided to strip naked right then and there and further solidify the idea in her head that whenever Enid complimented what she was wearing, she was contractually obligated to give away her clothes.

“This is what I wear fencing.”

It was indeed track pants and a t-shirt, which was kind of the point. If she loved that outfit on Wednesday, she’d love any outfit on Wednesday. It was fool-proof.

Enid shrugged. “You look good.”

“I look like I’m going fencing.”

But Enid severely underestimated her fool.

“Going fencing and looking good aren’t mutually exclusive things.”

“But what would be the point of looking good? I’m wearing a mask and—“

“Oh my God, forget it! Have fun fencing.”

Wednesday looked puzzled, but slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder anyway and started to leave. When she got to the door she paused with her hand on the knob, then, after an approximate five second long contemplative stare at the wood, turned back to Enid.

“You look… well-rested.”

Then she left.

Well, Jesus, be still her beating heart. Well-rested. Wednesday was either never taught what a compliment was or truly thought that was a good one, and both options were equally as concerning and on-brand.

Yoko was not impressed with Enid’s efforts.

“Seriously. It’s like you're not even trying.”

“I told her she looked hot and she said it was ‘unseasonably warm outside.’ Yoko, she’s impossible.”

“Well, maybe compliments aren’t her love language. Try something else.”

Were love languages even relevant in the case where it wasn’t even certain the love went both ways? Probably not.

Yet, she didn’t have a better idea.

Figuring out Wednesday’s love language was a decent problem to solve that distracted Enid from her actual problem, which was that she spent most of her time staring at her roommate like a lovesick puppy instead of doing jack shit about it. It also didn’t seem super difficult since there were only five love languages. She’d have to figure it out eventually.

“Enid, do you think I can’t open a door?”

“What?”

“You’ve held open every door for me from the dining hall back to our room and I can think of no other reason than that you believe me to be physically inept.”

A less than promising start. 

At least Enid could definitely scratch acts of service off the list. Well, for herself anyway. Wednesday seemed to be completely fine with it as long as she was the one doing the… servicing?

Exhibit A: offering to kill Ajax when she found Enid crying over him. 

Exhibit B: hand delivering her a hat and coat during a snowstorm, leaving the library solely to get her hot chocolate, breakup slurpees and champurrado and New Year’s parties and fireworks and everything else Wednesday did for her but refused to acknowledge the thoughtfulness of.

But God forbid Enid hold a fucking door for this woman. That was crossing the line.

So while acts of service was very likely one of Wednesday’s love languages (either that or she believed Enid to be physically inept to do everything she’d ever done for her, which was probably likely too), it clearly wasn’t one she longed to be on the receiving end of. This wasn’t very helpful to Enid, so she moved on. 

Gifts. Kinda iffy since a cupcake and a snood were the whole reason for their friendship almost not being a friendship. And while they’d gotten over that and Wednesday now participated in the gift giving when the occasion called for it, Enid still got the vibe that she thought it was an unnecessary ritual, and as a result, Enid skipped that one. She already knew how Wednesday felt about it and didn’t want to waste time. 

Words of affirmation was the scariest one by far. It came a little too close to doing what she was trying with everything in her power to avoid, which was admitting out loud that she liked Wednesday to Wednesday herself in fear of whatever fatal health condition would befall her from being on the receiving end of a strong emotion.

“You know you’re, like, my favorite person, right?”

This seemed safe. It was something Wednesday probably knew on some level anyway because Enid had never really been trying to hide it. Now she was just putting it into words, and putting those words out into the universe where Wednesday could hear them and praying that—

“I thought Miley Cyrus was your favorite person.”

—they wouldn’t make her…

“Are you serious ?” Enid asked incredulously, all of a sudden infinitely more concerned with how the fuck Wednesday could even think that than she was with her not-love confession. “It’s like you haven’t even seen my top ten celebrity list on my blog. It’s updated bi-weekly, by the way, and just so you know, Taylor is always at the top.”

Afterwards she realized Wednesday had tricked her. After all the hours she’d punched listening to Enid’s A-lister opinions, it was impossible for her not to know Taylor Swift was Enid’s number one, now and forever. But if there was one thing Enid knew about Wednesday, it was that she would do anything to sidestep out of something that made her uncomfortable. 

And, yeah, Enid wanted Wednesday to know she cared for her, but she didn’t want to do it in a way that would cause Wednesday to break out in hives. So Enid moved on.

Quality time was next, and it turned out to be more difficult than anticipated to put to the test. For one, they roomed together—they pretty much spent all their free time with each other by default. At this point, Enid was certain Wednesday found her company nice to some degree, but there was no telling if Wednesday would choose to spend that much time with her if she wasn’t obligated to sleep in the same room.

So she needed to take Wednesday out into some type of novel environment to see if it was really Enid’s company Wednesday liked, or just the simple thrills of routine and monotony. 

Kind of like… a date?

“Hey, so I was thinking…” Enid started when she got back one day, a little out of breath, not because of any physical reasons but because of the words that were about to spew from her mouth.

Wednesday was sitting at her desk, typing on her laptop instead of her typewriter for a change, and lodged the left side of her noise canceling headphones behind her ear when Enid talked, none the wiser about her roomate nearly having a heart attack five feet behind her. 

“There’s this movie playing at the theater? It’s a ghost one. I think a nun gets possessed or something.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, I watched the trailer and it looks super scary so I think you’d really enjoy it.”

“Okay.”

Enid waited for Wednesday to say more. Wednesday waited for Enid to continue. God, this was like pulling teeth.

“So… do you wanna go?”

“Why would I want to sit among strangers who are all chewing and whispering while I’m trying to watch something? If I wished to torture myself with mediocre film, I’d watch it here.”

A little over a year ago, Enid might have been offended. She might’ve thought this was Wednesday callously rejecting her attempts at friendship.

Now Enid rolled her eyes and went right over Wednesday’s side of the room, grabbed the back of her chair and turned it, wooden legs scraping on hardwood, so Wednesday was facing the bed. And Enid sat on the foot of that bed. 

She studied Wednesday for a second—the slight confused furrow of her eyebrows, the way she looked around the room, over her shoulder for something she was missing—then reached forward and plucked the headphones off her head.

“Look at me,” she said.

Wednesday’s head obediently snapped back, strands of dark hair sticking out at weird angles around her ears from the indelicate removal of her headphones. Any impatience that had been bolstering Enid’s actions fizzled out as mahogany eyes pinned her to the spot, and it really was ridiculous that Enid was having this kind of mind-blanking reaction to something she’d asked Wednesday to do.

God, why did she have to be so fucking pretty?

“I’ll be there too,” Enid said before she could lose her nerve. “I was asking if you wanted to go together.”

“Oh.” Wednesday blinked. “Then… yes.”

“Cool! It’s playing at seven.”

Enid gently placed Wednesday’s headphones back over her ears and moved back to her side of the room.

Did Enid just ask Wednesday out on a date? Yes. Did Wednesday know it was a date? Definitely not. But she’d accepted, and even a win born of deception was still a win.

Going to a movie with Wednesday was kind of like dragging a thirteen year-old boy who thought he was really cool to a Taylor Swift concert. She got ready with all the unbridled enthusiasm of a person about to drive to a day job they despised but was determined to get there twenty minutes early out of principle.

It was only as they sat in the theater, lights dimming, the idle chatter of movie goers ebbing to silence as the title of the movie showed up, the letters literally written in dripping blood, that Enid started to ponder exactly how she thought this would work in her favor.

She’d forgotten in her haste to bridge their interests that ghosts were a pretty prominent bullet point on the list of things Enid Sinclair didn’t fuck with. In fact, the many many things Enid didn’t fuck with and Wednesday’s personal interests were barely two seperate entities, but instead a Venn diagram overlap so big it almost made another perfect circle on its own.

So if Enid’s plan had been to impress Wednesday by showing interest in horror movies, she really should be topping some world ranking for the dumbest person alive. 

But, then again, maybe it wasn’t so bad. 

Watching the majority of the movie from behind her hands meant Enid got to look at Wednesday. Pale flashes of light flickered over her face before it was gone, and then back, and then gone and back again, and Enid watched her face disappear into the shadows only to reappear again so intently she was certain that was what should’ve been on the big screen. 

Enid did take down her hands at some points when a jumpscare passed, but Wednesday was better versed in the genre than her, and better at predicting what came next. So it kind of became an exercise in trust every time Enid would hesitantly drop her hands, only for one of Wednesday’s to immediately jump to cover Enid’s eyes again as another unexpected scream or shriek of violins filled the room, only taking it away once she was sure the scary part was over and Enid was safe from the very same on-screen threats she was so infatuated with.

For someone who looked like they could be in the movie (probably playing the part of a particularly edgy Victorian era ghost who had a revolutionary obsession with platform boots and staring forebodingly from the dark corner of a dingy basement), it was very sweet.

Enid fell a little harder.

She proudly told Yoko about her success the next day at breakfast. 

“Are you stupid? Of course she likes spending time with you, idiot. Are you, like, seriously just figuring this out?”

This, to Enid, was an uncalled-for level of criticism given the circumstances. Enid wasn’t an idiot. Wednesday wouldn’t spend as much time with her as she did if she didn’t like it to some degree, but just that fact alone didn’t mean she reciprocated Enid’s feelings.

She relayed this to Yoko.

Yoko relayed, “Enid, honey, I say this with all the love in the world—I’m going to hit you.”

“You think… Wednesday likes me?”

“I thought we were past this!” She dropped her spoon into her cereal bowl with such force Enid expected the ceramic to shatter. “I thought the whole reason you were going through with this is because you finally got your head out of your ass and realized she liked you! What are you even doing all this for if it wasn’t to get her to ask you out?”

“I’ve been doing it to see if she liked me back.”

Yoko’s hand seemed like it came out of nowhere—like it spawned right next to her head just to deliver a swift slap right above her ear. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, it was more so the shock of the action that caused Enid to let out a yelp and reel back with wide, betrayed eyes. Yoko was the opposite of remorseful.

She pointed a stern finger at her. “Head. Ass. Get it out of there, Enid, or so help me God.”

So Yoko thought Wednesday had liked Enid for a while, and, to be fair, the thought had crossed Enid’s mind that maybe she did. Usually it’d be easy to tell, but Wednesday was a special case. This little relationship that somehow managed to blossom in a random crack in the sidewalk between a rainbow and a dark alleyway was, as far as Enid knew, Wednesday’s first experience with a close friendship. Sure, she seemed to like Enid, but she was still learning how friendships worked, and, most confusing of all, taking lessons from Enid of all people, who was… kind of a lot. 

Enid didn’t even know what Wednesday acted like when she fancied someone romantically. She only had her relationship with Tyler to go off, but at that point their friendship was just beginning, and Wednesday didn’t talk about that stuff anyway, let alone with someone she was just getting to know. She could never be fully certain if Wednesday liked her back since there was no reference point for how Wednesday behaved when she was interested in another person. 

Also, Enid preferred not to think about it. If Wednesday liked her, it was terrifying. If she didn’t… so much worse. The middle zone still had hope, so that’s where she’d live until Wednesday made it perfectly clear where she stood.

“Let’s do an experiment,” Yoko suggested. 

Then she pulled out her phone, went into her contacts, and called Wednesday Addams. 

It rang, and rang, and rang until Wednesday’s voicemail kicked in, which was just an automated voice saying to leave a message after the tone (Wednesday refused to record a voicemail message when Enid suggested it last year on the basis that she really didn’t give a fuck). Yoko wisely didn’t bother leaving a message, just ended the call and raised an eyebrow at Enid over the rim of her sunglasses.

Enid said, “She has a late class this morning. She’s sleeping in.”

Yoko said, “You call her.”

Enid made a show of taking out her phone, typing in Wednesday number, putting the call on speaker and raising her eyebrows at her friend across the table as the first ring sounded.

Then cut off halfway through.

“Howdy, roomie.”

Despite Yoko now taking a smug, self-satisfied sip of her orange juice, a little thrill erupted in Enid’s stomach at how fast Wednesday answered. It was her sleepy voice too. Extra endearing.

She must’ve looked pretty smitten because Yoko rolled her eyes.

“Hey, Wens.”

It was at this point Enid realized she needed to make up a reason for calling Wednesday that wasn’t just to hear her say howdy. She was keenly aware that telling her this was some impromptu test of her romantic attraction to Enid probably wouldn’t go over well for anyone involved. 

“I just…” She looked at Yoko, helplessly seeking an ending to her sentence but only getting a mouthed love you and a teasing point at her phone that, for all of Enid’s usual emotional confidence, made her face warm. “I just called to say… hi.”

Enid wanted to bang her own head on the table.

“I see,” Wednesday replied. Enid was honestly expecting her to hang up or submit her name to some type of hit list for waking her up and wasting her time, but a second of expectant phone silence passed, and Wednesday just said, “Go ahead, then.”

Enid was grinning like an idiot, her face was hot, she felt like her preteen self watching Brandon wink at her as he passed her on his skateboard.

“Hi,” she whispered.

And Wednesday said, “Hi, Enid.”

But this wasn’t Brandon. This was Wednesday, and she didn’t ride a skateboard or wink at her or kiss her in museums, but she did add the word hi to her Shakespearean vocabulary just to make Enid laugh. 

Upon ending the call a few seconds later to let Wednesday go back to sleep, Enid had to endure the torture of a smug Yoko raving about how “she lets you call her Wens? Shut up, Enid, that’s precious,” and also about how oddly threatening Wednesday could make the word howdy sound. 

“She likes you, Enid. Come on. You might be the only person in the world she does like, which is honestly a terrifying position to be in considering… who she is. But I think you’re fine with it.”

Whether Yoko was right or not didn’t really matter. It’s not like she’d suddenly develop the courage to put her feelings on the line and risk their friendship. The idea that Wednesday might like Enid back made every possible butterfly spur to life in her stomach, but that was where her feelings about the matter ended. Enid was still a coward, and any progression on the romantic front of this whole thing beyond a downright sad attempt at flirting would have to be initiated by Wednesday herself. 

At least Enid had a game plan now. Quality time proved to be the only love language Wednesday would readily accept, and possibly the only one she could even pick out the meaning of depending on what they did with that time. But of course life had to get in the way of her efforts. Or at least that was the sorry excuse Enid would continue to use for being too scared to try as hard as she should’ve been trying.

Because Enid’s running schedule was starting to get more hectic. Her coach thought she had what it took to qualify for NCAAs, and after Enid found out that meant she had an excuse not to go home for the summer, she thought she did too. A training schedule that started at five o’clock in the morning meant she slept a lot more during the hours she usually didn’t sleep, and the extra workouts meant she ate a lot more—pair this with classes and extracurriculars, pretty much the only time Enid hung out with Wednesday now was when she was unconscious or stuffing her face. 

As such, Enid’s genius plan to woo Wednesday had quickly and anticlimactically shifted to Wednesday continuing to unknowingly woo Enid. 

It wasn’t Enid’s fault. How was she not supposed to fall head over heels for a woman who brought her snacks in the middle of practice?

She didn’t even tell Enid she was coming, just showed up to the field house and stood there like a really bold, really hot stalker until Enid spotted her behind the rail on the sidelines during one of her laps and promptly died of shock.

She’d jogged her way over. It was her afternoon practice and she was pretty sure Wednesday had a class she was going to be late to, but there she was, all business and glaring and eyes softening when Enid smiled at her, even though Enid was gross and covered in sweat. 

Wednesday stuck a ziploc container through the top and middle railing. “Granola bars.”

Enid would’ve melted if she wasn’t, you know, already veritably melting from interval sprints. “Awe, Wens! You’re so sweet.” 

Enid took the container while Wednesday probably contemplated wether or not being called ‘sweet’ was an adequate enough reason to end her life. Being called sweet by Enid? Maybe not. By anyone else, and her life likely wouldn’t be the one in question. But Enid had privileges like that, and abusing the hell out of them was one of her favorite pastimes.

She popped the lid, expecting the container to house a bunch of wrapped energy bars, but when she looked inside, they were all noticeably not that.

“Wait, are these… homemade?”

“I had to ensure the carbohydrate content was high enough.”

“You made granola bars for me?”

“It’s food, Enid, not a kidney.”

A whistle echoed through the field house. Enid just kept looking at Wednesday, shocked and in awe and all the things someone who was in love with their best friend would feel when they unexpectedly brought them homemade snacks. Wednesday looked away.

“Share with Yoko,” she said stiffly. “I told her she could have some.”

She came back the next day with more, and Yoko started calling her their sugar momma (“because she brings us carbs! Get it?”). Wednesday accepted the nickname on a logic basis and Enid could tell she didn’t know what it actually meant. Wednesday also didn’t know why Enid laughed so hard about it.

But Wednesday was also getting busier. She was training for a couple of spring fencing competitions, then the NCAAs if she qualified. The training was only slightly less rigorous than Enid’s, but Wednesday continued to use whatever spare time she had to bring Enid various energy-packed baked goods anyway.

Despite their schedules, Enid needed to spend time with Wednesday where she could, so she started going to the library with her and Yoko. There were a couple of reasons Enid didn’t typically go to the library—one, she found the eerie cacophony of flipping pages and quiet breathing kinda creepy as fuck and thought a stray clatter of a pencil or squeaking chair leg was infinitely more distracting in an otherwise silent room than it would be in one where people where allowed to talk.

But Wednesday was there, and, as such, Enid was also there. Which led to the second reason Enid avoided the library becoming all the more prominent—it was an amazing place to sleep.

Yoko and Wednesday would take bets on how long Enid would last before she passed out, and it was never more than an hour. Yoko would eventually leave for supper in the dining hall, and if Enid wasn’t conscious again before dark, waking her up became Wednesday’s job.

Enid imagined the first time Wednesday had to wake her, she definitely spent at least ten minutes contemplating how to do it. It was the silent area of the library, after all—she couldn‘t speak, and even though Wednesday often fell asleep with her arms crossed over her chest like a vampire, Enid was the one who truly slept like the dead. It left few effective options short of praying for a 7.8 magnitude earthquake to jostle her back into the world of the waking. 

Wednesday probably went through a lot of trial and error that first time it came to waking Enid, but Enid eventually woke with a cool hand in her’s. Squeezing. Enid would squeeze back and think of fireworks. 

It continued to be Wednesday’s chosen method of waking her, and Enid had to live with the embarrassing fact that she was the one actively trying to attract Wednesday, and yet Wednesday was doing a better job of attracting Enid without even knowing she was doing it.

Their schedules continued to suck, and Enid continued to put the most basic of efforts into flirting with Wednesday (which was, to say, not super duper impressive unless we were now counting wearing Wednesday’s sweater at every viable opportunity a courting method, which it wasn’t, but Enid wouldn’t stop because she really liked that sweater). The most obvious thing she did was leave Wednesday little post-it notes in the morning with some generic message to start her day.

They started off quite normal.

Good morning! Hope you have a great day <3

Then, as Enid ran out of different ways to say good morning, they slowly started to transition to things Enid forgot to tell her the day before.

You know there’s a new bubble tea place by the Subway? Had a vanilla milk tea with tapioca balls yesterday and I would HIGHLY recommend. Library later? <3

Enid wasn’t convinced at this point if Wednesday was actually reading her little greetings or just seeing a stray piece of pink paper on her monochrome side of the room and eradicating it via fire in a blind rage. But Wednesday came to the library later with two cups of bubble tea, and Enid wondered how it was possible to love someone so much it hurt.

As the month of March ticked by, Enid’s notes started to get a little random for the sole reason that waking up at 5 just to immediately in the cold for an hour long jog kind of sucked and she needed something to look forward to. Wednesday started to reply through text when she woke up. No good morning, no how you doing, just a blunt, no-nonsense response to whatever strange little not-greeting Enid had provided her that day.

I think there’s a ghost in here. Lamp was on when I woke up this morning. Was NOT on when I went to bed. Totes sus <3

6:02 AM: Not totes sus. Lamp was on last night. I’d be less worried about a ghost if I were you and more worried about early-onset dementia.

And sometimes Enid would leave her quotes that looked like they’d be right at home on the side of one of those motivational water bottles.

Slay the day away bae <3

6:01 AM: I do enjoy slaying things.

You’re high-key fire <3

6:01 AM: I understand all of these words separately.

It wasn’t lost on Enid that Wednesday’s wake up time was about as flexible as a steel pipe. She woke up right when her alarm went off at 6 almost every morning and texted Enid a response to her note a minute later, meaning reading Enid’s pink morning post-it was her number one priority upon opening her eyes. It seemed very off-brand for the human manifestation of a middle finger, but very on-brand for the Wednesday Enid had the privilege of knowing and loving.

About a month went by like this. The sun was starting to warm and the snow was starting to melt, and Enid usually loved spring but this year it just represented all the time she’d wasted. It felt like her chances were slipping away with each meager effort, and yet, she couldn’t scrounge up the courage to make her feelings any more obvious. 

It was kind of like some sad version of purgatory (and, yeah, purgatory was inherently sad, but Enid was self-absorbed enough to think this insane-eternal-pining one was particularly depressing). Even though Enid got the feeling she wasn’t the only one dropping hints, making any bigger moves was impossible while the fear of scaring Wednesday away forever still loomed overhead.

Enid almost wanted to give up, and sometimes she thought it might not be so bad.

Because there were times Enid looked at Wednesday and just thought she was cute. When she was watching a movie with her cheek squished into a fist, the little furrowing of her eyebrows when she read a line in a text she didn’t immediately understand, the awkward darting of her eyes when she did something nice for Enid. It was a fuzzy, warm feeling that filled her chest a little, made a smile tug at the corners of her lips and her eyes fall to the surface of a table, or the floor, or anywhere else that would give her time to get herself in check. It happened way too much considering Wednesday was a person who discussed murder like it was the weather section in her morning news feed and would probably discuss Enid’s murder if she found out just how often she internally referred to her as cute.

But it was a nice, soft, familiar feeling. It felt like putting on Wednesday’s giant library sweater and Enid could forever live with that one.

But then there were times Enid looked at Wednesday and felt like someone had punched her in the gut.

Those times were less predictable. Wednesday could just enter a room, flatly complaining about a professor who thought group activities were ‘vital to the learning experience’ (Wednesday actually used angry air quotes here, which was the highlight of Enid’s existence), or typing on her typewriter, or cooking ramen, or doing anything that otherwise would have been mundane but when Wednesday did it Enid found it just a little harder to breathe and thought fuck. 

I love you.

Enid couldn’t live with that feeling—the empty, starving feeling of all of her insides being scooped out until she was left with a hole in her chest she didn’t know how to fill.

Yoko, ever sympathetic to Enid’s position, put it nicely.

“You’re both stubborn idiots. Unstoppable force meets immovable object and all that. Or—I guess, immovable object meets… another immovable object? Whatever, the point is you’re cowards.”

Most of it was true. Enid was definitely a coward. But… Wednesday wasn’t.

Every time Enid came close to giving up, Wednesday gave her just the smallest scrap of something that made her keep hanging on. It was by her fingertips at this point, and they were bleeding and sore and tired, but something in her heart refused to allow her to let go.

There was a day in March when they were studying in their room instead of the library, and Enid was sitting cross-legged on her bed, book in her lap, looking from her notes to literally anything else that could take her mind off her notes. She spotted a familiar looming object in the corner and put down her pencil.

“You know,” she mused, “we’ve been rooming together for almost two whole school years and I’ve never heard you play your cello.”

Wednesday looked up from her book, eyes automatically shifting to the instrument case in question, sitting large and dark in the corner of the room, then back down to her paper as she continued writing. “I haven’t played it because it’s very loud,” she said. “If someone makes a noise complaint the monitor will come to investigate, and we’re harboring a fugitive.”

Thing was in the middle of his enclosure, burying himself in sand. 

“Why do you bring it if you can’t play it?” Enid asked.

Wednesday’s pencil stilled. She blinked down at her paper for a few moments. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted.

Enid could tell it wasn’t a lie, but she had her own theory that Wednesday missed home more than she let on. Her cello was something familiar. It probably gave her some low level of comfort to have it around, whether she was consciously aware of it or not. Obviously she wouldn’t voice this since Wednesday would only deny it with the intensity of a thousand suns, but she still believed it to be true.

Instead Enid just asked, “What’s your favorite song to play?”

“Paint it Black.”

“Do you know anything by Taylor Swift?”

It was a joke, but Wednesday hummed and said, “I learned Willow over the summer.”

Enid slammed her book shut. “Wednesday Addams! You learned a Taylor Swift song for me?”

Wednesday definitely wished she hadn’t bothered to open her frowning mouth. Enid hadn’t trapped her like this in a while—in the way that made Wednesday battle between two unfavorable options to decide which one was less damaging to her reputation. It was either she learned the song for Enid, or she learned the song because she actually liked the song. Either option painted her in a different light than the dark, dreary, stone-cold void she’d prefer to be depicted as, and Enid had no doubt it made her want to sink through the floor.

Wednesday looked up from her notes to the wall in front of her, laying her pencil flat on her desk with a defeated click. “You may have been on my mind when I decided to look up the sheet music.”

This was a familiar feeling now—the kind of fluttering, giddy, kinda-wanting-to-laugh-but-also-desperate-to-play-it-cool feeling that she’d been getting around Wednesday for a long time, but only now had the clarity to recognize it for what it was. But she was never good at playing it cool. 

“Careful,” she said, teasing and light, and Wednesday looked over her shoulder in the sort of purposeful, defiant way that told Enid she took her warning as more of a challenge than anything else, “I might start to think you actually like me.”

Wednesday just looked at her for a minute. The colorful decals in Enid’s half of their window reflected in midnight eyes as they moved—from Enid’s own eyes, down, then slowly back up in a way that made the smile flicker on her lips as something a little heavier replaced the butterflies in her stomach.

Then Wednesday said, “I wasn’t aware it was something I was trying to hide.”

Enid should’ve done a lot of things then. She should have spilled her feelings, told her she liked her too, gotten up and kissed her, or anything other than the actual thing she did, which was let Wednesday turn back around and continue writing her notes while Enid gaped at the back of her head like the brain dead idiot she was.

That was it, wasn’t it? The confirmation she’d been waiting for?

Wednesday never said stuff like that. But she didn't hide this time, or beat around the bush, or try to excuse the words away. And that long look beforehand—it was like she’d wanted Enid to notice.

And Enid fucking noticed. But she’d done fucking nothing.

What was wrong with her?

This extreme fail, of course, resulted in Enid sitting in the common room of the library with Yoko, forehead pressed against the open pages of her psychology textbook as she contemplated her sorry existence. Neither her or Yoko knew why she kept asking for advice when the only person that could help her now was, like, God or something, but she hadn’t been on great terms with him for the past few years so she doubted he’d rush to intervene.

Bianca walked up to their table. Looked at Yoko typing on her laptop, then at Enid’s attempt to wither away and die right there on top of ‘The Fundamentals of Psychological Disorders’.

“What’s wrong with her?” she asked.

Yoko said, “She has it bad for Wednesday Addams.”

“Is she, like… just realizing that now ?”

“It’s a process.” Yoko’s voice was uncharacteristically sympathetic. Then back to normal when she added, “And she’s an idiot.”

“She knows Wednesday likes her too, right?”

“She knows,” Yoko said at the same time Enid muttered, “I know.”

“Then… what’s the problem?”

“Her,” Yoko said at the same time Enid muttered, “Me.”

It was God's honest truth. Enid was the problem at this point. All of her previous issues keeping her from moving forward were solved.

Enid was bi. Check.

Wednesday was bi. Check.

Enid liked Wednesday. Check.

Wednesday liked Enid. Almost definitely probably check.

It was ultimately fear that had weighed her down this entire time, it’d just been wearing a bunch of different top hats and trench coats to disguise itself into all of her excuses. And there was lots of fear—fear of getting into the type of relationship she’d never been in before, fear of what her family would think, but, most of all, the paralyzing fear of losing Wednesday. Even when she’d been trying her hardest to “flirt” she hadn’t said or done anything she wouldn’t also say and do to Wednesday as a friend.

It was a cowardly hindrance, but Enid never claimed to be brave.

“It’s not your fault,” Yoko told her.

Bianca was quick to point out that, “You both literally just said that Enid is the problem.”

“She is, but it’s not her fault. Enid, honey, you’ve entered the wild world of flirting with women, where nobody knows what’s actually flirting or just a girl being friendly. Wednesday especially is never going to know the difference, so you’re doomed to spend years pining over each other until you kiss or you both die.“

“Those are my only two options? Kissing or death?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Bianca, who was more so watching and judging than she was actually providing usable advice, helpfully added, “That’s pretty grim.”

And Yoko said, “Being gay is grim.”

“Also, hold on.” Enid really needed to get back to the topic at hand. “Did you say this is going to take years?”

“Unless Wednesday has bigger balls than you, probably a couple decades if we’re lucky.”

It wasn’t the most hopeful prognosis, and Enid felt immediately defeated until she remembered something obvious…

Wednesday did have bigger balls than her. 

This was a well-known fact. Although, to be fair, having bigger balls than Enid wasn’t the most difficult thing in the world. 

She was a chronic people pleaser—being liked was a need as important as food and water. She’d never so much as snapped at another human being that wasn’t one of her idiotic brothers until her first year of university, and the snapping was at Wednesday herself. Enid liked to think that was the first sign that Wednesday was letting their connection in. They were rubbing off on each other, for good and bad, but Enid counted her new minuscule ability to stand up for herself a definite win in regards to everything else Wednesday could have rubbed off on her (the list included things as innocent as good academic standing, and went right down to unspeakable violence, so it was a real spectrum).

Enid had been passive her entire life. It was in her nature, her upbringing, the very wiring of her brain. There was absolutely nothing that could’ve changed that inherent quality except for becoming friends with someone that would confidently hold a knife up to God’s neck and demand his lunch money.

Enter Wednesday Addams. 

Enid wasn’t sure if Wednesday was the bravest person she knew, or just someone who delighted in most of the things “normal” people wouldn’t touch with a fifty foot pole. It was kind of like if you had a firefighter that was also a pyromaniac—are they brave or are they just really into fire? 

But whether or not ball size equated to enjoying objectively scary things was a debate for another day. The fact stood that if there was one of them that was going to be able to find the nerve to push this thing past its weird little purgatory, it wasn’t going to be on Enid’s half of the equation.

So it was settled. Wednesday would have to be the one to make a move.

But first, Enid needed to do one thing. And all it would take was every ounce of courage she could scrounge out of her body directed into a singular second of her life.

.     .     .

“Do you ever get scared, Wednesday?”

The night of the movie was cold and snowy. Ice crunched beneath their shoes as they walked to the dimly lit parking lot across the street, breaths fogging, snowflakes sticking in hair and jacket sleeves and wool hats. The air smelled a little like car exhaust and a little like popcorn. 

Enid wasn’t quite sure why she asked the question, only that they’d just gone through an hour and forty two minutes of a possessed nun doing possessed nun things, and there was blood and screaming and—fuck—so much blood, and Enid kinda felt sick but she’d actually seen Wednesday smile in the moments she was covering her own eyes and it seemed like a valid question to ask.

“Of what?” Wednesday asked.

“Of… anything, I guess?”

It was stupid. Wednesday didn’t get scared, and if she did she’d never admit it.

“Yes.”

But Enid had been wrong before.

She didn’t ask what scared Wednesday Addams. Frankly, she didn’t want to know. 

“What do you do about it? What if…” She swallowed. Pressed her lips together. “What if you have something you know you have to do, but if it goes wrong it could, like, tear apart your entire life?”

They stopped at a crosswalk and Wednesday pressed the crossing button. She looked at Enid, the green glow of traffic lights soft against the side of her face, reflecting in her eyes. “If it’s something you have to do, you don’t have a choice.”

“But that’s terrifying.”

The green flicked to yellow. Then to red. 

“Then do it terrified.”

.     .     .

She found Wednesday in the gym change room even though she didn’t typically stay after fencing practice to shower. The communal shower back at the dorm seemed to always have at least one other person present, which Wednesday would’ve avoided at all costs if not for the only other option being to hang around in the gym with the entire fencing team for one second longer than it took her to strip out of her uniform and leave. Lesser evils and all that.

But Wednesday and Bianca were the team’s best fencers, and Enid knew when Wednesday didn’t come into the room to deliver a tired hello and an equally tired goodbye before she grabbed her clothes and left again for a shower that she’d stayed late for a sparring session with the only person she probably considered an equal in their level of sport. The fencing team had the evening practice tonight, nobody was coming in after, and Wednesday couldn’t pass up the possibility of an empty shower room.

Enid didn’t know what the protocol was for going into a change room after another sports team’s practice. It was the female change room, she was technically allowed to walk right in, but it felt oddly intrusive. So she knocked.

It was Bianca’s hushed voice echoing off the tiles that whispered, “We were the last practice tonight, right? Who the fuck—“ Squeaky sandaled footsepteps coming toward the door. “Wait, what are you—no, stop. Wednesday, what if it’s—“

The door swung open. Wednesday stood there in black track pants, black socks, black sandals, and a huge black t-shirt with a little tiny white logo in the corner, ready and willing to greet who Bianca clearly thought was some creep or polite ax murderer with probably, like, a swift punch to the throat or something.

But it was just Enid, and when Wednesday comprehended that strange little fact, her patented go-to-hell-or-I’ll-send-you-myself glare melted like ice warmed by the sun. 

There were a lot of unexpecteds in that moment.

The first, of course, was Enid being there in the first place. Yes, Wednesday was a creature of habit, and yes, Enid had absolutely used that knowledge in the past to purposely show up in places she knew Wednesday would be (not in, like, a creepy stalker way, but in an annoying friend way. She… hoped. But this was Wednesday, so if the stalker angle was a turn-on she’d totally lean into it). Even so, she’d never showed up like this—when Wednesday was due back to the room any minute anyway. She felt a like that talking dog in Up, the one with the collar that was like “I was hiding under your porch because I love you,” except that Enid’s own personal collar would say, “I couldn’t wait the maybe ten more minutes it would take for you to get back so here I am knocking on a changeroom door like a weirdo. Please find it normal even though it’s not.”

The second unexpected thing was simply Wednesday’s hair. It was wet from a shower, and Wednesday had her head tilted to the side, towel in hand catching the ends.

And it was down.

“Enid,” she said.

“Your hair.”

“Hello to you too.”

“Your hair.”

Bianca said, “Oh, it’s Enid?”

And Enid said, “Your hair.”

Wednesday gave the ends of her down hair a squeeze with the towel, turned around, and went back into the steamy change room. Enid’s sneakers squeaked on the damp tile as she followed. 

“It’s pretty, right?” Bianca said.

Another unexpected thing: Wednesday didn’t strangle Bianca with her hair towel for calling her pretty. Instead, she let out a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a growl, and if Enid didn’t have context for the exchange she’d honestly think Bianca told her to go fuck herself in all of Wednesday’s seven known languages based on that reaction. 

Still, Bianca was alive and well and leaning over the sink to put on mascara, in a perfect, unsuspecting position for retribution, but when Wednesday rifled through her bag on the bench she just pulled out a couple hair ties instead of a knife. Even her disgruntled huff was more of a sour acknowledgment than it was an actual protest.

“It is pretty,” Enid agreed. She leaned her shoulder into the wall, stifling a laugh when those midnight daggers flicked up to her instead. But if Wednesday hadn’t killed Bianca of all people for calling her pretty, Enid was safely in the clear.

“I refuse to sacrifice practicality for the sake of adhering to outdated beauty standards.”

“Literally nobody is asking you to,” Bianca sighed. “We’re just saying it looks nice. Not everything is an attack.”

“It could be, and you’ll regret it when you’re not prepared.”

“I’m going to attack you if you don’t stop with the bullshit.”

And Enid could honestly say watching Wednesday slingshot a hair band at the back of Bianca’s head was not on her semester bingo card. 

It was so childish—both her insistence on challenging anybody telling her to just not, and obviously the act itself—that the fact it was Wednesday performing the action kinda rocked Enid’s sense of reality into a different orbit. It was like seeing the Grim Reaper playing in a ball pit or something.

Even more shocking? Judging by Bianca’s reaction—or complete lack thereof (seriously, not even a flinch)—this wasn’t the first time.

The band hit its mark and fell to the floor, and Bianca, who very convincingly acted like she wasn’t paying attention, kicked it away just as Wednesday bent to pick it up, then spewed a loud, echoing fuck as her sandal flew off in the same direction. A huff of air left Wednesday’s nose that a less educated person might take as a sound of annoyance, but Enid was versed enough in the secret language of Wednesday to know it was actually just a well-disguised laugh.

Enid watched the whole Tom-and-Jerry exchange with amused fascination. After knowing Wednesday for nearly two years, she didn’t think there were anymore sides of her she hadn’t seen. But tonight she got two:

1. Hair-down Wednesday.

2. Acting-like-she-wasn’t-friends-with-Bianca Wednesday. 

She couldn’t imagine how devastated they’d both be whenever someone finally broke the news to them that they actually liked each other’s company. 

There seemed to be a mutual ceasefire as Bianca stood defeated on one foot and Wednesday retrieved both the hair tie and the sandal. She dropped the latter conveniently under Bianca’s foot and they both wordlessly went about their business like nothing ever happened. Incredible. Enid felt like she was watching a nature documentary.

Bianca and Enid had a short conversation about Xavier’s current activities for no other reason than Enid was curious and Bianca was unimpressed with him and wanted everyone else to be unimpressed too. She left after a couple minutes, wishing Enid a good night and wishing Wednesday a shitty one, then it was just the two of them.

The door clicked shut. Enid caught Wednesday’s eyes in the steamy bathroom mirror. Her heart jumped, and she should’ve looked away, but for once she stared, unabashed, just because she could. And because Wednesday was staring too. 

Although, Enid was looking just to look. Wednesday was probably wondering why the fuck Enid was there. Enid totally would’ve told her, but she needed some time to build up the courage to say it. So, like any seasoned coward, she stalled.

She ambled to the sink and sat up on the counter, feet dangling, head tilting back to rest against the mirror. She was used to silence with Wednesday but this one felt particularly quiet. Maybe it was the warm room, or Enid’s jitters, or the sound of water dripping from a leaking shower head bouncing off the tiles.

She let her head fall toward Wednesday, eyes following her hair brush. Down and back up again. Down.

“I do like your hair like that, you know.” 

She had been teasing her before when she said it looked pretty, not because it was untrue, but because she’d kind of wanted to see how differently Wednesday would react to the words coming from her mouth instead of Bianca’s. But now she was serious. And a serious statement, apparently, warranted none of the unserious grumbling and glaring from before.

“I don’t like the way it feels when it’s down,” Wednesday said. “Too much… movement.” 

It seemed like a far cry from her practicality excuse, but much more honest and much more Wednesday. Enid figured before this that it must’ve been some self-conscious thing, but that didn’t really track considering the negative amount of fucks her roommate gave about what people thought of her, and also the fact that seeing Wednesday with her hair down was an infinitely bigger deal to Enid than it was for Wednesday herself. It seemed a little unbelievable that the only reason it was only happening now after all this time wasn’t because of any effort from Wednesday to keep it hidden, but just because Enid happened not to be around when it was down.

Still made Enid a little irrationally jealous that most of Wednesday’s fencing team and countless random people coming and going from the shower room saw Wednesday with her hair down way before she did.

“Well, for the record,” Enid said. “The braids look pretty too.”

“I don’t do it because—“

“I know you don’t do it to look pretty, you do it because it’s comfortable and practical and I’m really sorry to break this to you, but it also looks pretty.”

Wednesday’s bangs were in her eyes a little, weighed down by water, even after being dried with a towel, and her cheeks were flushed from the steam, and when she looked up Enid was on the edge of that cliff again—breath catching, heart skipping, mind fuzzy and numb at the prospect of tipping off the edge. And she believed just for a fleeting moment that she wouldn’t regret it if she did. 

Wednesday said quietly, “You’re doing that thing again.”

Enid’s head was already kind of tilted like a confused dog the way it was leaned back against the mirror. It didn’t take much work to furrow her eyebrows and complete the look. “What thing?”

“The thing where you’re about to say something, but then you hold your breath instead.”

“How do you know I’m about to say something?”

“Are you not?”

“Well… yeah.”

An almost smug, almost imperceivable raise of Wednesday’s eyebrows before she turned back to the mirror and put down her brush. “You’d better get on with saying it then.” Deft, well-practiced fingers parted one half of her hair into three sections. “I’d hate to see you suffocate.”

Enid watched her first braid come together, black painted fingernails weaving the glossy strands with the type of swift certainty that only came from performing an action they’d done a million times before. 

“It’s stupid,” Enid said.

“Doubtful.”

“You might get scared.”

“Much more doubtful.”

“It doesn’t even really need to be said. We’re doing so good and it might mess things up and I—“

“Enid.”

Enid pressed her lips together and looked at the floor. She hoped studying the dirty grout lines between the tiles would calm her racing heart, but it just seemed to make the room impossibly quieter. She’d have to speak soon, or Wednesday would be able to hear her heart trying to break its way out through her rib cage.

“It is stupid.”

Wednesday didn’t say anything this time, just tied off one braid and moved onto the other. Enid watched her fingers move between the sections, transfixed, like it was a ticking hypnotist’s clock moving back and forth. 

“It’s just that you’re really important to me and I know you know that already, but I know that sometimes emotions make you uncomfortable and we both know I have a lot of them, so I’ve always tried really hard to keep everything to myself but lately I’ve been thinking, like… shit.” She was slipping. The cliff side was coming closer and she was scrambling for the edge and everything was going too fast. 

“Breathe, Enid.”

Black painted fingernails disappearing behind dark sections and reappearing again. She used the fluid rhythm to steady herself. Took a breath. Another. Tried not to hold it. 

Do it terrified.

“I’ve just been thinking, like, we could die tomorrow, you know?”

“Always an exciting possibility.”

“And what if something happened and there was just this thing that I didn’t get to say to you? And you’re, like, my person, and if I never got the chance to say what I wanted to say it would eat me up forever inside. Like, I seriously might actually die .”

“Enid, just say—“

“I love you.”

Wednesday fingers stilled. Water dripped from a broken faucet somewhere. Enid’s heart was in her throat, blood rushing in her ears. 

She’d let go of the edge. Empty air on all sides, nothing to grab into, just the stomach lurching terror of mocking gravity and getting punished with the free fall. She knew there was a reason she’d held on for so long.

But there was no going back now. She loved Wednesday in her entirety—in her morbid fascinations and grim outlook, in her quiet thoughtfulness and emotional awkwardness, in snoods and huge library sweaters and soft wool hats that caught snowflakes. Even now, when Wednesday was frozen in shock, her stretching silence threatening to secure her roommate into an early grave, she loved her. And Enid had always been pretty in touch with her emotions, but Wednesday had taken a piece of her heart, carved it out all pretty and bloody and laid it between them and said, “Here. This is everything you didn’t know you could feel,” and Enid couldn’t even hate her for awakening something that was now impossible to live without. 

So Wednesday didn’t have to feel the same. She didn’t even have to love Enid back. But Enid had to love Wednesday Addams—in whatever way she’d let her.

Enid waited, wondering if the humidity in the room had forced out all the oxygen, because she really couldn’t breathe until Wednesday finally continued braiding. Her fingers seemed a little faster and clumsier than before, but she eventually tied off the second braid with a soft snap of the hair band.

“See?” She wasn’t looking at Enid. She was looking at her brush as she grabbed it off the counter. “Not scared.”

Yeah, the whole no-eye-contact thing really screamed fine.

Neither of them said anything else as Wednesday put her brush back in her bag and zipped it up, unless the internal mantra of fuck going around and around in Enid’s head counted. Wednesday wasn’t even looking at her. It seemed impossible that out of the million words Enid had bombarded Wednesday with by now, it only took three little ones for all their progress to swirl down one of the sink drains. 

She thought about apologizing, but apologies were for things you didn’t mean to do. She knew before saying anything there was a big chance Wednesday would be uncomfortable with the whole ‘I love you’ scenario, but not saying it didn’t make it any less true, and at the end of the day, Wednesday valued honesty. Enid thought that, regardless of her feelings about Enid, she would’ve at least respected her for that.

But Wednesday didn’t say anything as she packed up her shower stuff. As they left. As they walked back to their room. 

And Enid regretted everything.

Worst of all, she could tell Wednesday was thinking. Enid snuck glances at her on the way back—Wednesday’s eyes were always dropped to the ground, and she was blinking a lot (a total of three times that Enid witnessed, which for Wednesday signified an Armageddon-level disaster). A muscle in her jaw ticked every now and then, and Enid had never minded her quiet nature but fuck she wished she’d say something. Literally any words would be better than this loaded, dead silence.

But she didn’t say anything. At least not until they got back to the room and all of Enid’s hope had dissipated like fog in a cool breeze. She dug her pyjamas out of her drawer, grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste, and went to leave. 

It was only as she had her hand on the doorknob that Wednesday sighed, short and huffy and kinda loud—the sort of quick burst of air that someone might let out when they were psyching themselves up to jump out of a plane.

“Enid, wait.”

Enid’s heart sunk. The apology she wasn’t going to bother with was ready on her tongue, because fuck pride, and fuck honesty. If the only way to fix this was to take back what she’d said, she’d lie a thousand times over if it meant she could still have Wednesday in any capacity at all.

Enid turned, the first syllable of her excuse falling from her mouth. 

And Wednesday hugged her.

Like… with her arms. 

And she wasn’t drunk. Or exhausted. Or on some serious drugs. Everything in Enid’s hands fell to the floor as her muscles slackened with shock.

Before this, Wednesday always seemed to take a second to settle into their hugs.

The first time, Enid had shocked her by nearly bowling her over, so it wasn’t Wednesday’s fault it took her a second to get the hang of things. It was likely the only reason she held so tight in the end was less about reciprocating the gesture and more about hanging on for dear life.

The second time, Wednesday had pulled Enid to her, but it’d still been Enid that wrapped her arms around her first. It didn’t shock Enid that even when Wednesday was trying to comfort, she still had to take cues from someone else. Friendship and the duties that came with that were still new to her. Enid didn’t mind teaching her, especially since Wednesday seemed to be a bright and willing student.

The third time they’d hugged… well, it’d been on a bench. It was still a nice hug that served its purpose, but the rules of the universe dictated that there was a limit to how good a hug could be when sitting side by side. Wednesday still did good there considering the circumstances.

The difference with this hug was that Wednesday didn’t hesitate. There was no waiting, no holding back until Enid set the tone—how tight to squeeze or how long long to hold on. Wednesday simply wrapped her arms around her, face nuzzling into her shoulder, darkness melting softly into dawn. Wednesday hugged Enid like it was something she’d practiced for every day of her life.

Was physical touch one of Wednesday’s love languages? Enid had forgotten to test that one.

Of course, the other glaring difference with this hug as opposed to the others was that Enid didn’t have tears running down her face. It wasn’t initiated by the recognition that Enid needed a type of comfort Wednesday didn’t know how to provide with words. 

Because this hug wasn’t for Enid. It was for Wednesday.

She hugged Wednesday back.

For the first time since September, the world was quiet. 

.     .     .

The next morning was the dim blue of a lightening sky and heavy, spring air. Wednesday was gone.

The pink sticky note on Enid’s nightstand had four words written on it in tidy, black-inked letters.

I love you too.

- WA

Chapter Text

Out of all the things Wednesday liked, the world before dawn was one of the least gruesome. The early morning sky was dark beyond the smudged windows of the library, the trees black silhouettes swaying in the foreground of a navy sky. Everything existed in shades of dark blue and black, little details melding into shadows, making the intricacies of life boil down to seen and unseen, there and not there. It was simple. Easy.

But, sure enough, on the horizon there was light, dim blue now but certain in its persistence. It would go from blue to pink, pink to gold, and gold to pure daylight, and Wednesday’s admiration for the night would end as her disappointment with the day began. The daylight made everything more confusing. It highlighted all the hidden nooks and crannies you didn’t have to worry about in the dark—all the annoying, neverending, cluttered inconsistencies that made living just that little bit more unbearable. 

The night was contrast and dark and less dark, and that was it. The day was everything.

And yet it would come. The sun would shine on all the things that didn’t make sense and Wednesday would bask, once again, in the unending torture of trying to figure them out. 

I love you.

White noise pressed into the carpet, tables, books and bones and skin. The overused cushion on a chair, the hard edge of a seat digging into the back of a leg. Somewhere the muted click of a door opening and closing rang in the air—soft, clear, and gone in a blink. Wednesday’s hands were cold.

Real, solid, rational things. Wednesday, now more than ever, admired the simplicity of sensation—the things that didn’t have to have meaning but were just there. There was a certain level of comfort in feeling the things she knew how to feel. In knowing why she felt them. Like poking a bruise. 

But some feelings didn’t make sense. 

Like how Wednesday had always preferred night, but sometimes at certain points in the afternoon the sun was at just the right angle to cast the colorful reflections of those window decals onto her side of the room. Wednesday would look up from studying as a pink triangle of light touched the floor beside her, hold her hand out under the kaleidoscope colors and find a sliver of reprieve from the chaos of the world when they touched her skin. 

Or like when she was off in her own world, peacefully writing or doing homework or studying, and a voice would break through and tell her to “look up for just a sec”. It was an instinct now to seek that gaze of stained glass and ocean—eyes, clothes, hair like all the things Wednesday used to squint at like sun in her eyes but now couldn’t look away from. Enid would speak, or smile, or do anything, and Wednesday would realize the sun was kind of mesmerizing when her eyes had a chance to adjust.

It’s not like Wednesday never knew that she was feeling things. She was an expert in examining herself, in pulling out every backwards and morbid motivation and dissecting it for flaws. She knew she was feeling something, and knew this feeling existed exclusively for Enid. She couldn’t even put a name to it until—

I love you.

Did she?

Wednesday had something of a strange relationship with love. Her parents told her they loved her often, but she never had to say it back. Begrudging as she was to admit, her family knew her well, and they weren’t blind to the fact that they were the only ones allowed to get within touching distance of her, to put an arm around her, to smother her with their annoying barrage of pet names and terms of endearment. It was equal parts selfish and in-character that the only way Wednesday knew how to show love was to let someone love her. 

Enid was an expert in love. She was practically love fucking personified. Love walking around disguised in a blond wig and a pink fluffy jacket. She loved hard and easy, so easy that she shouted it across hallways when she saw her friends, tacked it on absentmindedly at the ends of phone calls, had accidentally said it to a few of her professors as she left their office hours. 

For Wednesday, falling in love was an embarrassing, weak, monstrous thing that clawed at her insides, forced back, again and again by logic and pessimism and pitchforks and torches. It was a hindrance, a fault in her code, a never ending void of uncertainty and confusion.

For Enid, falling in love was just a regular Tuesday.

I love you.

What did that mean? Even someone as emotionally inept as Wednesday knew it came in different forms. Maybe if Enid had specified which type of love she was talking about Wednesday wouldn’t be sitting in the library at 4:59 in the morning, watching the thin spindly hand of the analog clock in the corner tick. Tick. Tick.

If there was one great mystery present through most of Wednesday’s life, it was the question of whether or not she was capable of love at all. It seemed impossible for someone weaved so thoroughly with ebony thread, holes and gaps between the strings where most people held feelings but Wednesday just housed empty shadows. She should be immune to love, but the tears that had once soaked the soil in front of Nero’s gravestone would say otherwise. Wednesday Addams, to her own unending chagrin, did not have a heart of obsidian. It beat the same as everyone else’s. bled. Cried.

Loved, apparently.

Disgusting.

(Petrifying.)

But loving Enid—if that was even the unfortunate condition that befell her, which… it was—was different than loving anyone else. Loving Enid was sharper. Dangerous. It was a breath-catching, lying, untrustworthy thing. Loading a gun and putting it in someone else’s hand, their finger on the trigger, her own forehead against the barrel.

I love you.

The clock ticked to 5:00. Enid’s alarm would be going off now. She wouldn't even be looking for a note. If Wednesday hurried, she might be able to sneak back into the room in time to crumple up the paper while Enid was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, rendering her grand display of emotion completely inconsequential. 

And Wednesday didn’t usually long to take back things she’d said, but Enid had a history of making Wednesday do things she didn’t usually do. It was an old hat at this point. The unexpected was expected and Wednesday wasn’t Wednesday when Enid was Enid, and existing around that girl was a continuous and excruciatingly endless exercise in self-restraint and doubt and she had a plethora of questions but never any answers and nothing made sense.

I love you.

That made sense. 

She should want to hold onto it, underline it, frame it and hang it on the wall like some kind of snobby award so she could look at it on the days when things get messy and say “yes, that is a fact. That is true and certain and right even if nothing else about loving Enid Sinclair is.”

But, for once, she would find no peace in certainty. Another certainty, after all, was that Enid had a different standard for love than Wednesday did. She threw pieces of her heart around casually, not thinking about how people would treat them, crying when they came back bruised and broken but eventually patching them up and giving them out again without a second thought. Wednesday guarded her pieces with barbed wire and a big knife. Enid only had one because she’d somehow managed to sneak through and steal it.

At the end of the day, it boiled down to this:

Enid’s heart was divided between about a million living things and at least eleven stuffed animals.

Wednesday’s was divided between six people and a tarantula. 

And Enid.

Speaking strictly from a mathematical point of view (as was common for one to do about matters of the heart), Wednesday’s “I love you” was bigger. It was simple fractions.

Enid’s “I love you” could’ve meant anything—friendship, familial bond, Taylor Swift, a barista who made her morning frappuccino particularly good. It didn’t mean Enid was lying when she said it, it just meant she had a smaller threshold of emotion that she labeled as love. Wednesday’s threshold was large. It had to be complete, consuming, obvious, loud, and screaming, the type of feeling that forced her to acknowledge, without a doubt, that she would move mountains for that person. Rivers and worlds and stars.

But there was something different than that. With Enid though. Only with Enid. Something different that messed with her insides, made her stomach twist and head empty and her lungs forget to take in air. Enid washed her clean of everything she thought she knew, broke her, sanded down her sharp edges then forgot to put her back together. Wednesday didn’t know what to make of any of it.

So maybe Wednesday was hiding this morning, not because she didn’t know if she loved Enid or not, but because she didn’t know if her and Enid’s ‘I love you’s were the same.

I love you too.

The clock kept ticking. The sun broke over the horizon. Wednesday closed her eyes and wished for night.

.     .     .

“Howdy roomie!”

Wednesday’s first thought upon laying eyes on her roommate and her myriad of nauseating belongings was that this had to be some sort of sick joke.

Her second thought was a short and bitter ‘fuck no’ as the sentient manifestation of a color wheel spread her arms for a hug and stepped foward, causing Wednesday to take a stiff step back and away from any and all of that. Then the sick joke became impossibly more ill-stricken when the girl smiled.

It was the type of smile that only came from someone who smiled a lot—an easy, second nature thing that came as fluid and often as breathing. With morning sun streaming in through the window from behind, Wednesday’s eyes had no reprieve from the bright assault. Wednesday didn’t trust people who smiled that much (Wednesday also didn’t trust anyone who didn’t smile, or anyone who smiled a normal amount, or anyone at all).

The girl introduced herself as Enid a little while later.

Enid had curly blond hair with dyed ends. Enid was a ball of fidgety energy who wanted far too badly to make a good first impression. Enid liked fairy lights and talking too much and colors. God, did she like colors. 

Wednesday had no interest in Enid. Wednesday didn’t care that she asked if she wanted to go to the dining hall together, or if she wanted anything brought back, or what her classes would be like the next day and if she had time for lunch. Wednesday had lots of time and she planned on spending it all alone, plotting her escape route from this varsity social hellscape.

Despite all of this undoubtedly and purposely being communicated through her attitude, Enid still told her she thought her name was cool. 

And Wednesday didn’t care. She could tell already that Enid was the type of person that liked when people liked her, and investing in a random girl’s ego boost was not something that Wednesday had ever bothered to concern herself with.

But she’d never met anyone else named Enid.

.     .     .

“Have you made any friends yet?”

Wednesday’s parents liked to ask her this a lot. Wednesday didn’t know why. A world in which she would say anything other than some passably civil variation of ‘are you fucking joking?’ was a world she’d never had to put any special effort into avoiding. She was something of an expert in the art of remaining alone, so every time she logged onto her computer for one of those insufferable video calls, she’d brace herself for that disgustingly hopeful question, tamp down any premature irritation until what came out was a neutral and expected,

“Of course not.”

Obviously there was a significant roadblock bottlenecking her plans to continue being alone, which was the glaring fact that personified cotton candy was living on the other half of her room. And Wednesday had faced many perilous struggles in her life (ranging all the way from burying a deceased loved one to using comic sans on an academic document out of requirement), but she’d be lying if she said waking up to Satan’s art easel smacking her in the face every morning wasn’t the most gut-wrenching out of them all.

A mass of colorful decals appearing on Wednesday’s side of their window was her first warning that the fatal infection that was Enid Sinclair’s decor choices was beginning to spread to her side of the room. Wednesday had no choice but to nip it in the bud.

“So…” Enid started upon Wednesday’s return from the library one day. “I noticed there’s tape on the floor now.”

There was. Wednesday closed the door behind her as she entered and pointedly moved to her side of the tape.

“Don’t worry, it’s in the exact middle of the room,” she assured. She then moved to her desk and opened her laptop to start her weekly excruciating video call with her parents and, upon the telltale unsure shifting of Enid’s feet a couple meters behind her, added, “I measured.”

“Oh, well that’s… thoughtful of you.”

“I agree.”

“But I was really just wondering more so, like, why?”

“So we have clearly defined boundaries. Obviously you have trouble grasping that sort of thing so I thought I’d make it easy for you.”

A sigh. “Is this about the window?” It was obviously about the fucking window. The stickers Wednesday painstakingly removed from her half were still piled in a defeated heap on Enid’s side of the tape. “Because I get it, I should’ve asked if that was okay with you. Bad move on my part. Total fuck up. Sorry.”

Typing on a laptop was a bitter experience for Wednesday. She was used to the weight of her typewriter keys so she always pressed the buttons too hard, not to mention her password showed up on the screen as a line of black dots. She pressed enter. Got it wrong.

Enid said, “Good news is that I’m a quick learner! Now that I know how you feel about it I would never touch any of your stuff without asking. I mean, not like I’d touch any of your stuff before the tape thing either—that would be rude. I don’t wanna touch your stuff. The more I say it the weirder it sounds. Point is we totally don’t need the tape.“

Wednesday clicked the enter button on her newly typed line of black dots. 

Wrong.

Footsteps moving closer. “If you just click the little eye at the end of the tab then you’ll be able to see the letters you’re—“

Wednesday snapped her head around. Enid was about two feet across the tape on Wednesday’s side, hand outstretched to take her mouse, but immediately froze under the daggers thrown her way. She briefly glanced back at the tape, pressed her lips together, and stepped back.

“What were you saying about not needing the tape?” Wednesday asked, and caught a very blue, very pronounced eye roll right before she turned back to her computer.

So Enid in her entirety (and even if she somehow came in fractions) was a problem. Not only was she invading Wednesday’s space, her continued presence was providing just enough reasonable doubt for her parents to keep asking about her social life. 

It would be a social death if she could help it. 

Unfortunately, Enid proved to be able to take more punishment than Wednesday initially accounted for.

“Have you made any friends yet?” her parents would ask.

“Of course not,” Wednesday would say.

“You haven’t scared your roommate away yet, hm? That has to mean something.”

“It means I’m not trying hard enough.”

And she did. Insulting everything Enid liked was an unexpected step two after tried and true step one failed her, which was simply just base-level rudeness that turned away most people unfortunate enough to find themselves in her presence. At best it hadn’t affected Enid, and at worst it only made her more determined. 

Everything was a target—her pop music, her colors, social media, all of her quirks and habits that she’d probably been told in the past made her unique but Wednesday had the pleasure of informing her were just annoying. 

“You wear odd socks most of the time,” Wednesday told her one day, unprompted and jarring in the silence of their room as Enid was getting ready to go to the dining hall for breakfast. 

Enid looked down at her feet as if she needed to be reminded that one sock was completely blue while the other was simultaneously red, green, and white with embedded golden sparkles in what appeared to be some type of holiday theme. Wednesday didn’t need to be reminded. Wednesday would never forget. The image would haunt her every waking moment forever until the sweet embrace of death finally took her away from a world wherein such an eyesore was permitted to exist.

“Yeah, I don’t really sort them when I do my laundry.” Enid shrugged. “Just kinda throw ‘em all in the same drawer and play sock roulette in the morning. Adds a bit of excitement to my day, you know?”

And everyone thought Wednesday was a psychopath. 

“It’s unbecoming,” she said.

And Enid didn’t say anything, just hummed like she was agreeing, then proceeded to slip a converse onto one foot and a running sneaker onto the other, throw Wednesday one of those sickly sweet smiles and leave.

“Have you made any friends yet?”

“I’ve made an enemy.”

Because Enid’s little shoe stunt could really boil down to nothing else but an act of war.

Sadly, even after this there only seemed to be bad blood on Wednesday’s end, which was a disappointing predicament that she spent most of her time attempting to rectify.

But Enid was persistent, which was much much worse than hostile. Wednesday knew how to deal with hostility—Wednesday was hostility, and you could always fight fire with fire as long as one was big enough to consume the other. With Enid it was like fighting fire with water, but the water wasn’t even fighting back, just sitting there refusing to burn. Enid didn’t boil or evaporate or simmer or leave. Enid was an entirely new compound all together, and, like any good scientist, Wednesday’s goal was to figure out how to break its bonds.

Flame didn’t work. How about ice?

She tried this new strategy when Enid made a comment about a video she saw of Jennifer Lopez performing on stage with nobody in the stands. 

“And it’s a world tour, Wednesday!”

Wednesday didn’t say a word. No insult, no comment, no reprimand for talking during her writing hour. She just kept typing, and for a moment there was silence. The ding of her typewriter as she finished a page.

And then Enid proceeded to give her a ten point breakdown on every detail of Jennifer Lopez’s self-inflicted downfall for the next hour and a half.

So ice didn’t work either. Enid just skated on it. Forever and ever and ever and—

“Have you made any fr—?”

“I’d prefer if we just sat in silence for the duration of this call.”

One of the worst things about her predicament was that Enid seemed to like Thing. It seemed like a silly thing to concern herself with, but it was an unexpected twist given that over half of the earth’s population had some type of dislike for spiders and Enid, in Wednesday’s not-humble opinion, seemed to be exactly the type to fall into that category. She at least expected her to have a few questions. And, okay, technically she did question it, but it was less of the “you know I could report you because of this” kind of question that Wednesday had been hoping for, and more of a “he’s here? He’s here. Cool. Anyway…”

Not to mention the arrival of Thing only spurred Enid's impossibly long gossip train. She seemed to see him as another roommate instead of the eight-legged cricket eater that he was. Wednesday would come back sometimes, opening the door just to walk right into the middle of a debate about which sweater matched her shoes best, Thing standing in the corner of his enclosure watching with rapt attention as Enid sampled a few by holding them up in front of her.

(“Pink or blue?” Enid would ask, but Wednesday would hear, “eye-bleach or eye-acid?” and would’ve preferred either of the latter options to looking at any of Enid’s wardrobe.)

Worse again was that Thing liked her back. He’d always unearth himself from the sand when she entered and said hello to him, which was the tarantula equivalent of a dog jumping up happily on their owner when they came home from work. Wednesday called him a traitor sometimes, and he didn’t seem nearly as guilty as his actions warranted. 

Enid talked to Thing just as much as she talked to Wednesday, which was constantly. She was never deterred by Wednesday’s lack of response, or even by her frequent dry, mildly-to-very offensive responses.

Wednesday’s feelings about the chatter shifted as time went on. First it was infuriating, then frustrating, then annoying, then pesky, and then, on the first day of October, exactly three weeks after they’d met, Wednesday marked the exact moment it turned… idle. 

“… and then Sophie finds Donna’s diary from the year she got pregnant with her and it turns out she slept with three men within, like, the same couple of weeks. So her dad can either be Bill, Harry, or Pierce Brosnan—I forgot the name of the guy he played in the movie. Anyway, Sophie doesn’t know who to invite to the wedding so she… you’re eyeballs deep in homework. You’re not listening, are you?”

“Donna got around and Sophie is in need of a paternity test,” Wednesday muttered as she copied some notes. “Don’t insult my listening ability again. My hearing is exceptional.”

In addition to the endless chatter actually somehow making its may to the part of her brain that could comprehend it and form a response, Wednesday’s responses also started to get frighteningly amicable.

“Question: would you rather lose your sight or your hearing?”

“Used to be sight, but recently I’ve been considering both.”

And Enid laughed.

Startled, Wednesday looked up from typing, over her shoulder where Enid was sitting cross-legged on her bed, open textbook that she was pretending to look at in her lap and the glow of her phone screen lighting up her face quietly from below. Her hair was a little messy from previously being laid down and she was smiling at Wednesday in a knowing, teasing kind of way that made her feel a little restless. Like she wanted to squirm. Or stab something.

“What?” she asked.

“Did you just make a joke?”

Wednesday noted the twinkle in Enid’s eyes as something dangerous. Not in any way that was threatening to her physical well-being, but in a soft, subtle way that things usually weren’t dangerous but decidedly was to Wednesday’s stomach, which twisted and flipped like something falling out of a plane. 

“I assure you,” she said, turning back to her notes, “it was entirely serious.”

But was it?

Yes (no?). Absolutely (questionably?). For sure (for maybe if she was being generous?).

Sure, her snarky response was born of very real annoyance for all the things Enid had brought into her life that she never previously had to deal with, but even so there was no true malice in her tone—no sharp edge or hard bite like the other jabs she’d thrown her way. This one came out on a casual exhale, absentminded and instant. Like a…

Joke.

Her parents asked, “Have you made any friends yet?”

And Wednesday said, “No.”

Because it was true. Because perhaps the worst thing of all that resulted from being in proximity to Enid and her armada of nope was that Wednesday was getting used to it. It shouldn't have been in any earthly realm of possibility. Wednesday was existing, day in and day out, within six feet of almost everything in the world she loathed (if Enid somehow had her mother hiding in one of her drawers there would be no ‘almost’ to it), and yet Wednesday had become… fine with it. Even Enid’s colors didn’t seem as bright as before. Living with Enid used to be like looking directly at the sun through a magnifying glass, but sometime within the last month it was like someone had given her shades, and now that she realized it no longer hurt to look at Enid she found herself doing it a little more.

“So, what do you think? Pink top or blue?”

It was apparent that Enid shouldn’t have been becoming anything close to tolerable. She was different from Wednesday in every conceivable way. All of the things Wednesday found annoying were engraved in her very being.

“The blue one matches your shoes more.”

“That’s what I was thinking!”

This development wasn’t necessarily a concern. Even if her mind was becoming adjusted to Enid’s presence, it didn’t mean she wanted her around. She was no different than a clock ticking in an otherwise quiet room, or the light in the hallway that her brother used to insist be left on through the night because he was scared of the dark. Enid was simply a hindrance she’d adapted to. That was all.

It didn’t change the fact that she didn’t like Enid. She didn’t like anyone. Wednesday’s one and only goal in life had always been and always would be to be left completely and utterly alone.

And then one day Enid… did just that.

On her birthday of all days. How fitting. It should have been the perfect gift—the anger, the hurt, the slamming door, and ringing silence. All of it. She’d wished for it when Enid asked her to blow out that stupid candle and, like magic, it happened.

She should have relished in the quiet. She shouldn't have had to try so hard (and ultimately fail) to awaken that morbid sense of victory inside her that always presented itself when she saw someone flee. Enid had been sticking around like a pink blob of bubble gum on the pavement in July and now she was gone and Wednesday should have been a lot of things that she wasn’t. It was her most impressive social decimation to date.

But Wednesday couldn’t stop remembering the way the light left Enid’s eyes after she denied her gift. 

That’s how she spent all her oh-so-coveted alone time—eyes moving from the cupcake Enid gave her, to the strange assimilation of black yarn in her hands, to Enid’s side of the room, and waiting for the hole in her chest to stop growing, but it didn’t. It got bigger and bigger, swallowing bones and muscle and blood until the early afternoon sun printed Enid’s stupid decals on her side of the tape and Wednesday looked at the door that still hadn’t opened since Enid left and she suddenly felt very very cold.

Because… what if Enid didn’t come back?

Peace was the obvious answer. But it wasn’t the correct one.

But Enid came back, because of course she did. Because she was Enid, who still asked Wednesday if she wanted to go to the dining hall for supper and still asked her if she wanted to get lunch together. She was Enid, who looked for Wednesday’s gaze when Wednesday was looking for anything but her’s and smiled when she found it. She was the only person to ever look at Wednesday, see everything everyone else saw, and keep looking.

She was Enid, who had blue eyes like the ocean on a cloudy day and looked at Wednesday with them like she wanted to get to know her. 

And Wednesday should’ve hated her.

“Have you made any friends yet?” Wednesday’s parents asked.

And Wednesday said, “Friends? No. A roommate—yes.”

.     .     .

Tyler was a weird guy. Talked with a strange gravel in his voice and something about his eyes were a little too glassy and intent on Wednesday’s face when he took her order. But Wednesday was always drawn to the uncomfortable parts of life, and, no, she wasn’t exactly drawn to Tyler but she wasn’t not-drawn either—like riding a bike down a hill you don’t really need to get the bottom of for any reason, but just because there’s no work involved to get there so you might as well. 

Tyler worked at a coffee shop but wasn’t particularly friendly, which struck Wednesday as an odd but welcome combination when she ordered her morning quad over ice. He didn’t mind that Wednesday wasn’t too friendly either. 

She fixed the espresso machine because she was able to read Italian and he must’ve thought that was impressive because he remembered her order every time after that. And remembered her name.

“Wednesday, huh? That’s…”

“Odd. Yes, I know. If you’re too preoccupied trying to wrap your head around it, I can make my coffee myself.”

“I was going to say memorable.”

And he made her a quad over ice. And Tyler made good coffee.

He talked to her like he understood her—like he had some of the same struggles and views on the world, the dark and dreary and ‘my mom is dead and my dad wishes he was’ kind of stuff. She didn’t mind talking to Tyler since he didn’t talk that much either. Conversations were quick and painless and, often, not horrible. 

Enid knew about it. Not because Wednesday told her anything about him, but just because she was nosy to the point where Wednesday was certain that one day she’d stick it in the wrong person’s business and end up with it broken.

“So…” Enid hedged one weekend morning as they left the coffee shop after coming back from the gym. She was grinning and bouncy and Wednesday knew exactly what that meant and, as such, walked a little faster. It didn’t matter. Enid’s legs were longer and they were going back to the same room. Escape was just an illusion. “The barista, huh?” 

“What about him?”

“He’s cute.”

“If you’re going to make this about something as trivial and subjective as attractiveness I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”

Enid said, tone playful and twinkly, “You know that’s just a long-winded way of saying you agree, right?”

It was actually a long-winded way of telling her to shut up, but Wednesday was learning to hold off on certain comments in the nearly unattainable effort of not being an absolute fucking bitch. So she just stayed quiet.

Tyler was easier than Enid. Not in the way that she liked him better, but in the way that he was a dreary, mop-headed, burnt-out kind of guy that was exactly in her depth of things she was able to deal with. Enid was completely out of her depth. If Enid was a pool that was twenty feet deep, Wednesday was a person that didn’t know how to swim (or, more accurately, a perfectly streamlined stone that sunk right to the bottom with maximum efficiency). She had to rely completely on the buoyancy of the water to stay afloat. Luckily, Enid had a habit of giving her a couple arm floaties every now and then to help.

“I’m just saying, he seems to like you. And if there’s some super small, microscopic part of you that likes him back even a little bit, that’s a good thing!”

Wednesday hummed doubtfully. 

“And if there’s, like, zero percent of you that likes him and he’s being a creep or something we can… I don’t know. Do something about it.”

“Like what?”

“Strongly worded email? Arson? I still don’t really know where your moral compass begins and ends.”

“It begins much later than arson.”

They didn’t end up committing any arson, or a written lashing via gmail. Wednesday wasn’t yet prepared to admit that there was any part of herself that liked him, but she could acknowledge that she didn’t mind him at the very least. 

He asked Wednesday to the Rave’n one morning on his break and Wednesday said, “I’m not going.”

And Tyler must’ve already known her quite well because he just shrugged, unbothered, and said, “That’s okay, it’s going to be torture anyway.”

And, well… sure. Fine.

She found a dress, showed up, danced, and it was just okay. He took her to a spot behind the building for a break and to spike whatever he’d put in his red solo cup earlier. The air was threaded with autumn chill and midnight and the hair on the back of her neck stood up when a breeze rolled by, and Tyler told her she looked beautiful, took it back when she glared at him, then kissed her. And Wednesday let it happen because it was just okay. Drawn but not-drawn. Bike down a hill.

Later there was Ajax, who was, for lack of creativity and a steady temper, a complete fucking idiot. Consoling a crying person while not actively hunting down the thing that made her cry drained Wednesday so much the next time she got coffee was three days later.

Tyler slid her a quad over ice. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

And Wednesday had developed this startling new and disturbing habit of providing reasons for her behavior, so she said, “Enid’s been feeling bad. I’ve been preoccupied trying to keep myself from doing anything about it.”

“Enid. Wait, that’s your roommate? Frozen hot chocolate with extra whip and rainbow sprinkles?” He chuckled that quiet, airy chuckle he did, cut off on the end like a guillotine through a neck. “You must be going crazy living with her. She’s a little much, don’t you think?”

And… well, you can still crash a bike that wasn’t going anywhere specific.

That was the last time Wednesday saw Tyler Galpin, but not before she told him she thought it was ‘a little much’ that he was obviously putting effort into making his voice sound deeper than it was. She didn’t even take her coffee when she left and suffered through caffeine withdrawal until she had time to go off campus in the afternoon to get one. 

She heard from Bianca in fencing practice later in the week about his wrestling scandal and his resulting expulsion, and while she’d framed it as some sad attempt to hurt Wednesday’s feelings via demoralizing her kind-of ex, Wednesday only found herself quite relieved that she no longer had to make up excuses not to accompany Enid to the coffee shop on-campus.

.     .     .

“Other than the wrestling thing, did Tyler do anything else to make you break up with him?”

“We had… irreconcilable differences of opinion. That’s all.”

.     .     .

It was around Christmas time when Wednesday started to realize this whole friendship business was getting out of hand. 

Enid told her she wasn’t going home over the break and Wednesday was okay with that. More than okay.

It was actually such a strange feeling that erupted in her stomach when Enid broke the news that Wednesday didn’t respond due to the immediate commencement of a silent and thorough internal investigation of whatever the hell just went on inside her body (which, given her track record with emotions, would probably take at least seven to ten business days to iron out). Out of all the mild to fatal health conditions that could’ve been the result of her stomach flipping in on itself like a collapsing clay pot, her ailment turned out to be plain old… excitement. 

Just to clarify—Enid just told Wednesday that they would be interacting with each other day in and day out for two weeks in December. 

And Wednesday was looking forward to that.

She was truly in dire straights.

So along with that issue to contend with, she now had to figure out what to get Enid for Christmas. Shockingly, she wasn’t known for her thoughtfulness, which was sort of a necessary trait when picking out gifts for most people. Luckily for Wednesday, though, Enid wasn’t most people.

The idea for Enid’s Christmas gift was delivered to Wednesday on a Saturday morning in the first week of December the way most Enid-related things were delivered to Wednesday—by Enid herself. 

“You know, every time I see a record player I think ‘man, I would love one of those’. It just seems like such a cool aesthetic, right?”

“Right.”

“But then I think, like, would I even use it? They’re big too. Where would I put it? And then I’d have to go out and buy a bunch of records and that takes money and I don’t have a lot of that, so I think it’s just going to go on my bucket list of things to get when I’m old and, like, figured out.”

Wednesday was sure the entirety of Enid could never be something that was simply ‘figured out’. But she could get her a record player.

When she asked her father for a record player player from his collection, he affectionately called her his little viper then denied her request because, “remember when you were four and you asked if you could look at them, but that was just an excuse so you could take all the needles?” When Wednesday told him the record player was actually for Enid, he assured that while they’d do anything for her friend (“Roomate,” Wednesday corrected), Enid couldn’t have the needles either. It was at this point that her mother realized he was too hung up on the needle aspect of the whole endeavor and suggested that maybe Wednesday planned to give Enid the whole record player.

As a gift.

Her father’s eyes widened with the realization, eyebrows raising but the rest of his pixelated face slackening with shock. It was a stunned silence that followed in the next few seconds—a silence in which Wednesday was rapidly becoming tempted to make more silent by ending this useless call.

“If you’re too attached to them it’s not a problem,” she said finally. “I will just buy one mys—“

“No! No, of course you can have one! I just thought—I didn’t know you were planning to—I’m so proud that you—“

Her mother interjected.  “What your father means to say, Darling, is we will take the laptop to his collection so you can pick out whichever one you want for your… roommate.”

“Can you have it in the post by tomorrow?”

“With expedited shipping.”

‘Something by Taylor Swift’ was the obvious answer when her mother asked what type of music Enid listens to, to which her father mused was an odd title for a song before Wednesday granted them all a favor by ending the call before she stabbed a knife through the screen and had to buy a new laptop. 

Christmas came, as Christmas did, and this year Wednesday hadn’t even been praying she’d sleep through the day (or somehow have it pass unknowingly through some other mode of unconsciousness). The ornament Enid gave her and the noise-canceling headphones were an inspired choice, and it didn’t escape Wednesday’s observation that it was an expensive gift. Wednesday somehow felt incredibly grateful and guilty at the same time. She knew Enid didn’t get help from her parents in regards to funds so Wednesday was convinced she’d be getting some sort of crocheted outerwear for Christmas, which would have been just as appreciated given the quality of Enid’s work and the apparent inability of Wednesday’s body to retain heat.

But she was also starkly aware that berating Enid for spending too much money on her would’ve been an excellent way to ruin her favorite holiday, so she just expressed her genuine thanks and moved on.

Enid was uncharacteristically quiet upon opening her gift, and then the gift from Wednesday’s parents. A strike of fear went through Wednesday’s heart when she noticed the tears in her eyes, and Wednesday thought ‘not again’ and started picking up stray pieces of paper to appear busy. 

It didn’t work. Enid’s warm fingers landed on her wrist and, like a reflex, Wednesday looked up. That always happened—Enid would offhandedly touch Wednesday’s arm to get her attention, or speak to her, or look at her, and she didn’t even really have to do anything because Wednesday was always kind of half paying attention to her anyway. It was only ever after Enid confirmed she wanted that attention that the restraint was broken. Whatever string that kept Wednesday gaze on anything else would snap and whatever magnets Enid’s eyes were made of must’ve been whatever was polar to Wednesday’s because she always looked.

She was drawn to Enid, even though there was nothing dark or dreary about her.

Impossibly, astoundingly, inescapably drawn to Enid Sinclair. 

Enid blinked most of the tears out of her eyes, stared for a second, said her name, and Wednesday thought she might ask for a hug. 

The power went out just as Wednesday realized she would’ve said yes.

.     .     .

It was late in the winter when Wednesday started to realize she was looking at Enid a lot. 

It was actually Enid who noticed it first one day when they were in their room, Wednesday folding clothes and Enid sitting on her bed with her phone in her lap, probably scrolling through instachat or snapgram. Wednesday was thinking about nothing in particular, absentmindedly folding a pair of jeans when Enid’s voice broke through the fog like a ship into a harbor.

“Do I have something on my face or…?”

Wednesday blinked and… there was Enid.

There was Enid, raising her eyebrows expectantly before looking down at herself as though searching for any type of abnormality that would cause Wednesday to stare. Wednesday, in a moment of desperation, followed her lead and looked too. Surely there was some logical reason for her eyes to land on her of all places.

But nope. It was just Enid. Sitting there as usual.

“I was lost in thought and you happened to be in the way,” Wednesday lied. She hadn’t been thinking. It was the opposite of that. Whatever mental activity was going on when absolutely nothing was knocking around between her synapses.

Enid bought it nevertheless. Went on with an anecdote about a time in highschool when she was trying to think of a joke she heard about barium to tell her friend during a science lab (she couldn’t remember the joke when she tried to repeat it to Wednesday, and she was quite distraught by this) and when she finally tuned back into the world she’d missed the entire laboratory safety talk and now she’s the reason her school doesn’t have Bunsen burners.

(Later on their walk to the dining hall, struck by sudden inspiration, Enid blurted “What’ll a chemist do with a dead body?” and Wednesday was about to point out that there were a lot of options depending on their research objectives, but Enid just said, “He’ll barium!” and Wednesday was honestly glad to see that come full circle for her.)

Obviously looking at Enid wasn’t a conscious decision. Enid already had two strikes in regards to things that Wednesday actively avoided looking at—people and color. It was strange that Wednesday found her eyes drifting to her now more often than not.

At first it was completely accidental.

She’d be thinking through some type of academic problem, look up from her paper in contemplation, then come back to reality to find her eyes absently focused on unicorn pyjama bottoms and blond curls hanging over a phone screen. Sure, it was a little strange, but Wednesday could come up with valid reason for it. Eyes are naturally drawn to movement, after all, and Enid was always bouncing or twirling a pen between her fingers. It made sense that in a moment of inattention her gaze would flick to the only other moving thing in the room besides the tarantula on her table. It didn’t mean anything.

Then, as the snow started to melt, the sun started to shine, and a few light freckles started to pop up on Enid’s cheeks that Wednesday hadn’t noticed before, she realized she’d noticed a lot more about Enid than she gave herself credit for. 

Like how she held her tongue between her teeth when she curled her hair, or got to a particularly difficult section of a crochet project, or did anything that required a level of focus that was more than what was required for scrolling through her phone but less than what was required for studying. She sometimes looked at Wednesday like this, which meant Wednesday had either said something incredibly obvious or incredibly not obvious and Enid was questioning how she’d gotten this far in life without being punched in the face (the answer was that Wednesday had incredibly fast reflexes).

But mostly Wednesday noticed how she always smiled when she saw people she knew, even if she was expecting them to be there. People in the hall, or friends from her classes, or even professors walking by. And she always smiled when she saw Wednesday—that same smile she’d worn that very first day when she introduced herself, all bright and real and morning sun.

One day they were coming back from the gym on a weekend. They’d gotten a late start and it was early afternoon and snowing. The spindly branches of a nearby barren tree cast crooked shadows on the ground, but Wednesday looked up at Enid who was looking up at the tree, the limited light of the overcast sky twinkling in her eyes, snowflakes stuck in the ends of her hair, cheeks rosy from the cold, and Wednesday said,

“Your eyes look extra blue today.”

Enid’s eyebrows pinched in a little as her gaze dropped to Wednesday. “What do you mean ‘today’?”

“Sometimes they look blue, and less times green, and sometimes a mix of the two.” 

“I… didn’t know that.”

“It’s just an effect of different lighting conditions,” Wednesday said. “It’s a common phenomenon.”

It was only later that Wednesday recognized her supposed observation for what it actually was—a confession. A confession that was observing. A confession that acknowledged the fact that Wednesday actively avoided every color that had the audacity to be in her line of sight, yet had been paying enough attention to Enid’s eyes to know the frequency of each shade. 

And at this point nothing was a real shock. Wednesday had started engaging in a lot of new behaviors ever since she started engaging with Enid, so the looking thing was just another added to the list. 

Additionally, looking for Enid’s things.

“You forgot your hat again.”

She knew Enid was amused by Wednesday’s hat-finding prowess (as well as her subsequent Enid-finding prowess that must be possessed so she could return the hat). She might’ve had a history of misinterpreting facial expressions, but she was pretty good with Enid’s at this point. She knew her little eye roll was fond, not annoyed. Knew the lopsided smile she’d put on afterwards was just in case Wednesday did think the eye roll was annoyed and she was confirming it wasn’t.

On this particular day Wednesday found her hat-less roommate coming out of the gym. The door had barely clicked shut behind her before Wednesday was approaching, the neglected accessory held by her fingertips in an outstretched hand, trying to put as much distance between herself and the tri-coloured garment as possible.

And Enid smiled. Because Enid always smiled when she saw Wednesday.

(Wednesday’s stomach always did weird things when she saw Enid’s smile, so this was a vicious and confusing cycle.)

She took the hat from Wednesday and said, “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m not forgetting it?”

This did not occur to Wednesday. Wednesday was certain Enid would forget her own head if it wasn’t attached to her neck.

“What other reason could you possibly have for leaving it?”

“Maybe I just know you’ll bring it to me. And maybe I just want to see you.”

Well, that would be a first.

The winter air was suddenly warm on Wednesday’s face despite it being… you know. Winter air. “There’s easier ways to go about that.”

“Getting my hat back?”

“Seeing me.”

“Like what?”

“You could ask.”

Enid looked pleased and Wednesday realized that maybe the warmth on her cheeks was from a little more than the cold and maybe Enid knew that. “In that case, movie night tonight?”

And Enid didn’t really need to ask. It was beneficial in some sense since Wednesday would never invite herself to watch a movie with Enid, just sit on the other side of the room silently accepting that Enid wanted to do some things alone and that was fine. Wednesday didn’t exactly live in fear of interrupting time that Enid may have wanted to spend by herself, but she did always consider it—if Enid actually wanted to do things with her or was just asking her because she was there and that was the polite thing to do. 

It was just another one of those new behaviors to add to the ever growing list of weird shit she did around Enid. 

Overthinking.

Enid told her that she got in her head about things sometimes. It seemed like an obvious statement to direct at someone who had spent the last eighteen years of her life preferring her own company over anyone else’s, but she also knew that wasn’t what Enid was referring to. 

“I was planning on going to the grocery store tonight,” she said hesitantly one day.

“Cool,” Enid replied.

“Do you need anything? I could pick it up for you, or you could… just tell me what you want. I’ll—“

Fond eye roll. Lopsided smile. “Yes, I’ll go to the grocery store with you.”

It was something she’d started doing with Enid—beating around the bush. Given her nature, it was a habit she hated on a deep level, yet often found directness to be more than a little unattainable in Enid’s presence. It’s not like she was scared to ask Enid to do things. She wasn’t. Just more… not used to it. Letting Enid figure out what she wanted based on loose context clues was far easier than stating it directly. Leading a horse to water and all that.

And it wasn’t the first time it occurred to Wednesday that she did indeed want to be around Enid. To do things with her. She’d gotten so used to her at this point that when she was gone something always felt a little off. A little duller. The sharp edge of a knife scraping rock. A cloud in front of the sun.  

Like most things with Enid, Wednesday took it for granted until it was gone. Or… about to be.

The end of the semester came gradually, but somehow all at once. It didn’t really seem real until it was there and Wednesday found herself sitting at her desk, tallying up all of the stuff she’d have to take down the stairs in suitcases in the coming days. Enid talked about it surprisingly little. Wednesday had expected her to mourn the loss of their living space like a terminally ill family member for at least the last week leading up to them leaving, but she didn’t. The days passed and exams came and went and Enid was fine. And Wednesday was too, of course. She didn’t have the same emotional attachments to inanimate objects as Enid did so she was completely neutral about it. Completely fine.

And it was a sunny day. That last one.

Their exams had ended the day before, and for the first time in a long time Wednesday woke up to her alarm blaring at six o’clock in the morning and the only thing she had to do about it was turn it off. There was nothing to get up for, and the sunlight streaming in through the window and scattered across her sheets was warm. And it wasn’t long before sleep took her again. 

Until she woke to the click of the door opening and closing and, a couple seconds later, weight sinking down the edge of her mattress. The sun was still warm. She kept her eyes closed. 

“Hey,” Enid finally whispered, “so it’s nine-thirty and I’ve never seen you sleep this late and I didn’t want to wake you up but I’m kind of worried you might be in some sort of coma.”

Wednesday felt a little like that. She was on her stomach, arms folded under the pillow, the side of her face pressed into the cushion. By all accounts it seemed like she was in her last stage of evolution into merging with her own mattress. The earth must’ve been spinning faster this morning. Gravity was stronger.

She opened her eyes. Enid was blurry.

“Thank god.” Enid seemed genuinely relieved with the confirmation that she was alive and at least a fraction coherent. “I made pancakes and there’s way too many for me to eat alone.”

This was false. There wasn’t a number of pancakes that Enid couldn’t put away in that black hole she called a stomach. Wednesday had once seen her eat twelve in one sitting. It was impressive.

She hoped she communicated every part of that sentiment effectively with her eyes before she closed them again. 

There was a little jostle in the mattress that must’ve been from Enid settling in a little more comfortably. “Tomorrow’s leaving day,” she mused.

Wednesday’s voice was crackly and mumbled from just waking up. “That’s tomorrow. Not today.”

“Well, yeah. But in order to leave we need to pack, which you won’t be able to do with your eyes closed.”

“I once fended off two grown men with my eyes closed. Packing a suitcase won’t be a problem.”

Enid let out an acknowledging hum, and of all the things that could have possibly happened next, the most unexpected was fingers digging and wiggling into Wednesday’s side through her sheets. And Wednesday didn’t squeak (because Wednesday didn’t squeak), but a threatening—sort of high-pitched but definitely not a squeak—noise escaped her throat as her body jumped away like a bunch of coiled springs released.

Her vision was clear this time when she glared at Enid, but Enid was just grinning. And she always grinned like that when she caught Wednesday doing something un-Wednesday-like, but usually it was something along the lines of Wednesday forgetting a period in a text or unthinkingly using one of Enid’s new-age slang words in conversation. This grin was like she’d caught her dancing in a field of daisies under a double rainbow (which, let’s be honest, would have been a far less embarrassing discovery).

With all the carefully concealed smugness of a cat with a mouse wiggling between its teeth, Enid said,  “Did… either of those dudes you fought try that?”

“Have fun eating your pancakes alone.”

Wednesday shoved her arms back under her pillow and shut her eyes, and Enid’s laugh was like tingling sunlight through glass. 

The bedframe squeaked and squealed as weight settled next to Wednesday in the space she’d left when she retreated. She didn’t mind Enid being next to her—not since that frosty night with the lost power and ghosts and the wind up flashlight and Enid. She almost opened her eyes again on instinct, but Enid would be closer now and… well, that didn’t matter. But it did, and Wednesday chose not to think about what that meant. That she wasn’t afraid of Enid being close—even wanted her close—but was afraid to look at her when she was. 

Neither of them said anything for a while. Breakfast could wait, apparently, for the two of them to wear out their welcome on a small creaky bed with sheets warmed by the sun. Outside there were footfalls in the hall, the sound of luggage wheels rolling past the door, but for them there was no rush, nowhere to be. There was only quiet, steady breathing and warm light through Wednesday’s eyelids, the other side of her bed weighed down with a person that felt a lot like a sunrise and smelled a little like pancakes.

“I’ll miss this place too,” Enid finally said, and something deep in Wednesday’s chest twisted and filled with blood.

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Oh yeah, I know. I’m just saying that I also slept in this morning, and I was lying in bed thinking ‘if you get up, you need to start packing’ and that’s one step closer to actually leaving and that made me kinda sad so I didn’t. But eventually I realized that it’s not that deep and I could just make pancakes. So I did.”

Wednesday opened her eyes and—yup, there she was. Summer sky met graveyard and Wednesday could map every color in those eyes—the lighter parts in the middle and dark ring around the edge of her iris. She could stare until she memorized every fleck of green and named every shade of blue.

“My point is…” Enid continued quietly, “if you did feel some type of way about leaving here, that would be, like, super valid and stuff.”

That sounded a lot like Enid was going to let her stay in bed for a little longer. Wednesday had never been one to sleep in, but she would if Enid stayed, eyes inches from her own, steady and warm like bright sunlight on black sheets. 

But in the end, Enid was right. They had things to do. Starting with pancakes.

And the pancakes were cold, but their last day in the dorm was good. They spent the whole day inside and Enid lit a scented candle that Wednesday had previously deemed “tolerable” and played her Evermore record. They packed what they could and left what they couldn’t. Enid scraped her decals off her half of the window and Wednesday watched them fall to the floor, one by one, with a weird pressure in the bottom of her throat. They sat together on Enid’s bed after having ramen for supper and watched movies with ice cream and for once Wednesday wished the sun would shine for just a little longer that day. But it didn’t, and sleep came too early.

The next day was waking up at the crack of dawn and a lot of trips up and down the dorm house steps with heavy bags. The spatial capacity of Wednesday’s car was tested to the max, as well as the spatial capacity of Enid’s suitcases given that Wednesday actually had to sit on one in order for Enid to be able to zip it closed.

“Alright,” Enid sighed as they jammed the back door shut on the last of their bags. “Let’s go back for one more look around. Make sure we never forgot anything.”

They hadn’t forgotten anything. Wednesday’s whole packing checklist was accounted for, along with every member of Enid’s stuffed animal militia. 

Wednesday said, “You go back. I’ll wait in the car.”

And Enid just rolled her eyes and pulled her back inside by the hand.

So now Wednesday was standing in the open doorway while Enid crouched down to look under things that were too low to the ground for anything to possibly get lost beneath. Everything was bare—beds, walls, desks, and drawers. Every sneaker scuff and word scraped against the silence too loudly and the late afternoon sunlight coming in through the window was just plain white.

Eventually Enid’s search must’ve gleaned that they hadn’t left anything behind and she came to stand beside Wednesday in the doorway. For a moment they just looked over the room that could barely be recognized as their own.

Enid finally said, “I always found it funny how the sun shines on your side of the room in the morning.”

“That’s typically how the sun works,” Wednesday replied flatly. “I’d be more concerned if it switched every now and then.”

A nudge against her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

Wednesday did. It was on Enid’s side in the evening, and Wednesday would be lying if she said she wouldn’t miss the way the orange light of the sunset twinkled through the colors in the window. 

Enid was silent for a few seconds. Too long considering she was Enid and breaking every silence known to man was her entire thing. When Wednesday looked, she was unsurprised to find her with her lips pressed together, eyes glassy and fluttering with blinks. 

“It’s just a room,” Wednesday said. Enid sniffled. “You have more of them at your house, I’m sure.”

A weak chuckle. Enid leaned into Wednesday, reaching up to wipe a tear that was about to fall. If Wednesday was normal, this might be the moment where she’d pat her shoulder and whisper some unhelpful soothing nonsense like ‘there there’, but, as usual, normalcy eluded her. As it was, Wednesday was incurably herself, and the most she could provide Enid in terms of emotional support was the physical taking of her weight.

Also, Wednesday’s throat felt a little weird. She didn’t want to talk too much, so for now she just leaned against Enid too.

“It’s just a room,” Enid repeated.

Though her eyes stung, Wednesday nodded.

As they waited at the greyhound station for Enid’s bus to come, the sun was beginning to set. Enid cried a little and said she’d miss her, and Wednesday, through what could only be some act of divine intervention, found the emotional fortitude to voice the same sentiment. She almost hoped Enid would ask for a hug. But she didn’t.

Instead she just got on the bus and then, much too soon, she was gone.

Wednesday stood beneath the flickering street light with the setting sun in her eyes, for the second time in her life, feeling unbearably alone.

.     .     .

Over the summer, Wednesday always wore clothes with pockets. Sweaters, pants, and bags from the deep recesses of her closet were unearthed to meet this new requirement. They all smelled like the dust from the back of her closet and had deep creases in obvious places from being folded for too long. It’s not like she previously took any special effort to avoid pockets; they were useful for holding many essentials—knives, lighters, wallets, keys, knives. But the fact remained that whether or not she had a pocket rarely hindered her in life. She could always put the knives and particularly thin lighters in her boot or a waistband, and a wallet and keys weren’t something she needed to bring with her every moment of the day anyway.

There was only one reason she needed to have a pocket at all times during the summer.

She needed a place to put her phone.

Some would argue that receiving texts from a single person was not a valid excuse to cart a cellphone around everywhere she went, which Wednesday would agree with but also wouldn’t change a thing about her behavior because she didn’t much care about validity or logic in the moments that she’d drop everything to retrieve the device every time it dinged. And she meant dropped literally. The welt on Pugsley's forehead from when she’d let a shovel go while he was down in a hole they dug one night was a fading reminder that she had not returned home as the same heartless, solitary creature she’d left.

It was disappointing and embarrassing from every perspective she could look at it. Pugsley thought it was nice even though he had a defined lump on his head that clearly proved the opposite.

When Wednesday engaged in thought about her dark purpose in the universe (which she typically scheduled for a couple minutes either before or after her writing time in the evening), she couldn't imagine Enid was a part of it. It just didn’t make sense. She was built from the dark things—put together with nails and hammers and sharp pointy ends that dug into each other. She found delight in darkness and satisfaction in all the little macabre parts of living that nobody else wanted to lay eyes on. 

Enid… well, Enid once cried watching a beer commercial wherein a golden retriever and Clydesdale horse became friends.

Wednesday would reiterate: It made a negative amount of sense that, out of all the serial killers and weirdos and taxidermists in the world, the person who ended up falling into her lap and staying there was… that.

Her only explanation was that Enid’s appearance in her life was a test from the universe. What exact trait of her’s this test was testing was still under active investigation, but Wednesday figured it probably had something to do with perseverance through tumultuous, stuffed-animal-filled conditions.

Or maybe the test was simply… not having her around. 

Because that was pretty hard.

Honestly, it felt like the longest summer Wednesday had ever spent. When the day came to pack up her things and cart them all the way back to Vermont she didn’t sleep in, she didn’t hesitate. Didn’t need anyone to lie down next to her in bed and give her some therapy-like pep talk and lure her out with pancakes. Wednesday had been waiting all summer to go back, and when she got the call from Enid that she was stranded at a station two hours away from Nevermore, Wednesday didn’t hesitate then either. 

Enid was crying and soaked to the bone when Wednesday finally saw her again. The rain was pelting so hard Wednesday was sogged within seconds of getting out of her car, jogging through the parking lot and calling Enid’s name. 

Enid hugged her then, and it was one of those tight, crushing ones that took the weight off her bones, squeezed the loose parts of her back into place and reinstalled the ones she didn‘t realize had been missing. She hugged Wednesday like it was the thing she was made to do and Wednesday’s arms wrapped around her like they never had an option to do anything else.

There was a pressure in Wednesday’s throat, right at the bottom that she had to swallow around. She squeezed Enid back and realized she felt like home.

.     .     .

If Wednesday had been hoping for her and Enid’s relationship to start right back off where they’d left it, she’d had far too high expectations. Enid had been acting strange since the car ride from Glen Falls, and that really set the tone for the rocky rekindling of their relationship in the coming months. 

Wednesday met a few different versions of Enid during this time.

The first was ‘not Enid’ Enid, which was the version present for a very short time between their drive back from Glen Falls to the night of Bianca’s party. ‘Not Enid’ Enid was pretty much the same as the Enid Wednesday remembered, but something was off that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. 

(Wednesday briefly met ‘as seen through alcohol’ Enid the night of the party. This Enid swam and spun in Wednesday’s vision, and was ultimately remembered as warm and solid and very very pretty.)

It wasn’t long after the party that ‘not Enid’ Enid made the jarring transition to ‘liking Ajax’ Enid. The result here was that the off-ness of ‘not Enid’ Enid had decidedly disappeared, but so did Enid herself. Her successor, ‘dating Ajax’ Enid was around even less, but even then when she was around she was good. She was the Enid Wednesday remembered from the year prior despite her overall absence. 

Something shifted again after the New Year. Wednesday briefly got a taste of ‘heartbroken’ Enid, which lasted all of one 7-eleven slurpee trip before morphing into ‘fuck I’m bi’ Enid, which then—due to Enid’s proficiency for spiralling—morphed into ‘FUCK I’M BI’ Enid (yes, in all caps). 

And it’s not like Wednesday had a problem with any of these variations. Enid was clearly struggling through a serious self-acceptance journey and anybody that she had to become as a result of that was valid and respected. All Wednesday could do was continue to be herself and hope that Enid found her way back there eventually too.

But Wednesday got one more version of Enid, and this one might’ve been the most challenging of them all.

‘Whishy-washy’ Enid.

And when Wednesday said “challenging”, she didn’t mean it in a way that Enid was work. She wasn’t. She was just… highly and unendingly confusing to Wednesday during this time. And, yes, it could be argued that Enid was highly confusing to Wednesday during any time, but at least she was predictably confusing before with her emotions and behaviors and what she said and when. Now it all came seemingly at random.

It started with her complimenting Wednesday a lot. 

To be fair, this wasn’t unusual in itself. Enid had always been the type of person to casually blurt out that someone looked pretty or that they were sweet or that she really thought the color of their sweater brought out their eyes. The compliments wouldn’t be out of place if they didn’t come so often, and if they didn’t always seem to have a common theme.

“I love that outfit on you.”

“Your mascara looks great today.”

“You really pull off black nail polish, you know that?”

“You look hot.”

The last one came on a particularly warm day in March that the forecast hadn’t called for. She’d put on her coat that day expecting five degrees celsius but instead stepped out into double digits and didn’t have time to change. She explained this to Enid, who seemed randomly put out for at least the next hour afterwards.

The main trait of ‘wishy-washy’ Enid? Her mood switched on a dime.

She could’ve started off as anything—happy, bored, content, idle, excited—but somehow the end result was always the same. Irritation.

It took Wednesday a while to figure it out. By nature, she wasn’t good with emotions, so at first she thought about Enid’s behavior in terms she understood. And Enid seemed… sharp.

Not that Wednesday had ever minded sharp things. She preferred them—crisp lines, striking contrast, the bite of winter, and if anyone ever tried to cut an onion with a dull knife, they’d instantly understand why Wednesday dedicated a couple hours a week to steeling her collection. Sharp meant clean. It meant tidy. It meant all of the things that made Wednesday’s bones sit comfortably under her muscles.

But from Enid, sharp made her uneasy. Enid wasn’t sharp. Bold, yes. Bright, loud, and breathtaking, but never sharp. Always more like a punch to the gut than anything that would break skin.

This sharpness always came after Wednesday’s response to one of those compliments, which meant the sharpness was directed at Wednesday which meant that Enid was mad at her.

And Wednesday didn’t care. She was an independent person who’d never let anyone else’s feelings directly affect her own. It would be pathetic to worry about something like this when Enid likely just had her own things going on and, as a result, came off a little touchy. Wednesday wouldn’t worry about it.

“I think Enid is mad at me.”

This was Wednesday’s greeting to Yoko one day when she found her (hunted her down)  in the common room of the library. She pulled out a chair at her table and dropped down into it, and Yoko didn’t even glance up from her open textbook as she took a sip of her bubble tea.

And Yoko said, “I wouldn’t call it mad so much as impatient.”

“Impatient in what sense?” 

Yoko hummed around her mouthful of tea, swallowed, and said, “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Why?”

“Enid forbade me.”

“Why did she—“

“Listen, Wednesday.” Yoko sighed and leisurely flipped a page. “As much as I would love to tell you—and believe me, I would love to…” she looked up here, seeking Wednesday’s eyes in an oddly intentional kind of way that Wednesday didn’t understand and would just boil down to a poor social choice. “I’m a good friend who doesn’t go around telling people her secrets.”

Wednesday… could respect that. She admired loyalty, after all, and anyone willing to uphold that quality even in the face of an Addams who really wanted information that only they possessed was a strong individual indeed. 

So Wednesday didn’t threaten Yoko for a couple of reasons. 

Firstly, through some terrible twist of fate she actually happened to like the girl.

Secondly, Wednesday couldn’t imagine threatening one of Enid’s best friends with bodily or psychological harm would get her any closer to returning to Enid’s good side. 

It left few viable options besides just… letting the anger run its course. Enid’s emotions came strong and fast, but they tended to leave just as quickly. All Wednesday had to do was wait it out.

“You have an eyelash on your cheek,” Enid told her one day, sitting across from her in the dining hall early in the morning. Not many other people were around and they had a table for two. “Hold on, I’ll get it. Then you can make a wish.”

Wednesday sat there obediently while Enid leaned in pretty close, fingertips carefully making a few tries at Wednesday’s cheek to pinch the offending eyelash off. It probably didn’t help that Enid wasn’t really looking at it. She was looking lower on Wednesday’s face for some reason.

“It might be helpful if you looked at my cheek instead of my lips.”

Enid’s face shifted from intent focus to that now familiar flat irritation. Her eyes snapped up to Wednesday’s, but this close Wednesday could tell that they were really more like daggers. “Really? Would that be helpful?”

“Yes. You’d probably be able to get it faster if you—“ Enid pinched her cheek hard enough for Wednesday to wince. 

“Got it.”

Enid dropped the eyelash on the floor. No wishes for Wednesday, apparently.

There were a lot of times like that—quiet, close moments turned sharp on a dime, usually after words came out of Wednesday’s mouth that she didn’t see a problem with but promptly lived to regret. 

One day she came back from fencing with a scratch on her head. It was dark outside and she just planned to go to bed, but Enid looked up, saw the blood, gasped like Wednesday had just walked into the room headless, and declared that she was going to patch her up.

Which lead to Wednesday sitting on the counter in the bathroom, feet dangling, Enid standing in front of her dabbing her forehead with a cotton pad soaked with non-sting antiseptic wash. Wednesday would’ve preferred something that actually felt like it was working, but it was Enid’s first aid kit. 

It was a peaceful moment. The shower room smelled like some type of cleaning product and steam coated the edges of the mirrors. The small, square frosted window on the far wall was dark from the night outside, and Enid’s eyes were steady and close, the fluorescent lights above the mirrors reflecting in them like a scattering of tiny stars. 

“Your eyes look greener than usual tonight,” Wednesday found herself saying, and though she’d been quiet her voice seemed so loud against the silence. It didn’t matter, really. At some point between the year before and now she’d stopped being embarrassed about observing things about Enid—about Enid knowing she did that. It was par for the course at this point and they both knew it. Wednesday would notice little things about Enid and Enid would notice little things about Wednesday, then they’d sit there and pretend like it meant nothing.

And, no, Wednesday didn’t know what it actually meant, but “nothing” seemed like far too easy an explanation to be true.

Enid huffed a little laugh. She took away the cotton pad as her eyes dropped to Wednesday’s, and just like that Wednesday was unable to look anywhere else. “Yours look a little lighter too,” she said. And with a slight quirk of her brow, “I think the blood really brings them out.”

A huff of air through Wednesday’s nose and Enid grinned, the same teasing one she sometimes did that made Wednesday a little restless, and looked down to rustle through her bag for something. After a moment she pulled out a bandaid.

Any hint of previous amusement died on Wednesday’s face. “I am not wearing that.“

“What? You think you’re too cool for a bandaid?”

“That’s not a bandaid, it’s a sad marketing ploy that preys on the fleeting interests of children in order to wring money from their parents.”

“Oh, come on. The Hello Kitty ones are all I have.”

She lifted the abomination to Wednesday’s head and Wednesday leaned back like she was pointing a flamethrower in her face (which would have been much preferred). 

Enid sighed, raised her eyebrows, and said, “Please?”

And, well…

“Fine.”

Enid sung a long, drawn-out “thank you” as she gently stuck the bandaid over the scratch. She wasn’t even surprised at this point, and neither was Wednesday. It seemed to be some unwritten law of the universe that the only thing on earth that could override any of Wednesday’s stubborn principles were the things Enid wanted. 

Even so, Wednesday tried to act much more displeased about it than she actually was, which was, embarrassingly, not at all.

When Enid was done she leaned back to admire her handiwork. Wednesday gave her a look like a disgruntled cat forced to wear a bow, but Enid just shook her head in wonder and said, “Damn, you look good.”

Despite herself, Wednesday’s lips tugged traitorously into a smile. Enid’s laugh bounced off the tile walls, and there was a moment when she looked at Wednesday with a light in her eyes that made them blue and green and sunny all at once, and Wednesday couldn’t care less about the smile that was still on her own face. She’d smile forever if Enid kept looking at her like that.

And then Enid leaned in a little closer. Her gaze held Wednesday’s like a vice and the air suddenly seemed a little thick and warm. Wednesday would forever blame that on any leftover steam in the room and not on the way Enid looked at the bandaid and then back down and said,

“Should I kiss it better?”

Wednesday honestly forgot how to speak for a couple of seconds. Forgot what words were. Then she opened her mouth and—

“Kissing a wound is actually very unhygienic, which—”

Enid rolled her eyes so hard it had to hurt, wordlessly grabbed her first aid bag and left Wednesday sitting on the counter with her heart beating a little fast.

And Wednesday thought that maybe if she was getting a different version of Enid, Enid was probably getting a different version of Wednesday too. She wasn’t sure yet what she’d call this version, but so far its distinguishing traits were putting her foot in her mouth and a mind frequently turned to static.

She also realized that it wasn’t ‘sharp’ Enid that made Wednesday nervous, instead whatever she was right before, when her gaze was a little more intent and her voice was a little quieter. It was something soft and subtle that shouldn’t have been rattling and yet Wednesday always found herself frozen, powerless against the sudden dryness in her mouth and restlessness in her fingers. She’d blurt the first thing that came to mind in whatever charged silence occurred and that’s when Enid got annoyed. 

At least now she knew the pattern. The downside was that the identification of a problem didn’t ensure any inherent ability to fix it (the upside was absolutely nothing. Twenty feet of water… streamlined stone… yada yada yada. Wednesday was in deep, and Enid didn’t give out arm floaties anymore. She had to figure this out on her own).

A bigger problem, after all, was that Wednesday wasn’t even sure if this was something she could fix. She couldn’t control her reaction when Enid’s attention was on her so close and quiet. Acting anything other than a brain-dead idiot during these times wasn’t something that was up for discussion—it wasn’t adjustable, or debatable, or fixable, it just was. 

And it was getting worse, getting harder to live with it. She couldn’t do it forever and it felt like something was building, like every day another block was put under her feet and she was going higher and higher and it was getting wobblier and wobblier. Every day the potential drop was just a little more deadly and imminent and Wednesday was certain it was only a matter of time before it all came crashing down. 

And it turned out to be pretty obvious. 

The crash.

Enid had a bad day. She’d slept passed her alarm that morning and missed breakfast, got a bad grade on a test, spilled coffee all over her favorite fluffy pink jacket, and hurt her ankle at track practice. Also, one of her favorite celebrity couples filed for divorce and she took it pretty hard.

Wednesday didn’t get back to the room until later. Her fencing practice had gotten rescheduled for the evening and by the time she swung their door open the setting sun was painting one half of the hardwood in golden orange and the other half in warm blocks of pink and blue and green. Enid looked up from her phone, the edges of her hair highlighted from behind like a goddamn halo, blue eyes fluttering with a few blinks.

And Wednesday might not have had the best day either, but admittedly, in that moment, it felt pretty good.

The only thing that was off was that Enid was surrounded by a semicircle of papers and books in what appeared to be some sort of study shrine and when she smiled it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Wednesday didn’t say anything, just closed the door behind her and made her way to Enid’s nightstand, where she lined up a coaster with the corner of the surface and put down the frozen hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and sprinkles she’d gotten her on the way back. Along with a small tub of rainbow ice cream. 

Enid didn’t say anything either, just pressed her lips together as she looked at the random items, blinking a few times. Overall, she just seemed tired. 

Wednesday said, “Sorry.”

Because she was. She was sorry Enid had a bad day. She was sorry all she could do about it was get her two variations of frozen things that she liked.

Enid sighed through her nose, a little prickly, and Wednesday cursed herself thinking she’d made her mad again. But Enid grabbed her wrist and tugged her down, papers crinkling and crunching as Wednesday sat, but Enid didn’t seem concerned. She just looked at Wednesday for a minute, quiet and close. After a moment, Enid sighed again, softer this time. No prickles. Just a simple breath.

Then she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to Wednesday’s.

And Wednesday promptly forgot how to breathe.

She might’ve actually died right there on the bed, frozen, eyes wide, the warm pressure of Enid’s skin against her own, heart stopping and blood sizzling dry in her veins. Her last image would be blue eyes fluttering closed, the orange rays of sunset burning gold against the side of Enid’s face, and Wednesday thought that this wasn’t a bad way to go. Not at all.

But Enid’s voice broke the silence—split it like the sun cracking a glacier in June.

“God, what am I going to do with you?” she whispered.

Wednesday didn’t know the answer to that, but she did know that she’d probably let her do anything. The fact that Wednesday existed to be at the whim of Enid’s wants was an all-consuming certainty. It was in every fiber of her being, pulled toward one specific point like a planet around the sun, a force so great perhaps the only thing that could stop it were the things that Enid didn’t want.

It was an effort of will to stop herself from studying every laugh line and crease in the face just an inch away from her own. But Wednesday closed her eyes, not because she ever wanted to stop looking, but because she was afraid of what she’d do if she didn’t. 

Her voice was barely steady when she spoke. It cracked and ebbed in all the wrong places. 

“Did I get the wrong flavor of ice cream?”

Enid made a quiet noise low in her throat—a soft grumble that sounded as annoyed as it did fond. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Oh, it was far too late for that.

Enid pulled away and Wednesday was left feeling cold. Her eyes fluttered open, squinting against the sun, and Enid smiled crookedly as she reached forward to ruffle her bangs back into place. 

And out of everything, that was what it came down too. The moment that made Wednesday realize what all of this was.

To be honest, she always thought that if something was going to tear her life apart it would be a bullet to a vital organ or a hole in the space time continuum or something involving an equal mix of sharp metal and fire. She never anticipated her assailant to be so pretty and soft. Enid hardly seemed capable of damage, but she cut through Wednesday like there was never anything for the blade to get caught on.

Wednesday realized she’d never really tried to stop her. She might’ve even guided the knife.

It was unforeseen. Wednesday never used to have to worry about light interrupting her dark. She was a black hole—light never had the chance to enter the boundaries of her event horizon. Twisting it came natural, wringing it out and tearing it to bits until it either went away or became just as dark as her. And that was how Wednesday used to like it. A perpetual midnight, solid black shapes and unimportant queries covered in shadows.

But now she did have to worry about light. One had snuck in, said hi, held her hand and hugged her and smiled and all of a sudden Wednesday was no longer a black hole but instead a pathetic raincloud that didn’t even have any rain. She’d parted willingly for the sun and let it bare all the questions of her soul she didn’t know how to answer.

Well… she knew how to answer one of them.

“I love you,” Enid told her one night, echoed and bouncing off of changeroom tiles, and Wednesday hadn’t answered then because she couldn’t look her in the eyes and pretend they meant it the same way.

But she knew. God, how she knew.

I love you too.

.     .     .

The rain started around eight o’clock. Wednesday heard it before she saw it, pattering against the grimy windows on the lower floor of the biology building. She looked up, saw the dimness in the sky, and with something clawing at the inside of her stomach, decided to go back.

She walked outside. The air smelled like wet pavement and freshly-cut grass, and her shoes scuffed softly against the sidewalk as she made her way to the dorm. She didn’t pass anybody. It was late and the sky was hazy and overcast, making the already fading light of the sun even greyer. The rain was light enough not to soak her completely, but heavy enough that she blinked when the drops hit her face. 

It would’ve been peaceful on any other day. 

But Enid was waiting for her outside when Wednesday turned the corner.

Wednesday saw her first, spotted her the moment the dorm house came into view a hundred meters away. She was under the awning out of the rain, leaned against the old stone building and idly twisting the toe of her sneaker into the grass. Despite the nearly inescapable urge to turn around and never come back, Wednesday made sure to scuff her feet a little louder when she got closer.

Enid’s head snapped up, eyes landing right on Wednesday like they always did. She scrambled to push herself off the wall and stand upright but didn’t come any closer, just let Wednesday walk that last bit of distance like a death row prisoner on their way to the firing squad.

Wednesday knew what she wanted. Knew there was no use avoiding it anymore. So she stopped about ten feet away. 

There was a long moment in which they both just stood there, the pattering of rain filling the silence as Enid looked like she was trying to figure out what to say. Wednesday, on the other hand, was debating whether or not she should check herself into the hospital in preparation for the heart attack that would surely be coming within the next minute or so.

Enid didn’t look mad, but she definitely didn’t look happy and the darkening sky didn’t help. Enid was supposed to be colorful, bright and shiny, like the orange-y pink that sometimes painted the bottom of the clouds just before the sun set. But instead, here she was, existing for the first time ever, muted. Wednesday wasn’t at fault for her dull color scheme, but she was at fault for her clenched jaw and the hard line of her lips.

Finally, after a long look through the water trickling from the eave, Enid said, “You missed your writing hour, you know. Kinda thought you died or something.”

No. Wednesday wasn’t that lucky.

“I was at the library.”

“No you weren’t.”

“How do you—?“

“I went. Obviously I went.”

Wednesday had anticipated that, which was why she spent most of the day hiding out in buildings Enid didn’t know much about. It was cowardly and pathetic and she knew that when she was doing it. Did it anyway.

Rain fell on Wednesday’s face. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Enid wasn’t quite mad yet, but she was getting there. Her words were getting shorter. “Avoiding me all day or lying about it?”

Both. Definitely both. Mostly the lying thing though.

“I wasn’t—“

“Wednesday.”

The rain was starting to come down a little harder. Water pattered against the shoulders of Wednesday’s sweater, the drops coming heavier and faster, cold as they hit the top of her head and seeped through her hair.

“I was avoiding you,” she admitted.

“Yeah. Why?”

Wednesday let out a breath through her nose and steadied her gaze on Enid’s despite the pounding in her ears. “You know why.”

“No. What I know is that you left me a note that said you loved me and then fucked off to God knows where for the whole day.” Okay, she was starting to sound mad now, and she also started to move—out from under the shelter of the roof and into the rain. Wednesday swallowed. “You didn’t answer any of my text messages and then you just show back up here when it’s almost dark out expecting to… what? Go to bed like nothing happened?”

Wednesday didn’t know. She didn’t know.

Enid took another step closer, arms crossed and face tense like she was physically trying to hold herself back from yelling. Rain soaked the shoulders of her shirt and her hair was flattening down but was still kind of frizzy like she’d been running her fingers through it. Even with all that though—the rain, the clouds, the gloomy blue-gray tint to the world—it was nothing short of remarkable how Enid’s eyes were still so bright. So Wednesday looked, like she always did, and like always, she was startled by the beauty there. Patches of green mingled among blue like sunlight through water, and it wasn’t a mystery, Wednesday thought, that she always found herself comparing Enid to things that glow.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need ‘sorry’, Wednesday. I need an explanation.”

Enid kept coming closer. Wednesday kept staring.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s shit.”

“I don’t know.”

“Stop saying that.” Enid finally stopped a foot away and the rain was cold and heavy on Wednesday’s face. It came down practically in sheets now and tracked trails down Enid’s jaw. Wednesday’s library sweater was tugging heavy and wet on her shoulders and Enid was right there in front of her and Wednesday still found herself frozen, unable to do one single thing but look at her. 

“Listen.“ Enid blinked against the rain as her throat bobbed with a swallow. “I took a chance last night and told you how I felt and I knew it was risky, but you know what I thought? I thought ‘even if she doesn’t feel the same way, at least we’ll still be friends’. If I knew that you’d run away without even bothering to have a fucking conversation about it I would’ve never brought it up. Like, not in a million years.”

“I’m sor—“”

“I don’t need you to feel the same way. It’s completely fine if you—“ She cut herself off, took in a breath that came back out in a shaky huff. “Whatever. I knew there was a big chance that you wouldn’t anyway, so it’s fine. I didn’t need you to say it back. I didn’t need anything from you except to be my friend, and I definitely didn’t need you to write that note if all you were planning to do was pretend you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Wednesday, I don’t want an apology!”

“What do you want, Enid?”

“I want you to fucking kiss me!”

So Wednesday did.

Rain poured, the world dimmed, somewhere in the distance thunder rolled and lightning split across the sky and Wednesday kissed Enid like she’d been waiting lifetimes to do it. It was light and dark, morning and night, and every sharp, sunny, excruciating, breathtaking thing in the world that didn’t make sense. All the little intricacies of life were finally highlighted in the light of day and cradled in cold hands, pressed against warm lips. It was peace and chaos all at once and kissing Enid tasted like rain.

Like clear water and falling.

And Wednesday thought she probably fell for Enid the way morning fell to night—slowly, softly, inescapably, not noticing anything changing until the first notes of darkness dampened the sky, and then it was too late. It was morning and then it wasn’t. Wednesday didn’t love Enid and then she did.

They pulled apart to water beating off the ground. Wednesday’s library sweater was soaked and heavy, the sleeves fallen down around the wrists where her hands were still holding Enid’s face, black nail polish against skin flushed from the cold. Wednesday’s bangs stuck to her forehead and water ran into her eyes. Enid’s lips stayed parted, gaze blinking and drunk.

When Wednesday could finally speak again, her voice was so quiet the rain nearly drowned it out. 

“Anything else?” she breathed.

Enid eyes darted down. Back up. A bead of water built on her lower lip until it was about to drip.

“I want you to kiss me again.”

So Wednesday did, and somewhere high above, hidden by the overcast sky, the sun at last sank below the horizon.

And Wednesday fell for Enid the way morning fell to night.

Over and over and over.

Chapter Text

Enid kind of wished her and Wednesday had kissed on a nice day. 

She’d always imagined it would be in the sunset. Enid would have to go away for some reason—a track tournament or some type of non-lethal emergency (a lethal emergency seemed a little too morbid for a hypothetical first kiss scenario, even if that hypothetical kiss did involve a hypothetical Wednesday Addams). There’d be a heartbroken goodbye on Enid’s end and a manufactured stoic one on Wednesday’s to save face, but then as Enid was getting in the cab to go to the bus station she’d hear Wednesday calling her name and stop. 

Wednesday would catch up, breathlessly begging her not to go, or telling her she’d come with her, or any combination of words that meant she’d realized in the five minutes Enid was gone that she couldn’t live without her. The sun would be setting and the air would be just chilly enough to need a sweater and Wednesday would kiss her as the sky burned orange and pink above and…

Well, she hadn’t exactly thought of what came after. Admittedly, she’d been a little too busy pacing a trench through the floor of their room after Wednesday’s radio silence to be thinking of anything except for different variations of FUCK. 

Upon seeing the note before the crack of actual fucking dawn, Enid’s first instinct was of course to grab her phone and type out a message that was super nonchalant and aloof and said “TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE.” It sounded real stalker-y in and out of context, and Enid initially regretted it until she went through her morning jog, first two classes, and track practice without a response. And then she just got more pissed off.

Enid knew Wednesday didn’t like her phone. Enid also knew that she was the one person Wednesday would always answer. It only left a couple of explanations:

1. She’d crushed the device under the tire of her car again and couldn’t find a payphone to call her on because, unbeknownst to her, they were no longer living in the 1900’s.
2. Wednesday didn’t want to talk to her.

It was a hard pill to swallow in general, but an impossible one to swallow given the gravity of the situation. Wednesday leaving that note and then fleeing like an emotionally ignorant thief in the night was probably the single most torturous thing she could’ve done (not counting actual torture like pulling off Enid’s toenails or something. That would be worse for sure). It’s not like there was a world that existed where Enid would read something like that, knowing who it’s from, and just… not care. 

No, instead they existed in the world where Enid woke up to a love confession returned via cute morning sticky note tradition, signed by the girl she’d been pining after for, like, eight months, who’d supposedly dropped off the face of the earth. And in that moment Enid would’ve jumped out of the atmosphere to track her down.

Enid searched for her on her way to every class to no avail, and—idiotically—in every class (also to no avail, because why would Wednesday be in any of her classes even on a normal day, let alone the day she’d apparently diagnosed Enid with the plague and decided immediate escape was her only chance). It was around lunch when she got desperate enough to engage in an active hunt for the girl, which started at the library and ended five minutes later also at the library because Enid found Yoko instead and ranted to her about the situation.

And Yoko was usually scarily good at focusing completely on whatever garbage was coming out of Enid’s mouth while not taking her eyes off a whole term paper, but when Enid told her about what happened, her fingers stilled on her keyboard and the reflection of the computer screen in her sunglasses turned into the reflection of Enid’s worried face.

“You actually told her you loved her?”

“You told me to!”

Yoko hmphed. Hmphed over a situation like this. “Well, I didn’t think you’d do it so that’s on you.”

Enid gusp a gasp that had several students and at least one librarian looking over to ensure nobody had dropped dead. “What do you mean ‘that’s on me’? What did I do? I was honest and open—as best friends should be, by the way—and she is, like, one more ignored text away from being reported as a missing person.”

“Hold on…” Yoko pushed her sunglasses down her nose so Enid could see her brown eyes over the rim. “How many texts are we talking about?”

Enid truthfully had lost count at that point so she just handed her phone over so Yoko could put in the hard labour of counting them. After a few scrolls and about five seconds, she snorted. “To be fair, fifteen is surprisingly low for you. Well done.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It is. Seriously, how is she supposed to respond to just a bunch of question marks and exclamation points?”

“The first one wasn’t like that!”

“Ah, yes. I remember.” Yoko nodded, scrolling up to the message and lazily turning the screen so Enid could be faced with it again herself. 

5:03 AM: TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE

“It’s so nonthreatening. I have no idea why she wouldn’t—” 

Enid shot across the table and snatched her phone back. “If you’re not going to take this seriously—“

“What? You’ll leave?”

“Yeah.”

"Please. We both know I couldn’t make you leave if I tried.”

And Enid took offence to that. So much offence.

But she didn’t leave. 

Instead she slapped her phone obediently back into Yoko’s outstretched hand, sat back, crossed her arms, and glared in defeat. Yoko sang a smug 'thank you', which Enid maturely mocked in a really high voice because reasons, so lost in her petulance that she almost forgot that she was looking at Yoko typing on her phone. In Wednesday’s text window.

Every muscle and bone went cold. “Wait, what are you—”

“Chill, I’m just drafting something. Sending it is your decision.”

After a second, she offered the phone back to Enid, who took it with all the elegant desperation of a person stranded in the desert for a week being handed a bottle of water.

Sorry, I’m chill now. Ignoring me is still kind of a dick move but I understand. Have your time to figure things out. We’re good and we’ll talk when you get back to the room.

“That’s it?”

“Honey, she’s terrified. I doubt she’s ever even told her own family that she loved them, let alone the first person she’s probably ever had a real crush on. I’m not saying it’s right for her to ignore you, but if you want to talk about it the only thing you can do is let her come to you when she’s ready.”

“But—”

“And that will never happen if you don’t chill the fuck out.”

So Yoko was right. Of course Yoko was right. Yoko had been right this entire time and Enid hadn’t even really been listening, just doing her own thing and failing and complaining right back to the person whose advice she didn’t use. One of these days when she was settled down with a career and money she’d send Yoko on a good vacation for putting up with all her shit. Somewhere nice and warm and not-Vermont, and where wearing sunglasses at all times of the day would be normal.

“Yoko?”

“Yeah, crazy?”

“Do you think Wednesday’s avoiding me because… she doesn’t feel the same way?”

Anyway, after Yoko threatened to repeatedly beat some sense into Enid’s head with the corner of her laptop (“the hard corner!” she specified, and Enid didn’t think there was a difference but Yoko started to pick it up and Enid thought that was as good a time as any to not find out), Enid went back to her room and stewed.

Then she read the note again. And again. And again.

Then she waited. And waited.

And waited.

It wasn’t even raining when she went outside, she’d just had enough of pacing the same seven square feet for the past hour and decided to move that extremely productive activity out into nature. She hadn’t planned to have that fight out in the pouring fucking rain like their lives were some sort of unimaginative rom-com, but here it was. 

And there Wednesday was, making her way up the path, showing a startling resemblance to a kicked puppy (or at least a puppy that might not have been kicked yet but was really expecting to be). She stayed just out of reach of the awning as the rain got heavier and Enid didn’t know whether or not she was actively trying to look as pathetic as possible to invoke sympathy, but she was pretty good at it regardless. She was also good at arguing, but completely wilted under Enid’s sharp tone.

Their fight was subpar—a bit of back and forth but overall Wednesday didn’t fight back at all and Enid just felt like she was bullying her, which was kind of frustrating because it’s not like Enid was the one that suddenly became more elusive than fucking Bigfoot for the past thirteen hours. So sure, Enid gave her a piece of her mind, but Yoko’s advice still rang through her mind so it was only a small one. A nice, gentle, not-scary piece.

And Wednesday just stood there, solid and unmoving under the beratement and the rain, and told Enid she was sorry.

She knew Wednesday didn’t know what else to say. She knew that Wednesday knew apologizing was one of the things that made Enid un-mad so that was probably her best bet. She knew Wednesday was trying her best to patch up what she thought was a mistake. It wasn’t her fault, she was just doing what she knew—treating that 'I love you too' like any other injury, hiding it under bandaids and other stuff that hurt when you ripped it off. They’d both know the blood was underneath, but everything was easier to ignore when it was out of sight.

But Enid didn’t want it out of sight. She wanted the blood and the hurt, the gaping wound, the bite of air and the sting of alcohol. Wednesday didn’t have to leave that note, but she did, and now she was pretending like she didn’t because… what? She thought Enid didn’t want her back?

“What do you want, Enid?”

“I want you to fucking kiss me!”

She hadn’t even known that was on the table for something she’d say in a moment like that. She’d just been so frustrated from waiting so long and the pelting rain was making everything more urgent and it just came out, hopeless and begging like a plea. 

Or a prayer.

(And she didn’t believe in those anymore, but couldn’t help but fall back on desperate habits with a sentence that stripped her bare like that.)

So Wednesday’s kiss wasn’t in the sunset. Wednesday’s kiss existed in shades of black and grey, battered with sheets of rain and buried under fog, clean and clear like water and folded up in a soggy black zip-up sweater. Kissing Wednesday was cold water and warm lips on her skin—everything she didn’t know she needed and everything she was sure she’d never be able to live without now that it’d happened. 

Because Enid thought that if Wednesday pulled back right then and told her it was all a mistake, she’d be better off just letting herself soak into the soil with the rain.

But Wednesday didn’t do that. She stood there, raindrops in her eyelashes, bangs plastered to her forehead, eyes drunk and focused on Enid’s lips, and then her eyes. Then her lips. Then her eyes and then her lips. And Wednesday asked her if she wanted anything else.

And, God, Enid wanted.

Rain fell so hard water splashed out of puddles and the world was going dark and Enid’s dream about their kiss in the sunset was buried under overcast sky and soft lips, the blunt edge of fingernails on her neck. There was nothing else she could think of that she wanted more than kissing Wednesday. Needs weren’t even in the picture. 

She’d always been known for putting her heart too far into things that might break it, but this time it was different. Wednesday wasn’t capable of simply breaking her if this went bad—Wednesday would destroy her. So wholly and completely that no amount of Seven-Eleven slurpees could fix it. Every fiber and molecule, every breath, every beat of her heart wrung out and ripped up and burned to the ground. 

But she just kissed Wednesday again, the thought disappearing behind her like a scream of warning to a person who’d already jumped off a cliff.

.     .     .

When Enid was a kid, her mom told her she had an addictive personality. Enid figured she came to this realization when her father once let her have half of his morning coffee when she was seven and she developed a withdrawal headache the next day around noon. Ester sat her down in front of their boxy family computer that had its own room and showed her before and after pictures of people going through a crystal meth addiction.

“Never try cocaine. Never drink. Never do any drugs. In high school, people will try to get you to smoke marijuana, but never smoke marijuana. It’s a gateway to heroin.”

Implying that pot and heroin users were after the same type of high was one of Ester’s duller moments, but the warning did work. Enid left a house party when she was fifteen because Michelle’s boyfriend offered her a puff of a joint, convinced the next object he’d hand her between his fingers would be a hypodermic needle.

When Enid began junior high, she started coming home crying a lot. A friend that she’d really trusted said something behind her back or a boy she'd really liked gave his pencil sharpener to another girl. Enid really felt a lot of things. She later learned that her brain had a stronger craving for dopamine than most. She became obsessed with things that made her feel good, attached to them like a parasite, drained them of everything they could possibly offer until she was left in limbo, an emptiness inside her that could only be filled by finding something else to live for. And it was never herself.

“You lose yourself in things, honey,” her mother would say, like Enid had told her she was popping fentanyl on the weekends and not just that Jessica turned out to be kind of a bitch. “You need to be careful what you wrap yourself up in.”

To this day, the 'don’t do crack from a pipe' thing was probably the only nugget of wisdom she’d ever been glad to take from her mother. She couldn’t imagine how powdered street drugs would affect her when, completely sober, she could brush hands with a boy in the hall and instantly come up with names for their three future children.

It was her disease. Her plight. Her cross to bear. To love someone and be consumed by it. She didn’t even look for a way out at this point, just let her delusions and daydreams build and build so stupidly high until expectation far outran reality and her heart remembered why people are always better in her head than they are when they’re in front of her. And then, because of her cruel obsession with feeling, she’d obsess over that disappointment until it poisoned every part of her being, intertwined with her bone marrow and ran through her blood. The synapses in her brain would push the emptiness around and around and around until—

“I’m gonna need you to say something.”

Wednesday and her stood under streams of hot water in the bathroom, a condensation-coated tile wall between them, silent like two strangers frightened to disturb the other. 

It seemed like an odd place to transition after what had just happened, but Enid hadn’t known what else to do. There were too many variables to consider about going back to their shared room.

Would they talk about it? 

Kiss some more? 

Pretend nothing happened and live with an unbearable tension between them until Enid finally snapped and said something that would ruin their relationship forever?

Actually, the most likely scenario was that Wednesday would just make a B-line for her typewriter to reclaim the hour she missed, leaving Enid no choice but to throttle her and then probably get her own throat sliced by one of the three hidden knives Wednesday kept on her at all times (the actual number was definitely higher, but she’d only told Enid about the three). Thankfully Wednesday didn’t do that. Her own gruesome murder was not on Enid’s post-kissing-Wednesday to-do list. Whether it was on Wednesday’s post-kissing-Enid list was a question that could only be answered in the near future. 

The trip up the stairs and to their door was about as loose and carefree as a calf cramp, and then there they were standing in the doorway, dripping wet and cold from the rain, looking at the room they’d last left as friends and came back to as… 

Well…

Fuck. This was supposed to be the easy part. 

Not in her wildest dreams did she ever think that the aftermath of kissing Wednesday would be more unbearable than the yearning that led up to it. But the silence was so loud and so there. Like if Enid spoke the words would just bounce right off it and back down her throat.

“We should probably shower.” Wednesday was the brave one who spoke first. Her voice seemed to slice through the air, so clean and certain, like she’d used a blade to do it. 

Just as sure, she breezed through that doorway as though that’s all it was. To Enid, it was a portal to the remnants of a relationship that would never be the same again. She was almost afraid to step foot in the room, like it was holy ground, a bible page that would crinkle the second she tread on it with her soggy sneakers. But to Wednesday it was just a room. 

Still, Enid would’ve preferred if she at least wiped her feet first. 

They collected some dry clothes with the solemn quietness of praying monks, then made their way to the showers. Everyone must’ve been at the dining hall for supper because it was mercifully empty. 

And now here they were, a wall apart from one another, the sound of spraying faucets and water hitting tile the only thing that dared disturb the muggy air. Enid’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding for the last ten minutes. At least her cardio was beyond covered for the day.

And she really needed Wednesday to say something. Literally anything.

Her voice was somehow jarring, even veiled by the pouring water. “Like what?”

“Maybe something about, like… what just happened?”

“I thought it was self-explanatory.”

“Well, can you please make it verbally-explanatory? I’m freaking the fuck out over here.”

“Why?”

“Jesus, aren’t you?”

For several eternities there was only the echo of spraying faucets. Enid watched the hot water running rivers down her arms, desperate for something to focus on. The steam was so thick in her little stall that she thought she might pass out. 

Then Wednesday said, “I’m freaking the fuck out,” and the pressure in Enid’s chest that she thought might be the beginnings of cardiac arrest broke into a laugh.

That was what she wanted, she realized—confirmation that this world rocking, reality shifting, monumentally life altering thing wasn’t just affecting her. Wednesday felt it too. 

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

It wasn’t even a dent in all the things they had to discuss, but it was a start, which was all Enid could ask for after living through a day that felt like it would never fucking end.

Wednesday finishing her shower left the echo of a single running shower head bouncing around between the walls. It made sense that she was done first. According to Bianca, who showered in the same changeroom as Wednesday after nearly every fencing practice, Wednesday always finished showering in four minutes flat. 

“Apparently that psycho used to time herself when she was a kid,” Bianca said when Enid asked, because five minutes she could see but who the fuck chooses an oddly specific number like four to time anything? “If she wasn’t finished in time, she’d just get out.”

“What if there was still shampoo in her hair?” Enid had asked.

And in a scarily perfect impression of Wednesday’s dead, uninterested tone, Bianca mocked, “‘Then I’d learn that if I don’t get out in four minutes, there’ll still be shampoo in my hair.’” 

This was obviously insane. What was more insane was that she didn’t even use a timer anymore but Bianca did on multiple occasions and found out that she was never off by more than five seconds. 

So anyway, after conditioning her hair and grappling with the fact that she was about to discuss long-term relationship goals with an actual fucking robot, the squeak of Enid’s shower knob announced the staunching of water flow above. A thick, humid silence followed, interrupted only by a few lingering drips of water and the sound of Enid’s flip flops slapping against her feet as she dried off and put on pyjamas. 

It was so quiet that she figured Wednesday had left, but when she got out there she was, sitting casually on the sink counter with her feet dangling. It was an oddly natural position to catch the world’s most advanced model of AI robot in, made more odd not only by the black crocs on her feet, but also the fact that she was scrolling through her phone. It seemed so foreign; Wednesday acting like a normal twenty year-old. Like a typewriter opening up a google page.

There was the obscenely loud crinkle of Enid’s plastic shower curtain when she pulled it open. Wednesday’s head lifted. She looked much less robot-y than usual with her hair down and cheeks flushed pink from the shower. It was like the hot water had eroded all her sharp edges, burned through the metal and wires until all that was left was the regular girl underneath. In her grey Nevermore University hoodie and black joggers, she was beautiful in a different way than she usually was. Less like a pristine statue and more like something soft. Cotton and fleece and warm skin. Undeniably human.  

Enid was in love with it like she was with everything else about her. Wednesday probably missed her wires.

“Of course you always have your crocs in sport mode.”

Wednesday’s eyebrows furrowed microscopically as she looked down at her feet. Enid fought a grin and she made her way to the sink. She was supposed to be mad, after all.

“I’m assuming you’re referring to the strap being up—“

“I bet they feel so secure.”

“—which is how you’re supposed to wear them.” Wednesday looked up flatly, wet hair a little curly, frizzy around the edges where it was drying before she had the chance to run a brush through it. “And yes. They do feel secure.”

As though to prove it, she swung her feet a little, garnering the energy of a kindergartener attempting to touch the school bus floor from their seat. Enid distracted herself from the laugh building up in her throat by rustling through her bag for a brush. Wednesday went back to her phone.

She was almost tempted to keep it light. Everything would change now. Was it so wrong of her to want ten more minutes of being friends with Wednesday before…?

God. 

What if it was never like this again?

She thought about voicing that horrifying theory, but when she glanced at Wednesday she noticed some familiar messages on her phone screen and figured a conversation about their future was probably out the window now that Wednesday was looking at the texts she’d sent her that morning. Enid only found out when they returned to the room briefly to get their shower stuff and clothes that Wednesday had actually left her phone turned off in there the whole day, meaning all of Enid’s bottled rage had been sent directly to their intended recipient—the drawer of Wednesday’s typewriter desk.

Enid cringed in distaste at the version of herself that was being allowed to tear through the world unchecked barely ten hours ago. She was practically a public hazard.

A moment of silence. A drip of a faucet somewhere. 

“Okay, so I wasn’t angry.”

Wednesday nodded. Scrolled. “Okay.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

“Do me a solid and say anything other than ‘okay’.”

Nod.

Scroll.

“Alright.”

“Not what I meant.”

She finished reading the texts after approximately five thousand years (three seconds at most), then turned off the phone and laid it facedown on the counter. “You have every right to be… not angry,” she said. Two of her fingers drummed idly on the lip of the counter. “I should’ve communicated better, or at all. I needed some time to think, but it was wrong of me to avoid you and I’m sorry for that.”

Ultimately, it was a good apology. She’d taken accountability, validated Enid’s feelings, and outlined how she could’ve done better. Enid couldn’t ask for anything more, especially considering she was at least 90% sure Wednesday hadn’t apologized to a single person in her life besides Enid herself, so the fact that she even bothered with one meant more than any of the words that were in it.

But an apology still wasn’t what Enid was looking for.

The air was sticky and condensation coated the mirrors. Enid dropped her shower bag on the floor and leaned over the counter to wipe one with her towel. “It’s fine for you to take time to think things through,” she said. “I’d be concerned if you didn’t. I’m just wondering why you had to do that directly after leaving me a note telling me you loved me. Usually the thinking part of that whole decision would be over by then.”

“My feelings weren’t what I was concerned about.”

The squeak of Enid’s towel against the mirror came to an abrupt and pitchy end. She was frozen to the spot, in such a potent state of disbelief that she truly couldn’t begin to imagine where to start with this unadulterated lunacy. 

It’s not like Wednesday was the sole contributing factor to Enid realizing she liked women and the subsequent major identity crisis that followed. It’s not like Enid and Yoko plotted nearly every day over a three month period how best to communicate to Wednesday Enid’s romantic interest. It’s not like Enid had scrounged up the last morsels of courage from the very depths of her soul to flirt with this girl time and time again for no reward other than the gratification that she was making moves and Wednesday was bound to notice eventually and make a move back, only come to find out Wednesday not only hadn’t seen the clues, but continued to be unsure if Enid liked her or not?

“Are you serious?”

“No, I thought this would be an appropriate time for a joke as we stand here discussing the terms of a long-standing friendship that was just flipped on its head. The atmosphere is so light and carefree.”

Honestly, fuck that bitch for being so funny sometimes. Enid wore more colors than a goddamn clown, yet her sense of humour was frequently outshone by a woman made in the same lab as Frankenstein. It was stupid how she wasn’t even trying—when the future of their relationship was on the thinnest line imaginable and they were having a serious conversation about love confessions and deep feelings and her voice just cut in to deliver the driest, flattest, most unhelpful addition to the conversation, and now Enid couldn’t even remember why the fuck she was mad at her because a laugh was pushing at her throat as Wednesday glanced up.

Granted, it wasn’t difficult to bring that spark of anger back. Especially because—

“I literally told you point blank that I loved you.”

“I’ve seen you tell your math TA that you loved her,” Wednesday said. “Point blank.”

“If you were failing antiderivatives and she gave you an extra point on a midterm, you’d tell her you loved her too.”

“No I wouldn’t. But I also wouldn’t be failing antiderivatives so there’s an independent variable there.”

“Fine. How’s this for an independent variable?” Enid dropped the towel she was wiping the mirror with and turned to Wednesday, irritated beyond words with her obliviousness. “I didn’t flirt with my math TA for three fucking months, Wednesday. I didn’t leave cute little good morning sticky notes on her nightstand every morning. I didn’t hold my math TA’s hand on the hood of her car under goddamn fireworks and I sure as fuck didn’t break up with my boyfriend for her.”

That surprised Wednesday. Enid could tell by the way her dark eyes flicked up to hers, naturally looking for a lie but finding none. It was impossible to believe that even now she still hadn’t put the pieces together. Thankfully she’d brought Enid to the end of her rope, the only place she’d ever have the mental fatigue to not have an anxiety attack over spelling it out for her.

“I didn’t track my math TA to a gym change room at ten in the night to talk at her for five minutes about how scared I was to tell her I loved her before I told her I loved her. There was context, Wednesday. And you’re smart enough to solve fifty year-old cold cases so excuse the fuck out of me if I thought a little flirting was in your realm of deduction.”

Wednesday was reacting like this was new information, like this was the first she was hearing of any of this, like she didn’t live through and take a first row seat in all of these events. The silence stretched on for way longer than before. It surrounded them, looming and pressing until Enid wondered if she might've overloaded Wednesday’s data processor and now she had to wait here for however long it took to reboot her systems or whatever.

Finally, just as Enid was starting to discreetly look for a power button or user manual somewhere on her, Wednesday graced the air with her voice.

“I was suspicious about the firework thing. The rest honestly went over my head.”

Enid felt like banging her head off the chipped plastic countertop. Instead of doing that though (because giving herself a brain bleed on the basis that she was a little frustrated was a little unhinged, even for her), she just stared at Wednesday with passive aggressive raised eyebrows of disbelief until Wednesday had the good sense to defend herself.

“I appreciate the effort, but given who I am as a person, I’m struggling to see how you thought that was a better idea than simply telling me.”

“For Christ sake, I was scared, Wednesday.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing you! God, I was so scared to lose you.”

“Most people are scared to have me.”

Enid snorted before she could remember they were having a serious conversation and she probably shouldn’t do that. It was whatever. Wednesday didn’t always know when she was being funny, but she did always glance up when Enid laughed, and she never seemed annoyed.

She looked at Enid now the same way she always did when she unintentionally made a joke—a little confused, a little surprised, but mostly she just looked. And Enid did too. 

“You don’t scare me, Wednesday,” she said, and it was mostly true. Wednesday rolled her eyes the tiniest bit, and when they landed back on Enid she chose to ignore how she had to manually force her breath not to catch. 

Like she said. Mostly not scared.

“I know.” Wednesday sounded peeved. “It used to be the bane of my existence.”

“What is it now?”

“Back to my mother, as God intended.”

“Oh. Great?”

“Also…” Wednesday looked up at the ceiling and cleared her throat. “I was scared too.”

Wednesday Addams. Scared. Enid thought the world would have to be ending in a fiery blaze before she’d ever see that. But instead it was just because of Enid.

Wednesday’s eyes reluctantly found hers, warm and dark even under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom. Enid always hated that light—the bright white kind that exposed every pore and under-eye bag—but Wednesday’s hair was still down and frizzy, and getting frizzier the longer she waited to brush it out. The messiness subdued the sharpness created by the light. Even her bangs were a little ruffled.

So it was endearing, and it was soft, and it wasn’t scary. And neither was Wednesday’s voice when she said, “You mean a lot to me. More than most people. More than… anything.”

Enid remembered those words from the bus station, when she was going home after their first year. There was the sunset and the muggy air and Wednesday told her she’d miss her. More than anything. Enid was surprised that she’d said that, but too emotional about leaving to navigate a conversation about what it meant with a person who reacted to emotions like cockroaches reacted to light. So she took it at face value—an uncharacteristically sentimental statement from a girl who didn’t know how else to respond to her friend crying on her shoulder.

Was it possible that Wednesday knew she loved her even then? Had Enid been the one missing signs?

Whatever. It didn’t matter now.

There was no use in dissecting all the signs missed and opportunities wasted, the little spark of anger in her heart as a result of it. Wednesday’s eyes were dark and steady like they always were, and out of everything Enid loved about Wednesday (i.e. a metric fuck ton), that might’ve been her favorite—that consistency. In a lot of ways, those eyes looked like home to her. Not the home she was from in San Francisco, but a new one. One that was cozy and familiar that she could always come back to when she’d wandered too far. It didn’t matter what was happening anywhere else or what thoughts were swirling through her head, she’d just look at Wednesday’s eyes looking into her’s and know she was seeing her in the same shades of grey she always had. 

When she’d been in San Francisco last summer, she often thought back to that—how the setting sun had lit up Wednesday’s eyes with coils of amber before the bus pulled in front of them and ruined it.

“I didn’t want to misinterpret anything and force you away.”

It would probably be better to use plain words with Wednesday in a case like this. A lack of concrete yes’s and no’s was exactly what led them to this point. Wednesday needed that certainty. But Enid had said things she thought were clear before, only to find out now that they were messages sent and received with all the letters scrambled up along the way. 

For a long, quiet moment, Enid looked at Wednesday’s eyes. Then her lips. Then her eyes then her lips. 

Eyes.

“Can I—?”

“Sometime today would be preferred.”

And Enid kissed her. Not in the sunset, and not in the rain, just in a dorm bathroom on a random Thursday because she could.

Let her misinterpret that.

.     .     .

“I figured it out when you picked me up from the bus station in New York.”

Enid sent that out into the universe when they were in their dorm room later, leaned up against Enid’s headboard watching Grey’s Anatomy on her laptop, empty ramen bowls sitting on the nightstand with forks sticking out. Words that held the potential energy of a swinging wrecking ball at its apex fluttered out in that quiet, crackly tone of speaking just above a whisper. 

“How did you know what it was?” 

“I didn’t. I just… knew it couldn’t be anything else.”

Enid would’ve taken a firing squad over admitting that to Wednesday just a day ago, but sitting on the bed with their shoulders pressed together, the faint scent of dryer sheets and vanilla shampoo swirling in the air and blankets bunched up at their feet, it didn’t seem so scary. Wednesday was soft and warm right now, full of blood and ruffled bangs and she wasn’t scary. She wasn’t even spooky. She was just Wednesday.

She didn’t say anything for a while, but Enid could hear her skimming through all that led them here in the idle tv chatter that went on in the back—their tearful reunion followed by Enid being distant, Ajax , the fireworks, the breakup and sexual identity crisis that came suspiciously soon after, followed by several months of unsuccessful flirting to top it all off. No wonder Wednesday wasn’t sure how Enid felt. Enid’s feelings were chaos, not even decipherable by Enid herself and never expressed in ways that made sense.

She was sure that if you cracked open Wednesday’s head and looked inside, there’d be no brain matter, just a bunch of ones and zeros bouncing around against the inside of her skull in perfectly parallel lines. Wednesday appreciated order. She acted with logic. Looked at patterns.

Enid, however, realized she loved her best friend, then proceeded to seek out a relationship with a guy who probably ranked in the top ten entries of Wednesday’s hit list. In hindsight, she could see why Wednesday was confused.

Wednesday answered her questions earlier. Now it was Enid’s turn. And she expected a lot of them.

Why did you date him when you knew you loved me?

How could you expect me to know how you felt when you were pulling me in as much as you were pushing me away?

In what world is going to your strangely wise lesbian best friend for advice on how to date me a better idea than just asking me yourself? Also, it’s kind of creepy.

Why couldn’t you just be honest?

But Wednesday didn’t ask any of that. She didn’t ask anything. Instead, when her voice pushed gently into the empty spaces between the tv soundtrack and their breathing, she just said, 

“It took me a while to name it. I didn’t know what it was.”

Enid was underwater, the gentle weight of it pressing evenly over every muscle and bone, the warmth of Wednesday’s shoulder anchoring her at the bottom, but her voice, all dark air and fluttering night, guiding her back to the surface. 

She leaned in a little heavier, sinking down, head on Wednesday’s shoulder—the cushy part where they put flu shots in. 

She asked quietly, “How did you figure it out?"

“I came back one day and you were sitting on the bed pretending to study. Sun was coming in through the window. You looked like you were glowing.” 

It didn’t seem right that Wednesday’s realization would come under those conditions. Anything bathed in light was allegedly as agonizing as a needle to her pupils, and Wednesday already admitted that Enid was something that scared her; Enid didn’t want to be something that hurt her too. 

Then again, Enid never liked rainy days, but she was pretty sure she fell in love with Wednesday in the middle of a torrential downpour at least twice now. 

So maybe it was fine.

“I think I almost kissed you,” Wednesday whispered. Outside their window, the warmth of the streetlight flickered.

Enid whispered, “You should’ve.”

“I should’ve.”

.     .     .

They fell asleep leaning into each other, watching the show previously accepted by Wednesday due to the amount of blood, but frequently ridiculed by Wednesday due to the amount of interpersonal relationships and lack of continuity. Their voices were mostly quiet and soft, but Wednesday’s picked up every now and then when she thought something was stupid. 

“Please, she survived being clinically dead for an entire hour but he can’t survive getting hit by an ambulance?”

Wednesday boiled his death down to a skill issue. Enid ugly cried. They were back to normal.

After so long of tiptoeing around each other so as not to disturb the veritable wasp’s nests that were both their feelings, being comfortable around Wednesday again was like letting out a breath she’d been holding for the last five months. She couldn’t remember the last time they sat side-by-side on Enid’s bed watching some mind-rotting Netflix show, and Enid just leaned into Wednesday without thinking of all the things it did and didn’t mean.

But tonight as the clock ticked later and her bones got heavier, the mattress softer, blood slower, Enid didn’t think. She just sank. And Wednesday was there to sink into.

Her hoodie was soft against the side of Enid’s face, a comfort that started with Enid tipping her head to rest on her shoulder and ended with her pillows scrunched up behind her and her cheek squished into Wednesday’s shoulder. She was vaguely concerned about her still-damp hair developing a cowlick from the position, but not nearly as concerned as she was with dozing off between Wednesday’s sporadic complaints about that’s not how an appendectomy is done and you can’t press an emergency stop button on an elevator just because your coworker is crying. This is a hospital, Miranda. People need to use those.

Everything was the faint scent of laundry detergent and Wednesday’s “unscented” body wash that actually smelled a little like baby powder, crumpled clothes and sheets and soft lamp light. Enid sunk into it until there was no deeper she could go. Until they were both in half-sitting-half-lying positions and her head somehow found its drowsy way from Wednesday’s shoulder to just above her elbow, and then, after dozing off for an indeterminate amount of time, she woke up to her laptop screen sideways in her vision, cheek pressed into the bunched-up fabric of Wednesday’s hoodie pocket.

She’d usually spend an unnecessary amount of time and energy worrying about whether or not Wednesday was okay with Enid using her actual stomach as a pillow or just tolerating it because Enid didn’t give her a choice. But Wednesday’s arm was draped heavy and motionless over her side, and when she didn’t make a comment about the embarrassing unprofessionalism of using an on-call room for sex, Enid figured she must be asleep.

And it’s not like she didn’t wonder what would happen when her alarm went off at 6:30 the next morning and they were startled awake, tangled together with none of the ease that came with the crescent moon and all of the unease that came with waking up like that under the spotlight of morning. It’s not like she didn’t wonder if they would see everything as it was when the sun came up—all the little things not said, steps skipped only to find themselves way too deep into this before it had a chance to even begin. 

It’s not like she didn’t wonder if Wednesday would regret it all the moment she woke up.

But Enid tucked her hand into Wednesday’s hoodie pocket and let herself be washed under again, waves of sleep burying her beneath midnight air and fairy lights. 

When Enid’s alarm blared the next morning, the body under her cheek shifted to turn it off. Enid didn’t move.

“Enid.” Wednesday’s voice was possibly the most husky and morning-like Enid had ever heard it, and it was too early for her to possibly decide what to do with that information. “Your alarm.”

It was actually insane, this situation they were in right now—cramped together on a twin bed, the weak light of dawn covering the room in a rose-tinted haze. Wednesday’s hoodie was black, but it looked almost burgundy this morning, the fabric blurry and fuzzy near Enid’s eyes but clear further away, little pilled areas grainy against the morning glow. The inside of Wednesday’s pocket was soft. Enid ran her thumb back and forth over the warm fleece, watching the fabric shift with the movement. 

Just two years ago she’d pegged this woman as a serial killer. Just seven months ago they had their first hug. Now Enid was waking to the dull thrum of that maybe-serial-killer’s heartbeat, the sleeve of her hoodie crumpled up where it met the equally crumpled pocket of Wednesday’s. Pink fabric merging with black. Fingers curling against body-warmed fleece. 

“Enid. Your alarm.”

“No.” 

“Your run.“

“Do you want me to go on my run?”

The morning melted and shimmered around them, all haze and dust sparkling in the weak rays of sun piercing the window. Wednesday sighed. Then another hand nudged its way into Wednesday’s pocket, fingertips brushing Enid’s, hooking them together softly out of sight.

Enid could’ve thought about fireworks, blankets and the hood of a car, but instead she thought of a sunrise. And Enid let the dawn pull her back under.

And it would’ve been lovely. Buried in soft sheets warmed by the girl beneath her, her feet curled in the comforter they’d pushed to the bottom of the bed, Enid could’ve stayed like that forever. She was so relaxed that she even slept through Wednesday’s alarm at seven o’clock.

A fact she became aware of when she didn’t sleep through the pounding at her door at 7:45. 

Most of the time Enid woke up half-asleep, part of her still in a dream and not really coming out of it until she stood on her feet and squinted against an obnoxiously bright ray of sun. The knocking did not give her this luxury. Enid woke with the urgency of a person about to get robbed at gunpoint. 

She jolted hard enough to rock the mattress, the metal bed frame shrieking in shocked outrage. She rushed to sit up, accidentally pushing on Wednesday’s stomach and prompting a criminally flat and unaffected “ow” from her bedmate, which she would’ve actually found really funny if she wasn’t convinced an axe murderer was going to kick down their door any second (or, you know, use his axe on it).

Instead of apologizing for bruising every single one of Wednesday’s vital organs, Enid tersely whispered, “Who the fuck is that?”

Wednesday, in her normal voice at regular volume, said, “Likely the mafia coming to collect outstanding debts judging by your reaction. It’s not a deal-breaker, I just wish you would’ve told me so I could have my knife ready.”

One final hard knock.

“Enid! If you’re not in there, I’m putting up missing posters!”

Yoko.  

Honestly, under the circumstances, Enid would’ve preferred the mafia.

She huffed a sigh that was half-nerves and half-annoyance and finally looked down at Wednesday. Everything about her exuded sleepy warmth—half-lidded eyes and ruffled bangs, the neck of her sweater warped and loose around her chin from where it shifted as she slid down the bed. It was tugged up on the back as a result, crumpling up the fabric to expose just the tiniest sliver of skin at her hip, the waistband of black underwear peeking out from the top of her track pants. 

Enid’s entire mind went to static as she stared at that like a horny teenage boy getting his first look at a clavicle. 

BANG BANG BANG.

“Enid Ester Sinclair!”

She jumped again, eyes flashing back up to Wednesday’s, who was minisculely arching a dark brow at her in her own concerned robot way. Heat prickled up Enid’s neck.

“Enid!” Yoko yelled.

“I just slept in! Jesus.”

“You bitch. I was texting you all morning! You missed our run, breakfast, and didn’t even answer when I called five times! The least you can do is let me in when I come to make sure you’re fucking alive.”

“I will! Just… fuck, give me a minute!”

Yoko continued with the verbal assault outside the door, but Enid looked at Wednesday, who was still looking at her with that robot eyebrow. Her braids were all loose and frizzy on the pillow.

“What do we do?” Enid asked.

“Probably let her in before she wakes up the entire dorm house and we get a rock through our window.”

“But what do I tell her?”

“That you slept in.”

“I mean, what do I tell her about…?” She made a vague gesture between them.

Wednesday seemed puzzled. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to the bed, then to Enid herself, probably looking for whatever was making her so anxiety-ridden about the whole scenario and finding the same thing that typically made her so anxiety-ridden about any scenario—absolutely nothing.

“That… we slept in?”

Yoko banged on the door again. “If you don’t open this door in ten seconds I’m picking the lock! Wednesday taught me how!”

Enid shot Wednesday a look. “You taught her how to pick locks?”

“It’s a valuable skill.”

“Not in the wrong hands.”

“Especially in the wrong hands.” And with that completely responsible statement, Wednesday proceeded to roll out of bed and make her way to her closet.

Wednesday grabbed the clothes she’d already laid out the night prior, her toiletries bag, toed on her shower crocs, and went to the door. All Enid had time to do was scramble off the mattress before she swung it open, and there was Yoko, arms crossed, sunglasses on, hair whip straight and jet black and eyebrows raised, looking in every part like a very disgruntled member of the Black-Eyed Peas.

“You—Wednesday?”

“Yoko.”

Yoko looked past Wednesday to Enid, then to the black, perfectly-made bed across the room, then to Enid’s crumpled sheets, and then right back to Enid, standing awkwardly beside the bed trying to inconspicuously straighten her clothes. Her eyebrows raised a further millimeter.

“Please move,” Wednesday said, confident in a way only she could be when meeting someone’s eyes wearing wrinkled sleep clothes and crocs. “You’re going to make us late for our psych lecture.”

Yoko wordlessly took a step to the side. Wednesday brushed past. Yoko tracked her as she disappeared down the hall, entranced, like she was watching Jesus emerge from the tomb on Easter Sunday. After a few seconds, there was the faint opening and closing of the bathroom door down the hall. Yoko turned her head back to Enid with the slow suspense of a possessed doll in a horror movie.

“I thought you were dead, but you were getting railed?”

Enid, red to the roots of her hair, rushed to the door and yanked her into the room. 

It took a lot to get Yoko to believe that Wednesday and her didn’t have sex. First Enid had to swear on her own life, and then, when Yoko deemed that as an unreliable bargaining chip, she made her swear on her whole family, Yoko’s whole family, Yoko herself, Wednesday and her whole family, and finally Taylor Swift.

“I still kind of don’t believe you,” she said afterwards, and Enid admitted to a little bit of offence that there was a part of Yoko that believed Enid would damn everyone she ever cared about just to lie about having not-sex with Wednesday, “but let’s just pretend for a minute that what you’re saying is true—“

“We don’t have to pretend."

“Yes, exactly. It’s definitely true and I definitely believe you didn’t fuck the roomate you’ve been wanting to fuck since last summer even though you missed several prior obligations, refused to answer your phone, I just walked in on you guys getting out of the same bed and witnessed Wednesday doing an entire walk of shame down the hallway. But yeah, you didn’t fuck. Sure. What I wanna know is what the fuck you two were doing in that bed all night and all morning, because Dracula’s coffin—“ a point at Wednesday’s immaculately-made bed— “clearly hasn’t been touched.”

No, Wednesday’s bed hadn’t been touched since around twenty-seven hours ago when she made it before she fled. It went to show that Wednesday had predictable character even in the face of uncertainty. To take the time to make her bed with laser precision when her entire escape plan relied on not waking someone up was consistent to the point of idiocy. The world could get hit with a Jurassic-level asteroid, but if there was one thing that was right and certain it would be that Wednesday would be up twenty minutes earlier to ensure she could bounce a quarter off her sheets. 

Enid told Yoko they fell asleep watching Grey’s Anatomy, and then after a little bit of back and forth containing sentences like, “she was a missing person literally yesterday afternoon and now she’s waking up in your bed” and “make it make sense to me, Enid” and “wait, what season are you on? Ten? Are you—oh you are there. Sorry.”

Anyway, all that to say Enid eventually spilled the beans about the kiss and Yoko’s gasp probably startled a flock of birds a state away.

In the middle of their debrief, Wednesday came back from the bathroom, hair immaculately braided and outfit absolute fire, as usual. She took one look at Yoko and Enid sitting cross-legged opposite to each other on the bed, silent in a way people only were when they’d been talking about something they now couldn’t talk about because the something had entered the room, and said, “I assume you’ll be missing class this morning.”

Yoko said, “We have much to talk about.”

Enid imagined flaming daggers coming from her eyes and cauterizing Yoko’s mouth shut (then she imagined booking herself into a mental institution because damn).

“I figured.”

“Care to play hooky and join us?”

“We have a final in two weeks. I care to pass this course.”

“You’ll send me the notes?” 

Wednesday confirmed, “of course” with none of the warmth the sentiment implied, crossing the room to grab her bag.

Yoko lodged an elbow on the side of her knee and her chin on her fist, and Enid realized with a stone dropping in her stomach that she wasn’t done. “Sorry for stealing Enid away for the morning, by the way.” And Yoko winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll give her back.”

Wednesday didn’t even blink, much less spare her a glance. Instead, she just said cooly, “If you don’t, I’m not the one who’ll have to worry,” and then shut the door behind her as she left. Yoko was silent for a couple seconds. 

Then…

“Okay, I see the appeal. That was kind of hot.”

Enid whacked her with a pillow.

So at least Wednesday was okay with them talking about it. It’s not like there was any chance in hell that Enid wouldn’t tell Yoko anyway. She’d coached Enid through this entire thing and was almost more a part of the relationship than both Wednesday and Enid combined. Considering she’d spent enough hours discussing it to qualify for a full-time job with benefits and a pension, the least Enid could do was let her know that her labour had paid off.

But Enid quickly regretted telling Yoko because Yoko made her… think about things.

Or, more accurately, the lack of things they did.

“Wait, so you’re telling me you guys have been wet for each other for, like, a year and a half, and after finally getting it all out in the open, the moment you get in private you just… did the same activity you've been doing for a year and a half?”

“What else were we supposed to do?”

“Make out all night like horny teenagers? Obviously?”

“Well, we didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well…”

Enid didn’t know. It’s not like she didn’t want to make out with Wednesday. She did. It’d just been such a long day—a long few months, in fact. The last thing she wanted to do after finally (kind of) sorting it out was worry about when was the appropriate time to put her tongue into Wednesday’s mouth. But Yoko was right. It wasn’t a typical start to a relationship, especially one that'd been building up for so long. 

Instead of answering like a normal person, Enid ended up staring silently at her still-crumpled bedsheets for a bit too long. Yoko sensed the ensuing spiral and realized she’d made a mistake, quickly jumping to try and save Enid from herself.

“Enid, it’s okay. I was just giving you a hard time. There’s no timeline for when this shit should happen. Don’t stress about it.”

Stress? Enid wouldn’t stress. Enid never stressed. She was chill. She was cool. She was a super chill, cool person who wouldn’t stress.

True to her nature, Enid’s body refused to believe she wasn’t being actively hunted for sport throughout the rest of the day. Her knee bounced so furiously through all her classes that a few of the people in her vicinity kept shooting her dirty looks. The evening was no better. Wednesday had fencing practice that night and Enid had no reason to stalk her to the changeroom afterwards this time. All the I love you’s had already been said and they’d sorted everything out, so there was nothing left for Enid to do but sit in the room and steal one of Wednesday’s packs of ramen for her supper. She tried to distract herself from her thoughts by pretending to study while painting her nails.

“Do you think Wednesday thinks we’re dating, or do you think it’s just, like, a friends with benefits thing for her?”

And by talking to a tarantula. 

She sat at Wednesday’s desk, her open textbook acting as a guard to catch any stray drops of silver moon nail polish. Thing was at the corner of his enclosure closest to her, all eight eyes shiny and alert as Enid went on with her bullshit. Sometimes he lifted one of his legs slowly and dropped it back down. Enid took one tap as yes and two taps as no, even though it probably had nothing to do with Enid’s questions and much more to do with whatever tarantula reasons he had for lifting his leg. But Enid was certifiably insane and thus took it as gospel.

He didn’t tap this time, probably because her question was too stupid for a simple yes or no, but Enid did often imagine (insanely because, as discussed, she was talking to a tarantula) what he would say if he could.

If it were a friends with benefits thing, there would probably be benefits.

(Thing never called her an idiot like Enid would in her own head, which just solidified that these were actually not her thoughts and the arachnid was connecting with her through some sort of telepathy. She didn’t know how many times she could repeat that she was insane.)

“We did kiss. Like, four times.”

Doesn’t count.

Enid sighed, carefully brushing polish over her thumbnail. “Okay, so not friends with benefits,” she conceded. “So…. just friends?”

She looked up at Thing. Still no taps.

Idiot.

“That’s harsh.”

Two taps.

She huffed and went back to her nails. She finished the rest of her hand in thoughtful silence while Thing took that time to perform the very productive activity of disturbing some dirt near the glass of his enclosure.

“But we’re not dating yet,” she finally decided, and didn’t look at him because she didn’t want to know whether he’d confirm or deny it. “We haven’t even gone on a date. Unless you count the movie theatre, but that was just a date in my head.” She tilted her head in thought. “And I guess there was New Years, but I was dating Ajax at the time so that would mean I was cheating.” She idly waved her hand in the air to dry the wet polish. Looked at Thing. “So… not a date. Right?”

No taps.

Enid sighed and started on her other hand.

She was just finishing her second coat when the door finally creaked open. Enid had a slight fear that Wednesday would see her using her desk and chair without explicit permission and proceed to place a curse on her and all her future generations, but unless she somehow had the power to do it silently and with a surprising lack of Latin, that didn’t happen.

Instead Wednesday’s eyes just passed between Enid, her bottle of nail polish, the smudges of sparkly silver on the pages of her textbook, and Thing, drawing the common conclusion that Enid was having a therapy/manicure session with her pet spider and thinking no more of it than that.

She closed the door behind her and said, “I’ve been thinking.”

If Enid thought she was being hunted for sport earlier in the day, her body was now convinced she was caught and about to be cooked alive on a spit.

“In a good or a bad way?”

“A good way.” At least that was something. Wednesday moved to her closet and dropped her gym bag in front of it, glancing at Enid in a way that read as slightly troubled. “Which is… odd for me.” She pulled a pair of grey track pants and a white shirt from her closet. Enid dutifully focused back on her nails, knowing it meant Wednesday was about to change. 

“I’ve been thinking too,” she said, partially to continue the conversation but mostly to distract herself from the thought of Wednesday changing behind her. “Well, Thing and I.”

“About?”

Talking to Thing always gave Enid clarity, or at least as much of it as her addled mind was capable of. Somewhere between her first and second coat of nail polish she (and Thing) decided that she had no interest in waiting another year and a half for any further advancements in whatever relationship they had. Wednesday responded to things laid bare and simple. No more hinting. No more games. Only the truth.

Enid looked at Thing.

One tap.

“About whether or not we’re dating.”

Wednesday said, “I’ve been thinking the same.”

Well fuck. It was one thing to find the courage to speak her own truth, but a completely different one altogether to keep herself from freaking out after a bomb like that. But Enid often drew conclusions before the conclusions were actually there. So, scrounging up every molecule of patience in her body (a grand total of probably, like, one and half), she swallowed, blinked, and focused on the dull coolness of wet polish on her nails.

“And…?”

Behind her she could hear clothes sliding over skin—off of skin. Fabric dropping to the floor. Any of the ease that came from not having to look Wednesday in the eyes during this conversation was thoroughly eviscerated by the thought of her being in a bra and underwear barely five feet away.  

Enid’s next brush of nail polish spilled over the side of her finger. 

“I think that the nature of the term ‘dating’ implies that we’ve gone on at least one date,” Wednesday said.

Enid nodded, wrinkling the page of her textbook as she used it to wipe off the excess polish. “Same.”

“So it would be inaccurate to say we’re dating based simply on an exchange of mutual feelings and not on the usual parameters of courtship.”

“English please.”

“We have to go on a date.”

Thing’s eight eyes flew to his owner. Enid’s two eyes almost did the same before she remembered that looking at Wednesday in a state of undress would break every scrap of trust she’d managed to earn from a girl who opened up about as easily as coconut made of concrete. 

Still, her heart nearly exploded out of her body. 

“‘We have to’?” she couldn’t help but tease anyway, trying and failing to keep a giddy smile at bay. Her nails were becoming less of a priority and more of a distracted mess. “Way to make a girl feel like an obligation.”

“You are an obligation.” Wednesday replied simply. “To me anyway. The same as I’m obligated to eat food and drink water.”

“So in the way that I’m an interruption to your day.”

“In the way that I have to have you.”

If they were still following the usual parameters of courtship, Enid would act nonchalant and aloof about that smooth-ass line. She’d quell the pounding of her heart and the butterflies in her stomach and the string of flustered syllables about to fumble from her lips and say something cool like, ‘well, I’m right here for the taking. Come get me.’

But Enid was less known for her coolness and more for her tendency to be a basket case. 

Her hand jerked, knocking her bottle of nail polish over, liquid silver spilling all over the tiny (and hopefully not important) letters of her textbook page. A string of expletives flew out of her mouth as she hastily snatched a fistful of tissues to sop up the mess before it could leak onto Wednesday’s table.

“Not that you’re mine to have,” Wednesday almost sounded like she was backtracking here, probably wrongly thinking the blood rushing to Enid’s face paired with her apparent muscle spasm and colourful swearing had something to do with anger. “You’re your own person and I’d never assume that dating you implies anything near the realm of ownership. I’m sorry if it sounded that way. It wasn’t—that would never be my intention.”

Enid never thought she’d hear a nervous ramble come out of the girl who glared at babies in the supermarket for a pastime, but here it was. Granted, Wednesday’s word vomit was miles ahead of Enid’s on the grounds of coherency and the successful conveyance of her thoughts, but, as a professional, Enid still saw it for what it was. 

And what it was was the best thing to happen maybe, like, ever. And it was funny. So she laughed.

It took her a second to remember that Wednesday thought she was mad, so in that context her amusement was probably painting her as a little to a lot insane. She choked it off with a clearing of her throat and pressed her lips together in an attempt to shut her smile down too, but it wasn’t going anywhere. 

Wednesday Addams, an excel spreadsheet manifested in human form, just rambled. Because of Enid. She’d be riding this high for at least the next couple of decades.

Even though she was trying her hardest to stifle it, a teensy little laugh still wiggled its way between her words. “You can have me,” she said, distractedly dabbing at the nail polish as her heart picked up in preparation for her next sentence. “If I can have you.”

She wished she could see Wednesday’s face in that moment. She was desperate to know if her words had any of the effect on Wednesday as Wednesday’s had on her. But Enid was staring dutifully at the disaster that were her last three nails and Wednesday gave no hints. 

Instead, after a moment of thoughtful silence, she just said, “You’ve had me for a while,” and went to her closet to throw her clothes in the hamper. Enid tried not to swoon.

She realized she could look now—Wednesday was dressed. She still didn’t just in case there was a stray boob around or something, but Wednesday crossed the room, grabbed Enid’s chair from her desk, and brought it over to her own, facing Enid. And sat.

And Enid had always thought Wednesday was the most beautiful person she’d ever seen, even when she wasn’t really supposed to think that (a.k.a. that time she was dating a whole man). And Enid liked beautiful things.

So Enid looked up, because she couldn’t really not when Wednesday was just there, existing right in front of her. Her shirt was a few sizes too big and the collar slumped a little on one side, exposing a black bra strap and a bit of collar bone that Enid had to pretend didn’t cause her eyes to stick for a second too long. Her hair was braided in its usual pigtails and her bangs were still damp from her shower in the changeroom. And her eyes… well, they looked at her in the same way they always did. Black and grey. Sun-stained mahogany.

With an almost playful quirk of her eyebrows, Wednesday stuck out her hand. 

“Will you paint my nails?”

Enid couldn’t help a short, disbelieving laugh. Wednesday just kept her hand where it was, face revealing none of the amusement Enid knew she was actively attempting to hide. 

She finished sopping up the spilled nail polish, textbook page stained silver and shiny and wrinkly, and threw the ball of tissues in the garbage. Then she took Wednesday’s hand and pretended to thoughtfully examine her already-painted black nails. She had callouses on her palm from fencing and weights.

“What colour?” she asked, and, mustering all the seriousness she could scrape from every cell in her body, lifted her eyes soberly to Wednesday’s. “Pink?”

Wednesday laughed—short and huffed and through her nose, and honestly not really a laugh at all, but Enid knew better. And Wednesday did too. “Whatever you want,” she said.

Enid ran to the nail polish stash in her nightstand like a kid to a candy store.

That night they listened to the record Wednesday's parents gave Enid for Christmas. Grainy, old-timey music played idly in the background while Wednesday sat cross-legged on the chair opposite her, hand loosely laid on Enid’s knee, both of them leaned in so close their foreheads almost touched as Enid applied a deep burgundy polish. Any words said were quiet, melding in with the peace in the form of hushed undertones and creaking whispers. Sometimes Wednesday would make some dry joke and Enid would laugh, brush jerking off track and onto skin, and Enid would tsk under her breath while grabbing a tissue to wipe it off.

“Your fault,” she’d whisper, and Wednesday would whisper “sorry” in a way that sounded like she knew neither of them believed it.

The next day was the date. By all accounts, nothing about that morning was insanely different than usual. Enid woke up in her own bed and went about her jog and breakfast with Yoko. It was like nothing happened—separate beds, separate lives, separate obligations. There was no absentminded ‘love you’s as she slipped out the door and no chaste goodbye kiss like might happen with anyone else she was kind-of-dating and lived with. They hadn’t even kissed since that night in the showers and Enid was really trying not to worry about it (and really failing because what kind of person would she be if she didn’t utilize her most impressive talent).

The only thing that was different about that morning was the context of Enid’s sticky note.

Lmk where we’re going for our date <3

Wednesday texted her a response as soon as she woke up. It was predictably unhelpful.

6:01 AM: You can’t truly believe I’m going to tell you.

6:02 AM: Yes you’re very secretive and mysterious and I love that for you

6:02 AM: I just need to know what to wearrrrrrr

6:02 AM: Something comfortable.

6:03 AM: I need more info

6:03 AM: I disagree.

6:03 AM: I WILL show up in pyjamas

6:03 AM: Don’t test me

For a whole minute, text bubbles showed up, indicating Wednesday was typing, and then disappeared. Showed up. Disappeared. Enid was going to chew her lip off.

“I bet she’s trying to send something flirty.”

Enid nearly jumped ten feet in the air. She’d almost forgotten that she was in line at the cafeteria with Yoko standing behind her, apparently looking over her shoulder at her screen. It would’ve been an invasion of privacy, but it was Yoko so it didn’t count.

“What?” Enid recovered quickly, enough so that the absurdity of the suggestion greatly overpowered the shock of the delivery. “No, this is Wednesday. She’d never.”

Yoko shrugged. “I personally think she’s hiding a boatload of rizz under that ‘creepy Victorian child’ exterior.” She then lowered her voice into what Enid figured was supposed to be an impersonation of that creepy Victorian child, but came out sounding more like a nineteenth century British gentleman with a sore throat. “Perhaps you would be so bold as to wear a racy little number that exposes some ankle, m’lady.”

“You think that’s what she’s going to say?”

“I don’t know, but I think it’d get her blood pumping.”

Enid’s phone buzzed. Both their eyes flew to the screen.

6:06 AM: You look spectacular in pyjamas. This is an ineffective threat. I expect better.

“Oh boo,” Yoko complained. “That’s too sweet. It’s boring.”

Enid’s heart could have flown away. 

Both her thumbs danced over the keyboard indecisively for long enough that they moved at least ten feet ahead in line without a single letter typed. Eventually Yoko deemed it too painful to watch, muttering an exasperated curse as she stuck out her hand. Enid defeatedly gave her the phone. Yoko typed out a message, sent it, and handed the device back in what seemed like the span of a single second.

6:08 AM: I’ll show up naked

“Yoko!”

“Oh, shut up. What are you so afraid of? It’s literally not that deep.”

“It is. She’s not just someone you can—“

Buzz buzz.

6:08 AM: Much more ineffective.

“Wednesday, you dog,” Yoko laughed.

She moved around Enid to order while Enid stared gobsmacked at her phone, wondering if Wednesday had been a secret flirting god this entire time but was just too scared to put her skills to use. Whatever the case, to say she was pleasantly surprised would be an understatement. 

But she did have priorities other than flirting with Wednesday. Unfortunately.

6:09 AM: We’re leaving at 7, by the way.

6:10 AM: 7 o’clock aligns with both our schedules and also allots time for preparation and travel. 

6:10 AM: But if you’d rather another time that’s fine.

As if Enid was going to challenge the time management of a person who had the inherent ability to count down her showers to precisely the four minute mark in her head  The other day Enid checked her phone in an English lecture thinking it was almost over, only to find out she was a mere nine minutes in, but sure, she was definitely going to reschedule their date for 6:30 on the grounds that she knew better than a human sundial.

Enid hounded Wednesday via text throughout the rest of the day about proper date attire even though her efforts went mostly unrewarded. Wednesday’s response times ranged three seconds to three hours, and she must’ve felt bad about the latter because she caved the slightest amount when Enid’s phone buzzed in the middle of the afternoon, and all Wednesday’s message said was,

2:35 PM: Something waterproof.

“Maybe it’s an innuendo,” Yoko suggested while she chewed on a chicken finger during lunch, both of them tossing around ideas for whatever the sweet fuck that shit meant. Upon Enid’s confused expression, she casually added, “You know, the flirting. Maybe she means that you won’t get wet from external sources, but from—“

“Oh my God, does your mind ever come out of the gutter?”

“Rarely.”

So Yoko was no help. Wednesday might’ve had a surprising amount of rizz for a sentient computer program, but she wasn’t dirty-minded. Nothing in Wednesday’s mind was even messy, and she probably disinfected every surface in there with Lysol at least five times per day. Wednesday didn’t do innuendos. If she meant something in a dirty way, Enid wouldn’t have to wonder.

This left her to cycle through possibilities ranging from late-night cliff diving to a trip to Sea World with reserved seats in Shamu’s splash zone. Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought to bring her abundance of stylish raincoats from home, so the best she could do was a lined, blue and black, weather resistant, university-issued windbreaker she’d gotten on a group order with the whole track team. It didn’t even have a hood. She hoped Wednesday wasn’t going to take them on a romantic walk through some motion-activated sprinklers or something.

At 6:45, after showering and changing and looking at herself fifteen thousand times in the mirror, Wednesday was nowhere in sight. Enid paced back and forth in the room, windbreaker sleeves swishing loudly against her sides as the clock on Wednesday’s nightstand ticked on.

6:46

6:48

6:51

Enid checked the clock one more time before sighing and dropping down on her bed, gutted. It was 6:53. 

Where the fuck was Wednesday?

Then the door burst open, light from the hall flooding the room and—oh, there was Wednesday. 

“I’m sorry.”

And she was… a mess. Her bangs were all ruffled and her skin had a slight sheen of sweat, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, breaths coming in short puffs. She was wearing black cargo pants that were wet up to the knees and her shower crocs. By all accounts she looked like she’d just been running for her life. Or, more likely given who she was, chasing someone who was running for theirs (that’s probably why she always had her crocs in sport mode). 

The fact that Wednesday looked like she’d just murdered someone and had a hell of a time dealing with the body was offset by her dishevelment. Wednesday always presented herself as though she was manufactured in a lab, every hair poked in the right place and all her clothes laying just-so over her skin. Her face only had two settings—disgruntled nothingness and whatever sinister satisfaction erupted when she watched people who listened to music without headphones in public trip over a crack in the sidewalk—and Enid didn’t realize until she saw her panting and sweaty that there was a difference between the pull in her stomach when she looked at Wednesday and when she looked at Wednesday undone.

Wednesday seemed to like it a bit less. She didn’t even glance at Enid, just made a B-line for her closet, leaving the door open behind her and Enid sitting on the bed with inappropriate feelings.

“What happened to you?” Enid figured she should ask in case Wednesday was actually in a state of peril and Enid should be concerned for reasons other than how hot she looks while in that perilous state.

Wednesday said, “I checked the forecast for rain but forgot to account for wind.”

“Cool. So that’s actually the opposite of an answer.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a northerly so it’ll be on our backs on our way across.”

Enid watched her with a large (i.e. correct) amount of concern as she ripped some clothes from her closet in a way that read as more ‘frantically fleeing the country’ than ‘date preparation’. 

“You’re right, the direction of fucking wind is totally what I’m worried about right now. Listen, you don’t need to rush. If we’re a little late it’s—”

“Give me four minutes.”

And Wednesday was gone.

Enid pressed her lips together and stared across at Wednesday’s unnaturally tidy bed for a few long seconds. Then, because there was no other possible option, she texted Yoko.

6:55 PM: So I’m pretty sure Wednesday just killed someone

6:55 PM: You called it. Dealbreaker?

6:55 PM: Not if she can get back here before 7

Wednesday returned to the room at 6:59 completely transformed. With her all-black, soggy murder attire replaced with all-black not-soggy journeying attire (nothing really different except for blundstones instead of crocs and a pair of pants that weren’t dripping from the knees down), the only remnants of her early dishevelment were damp bangs and braids that she didn’t have time to dry. She shoved a ball cap over it and pulled her own university-issued fencing windbreaker from her closet (which was the same as Enid’s except that it said “fencing” instead of “track and field” and Wednesday had special-ordered her’s in black and grey because they’d let her do that for some reason).

Finally, after her tornado of rushing, she looked at Enid for the first time that night. Looked her very obviously up and down, to be exact.

She concluded, “Not naked.”

And sometime in the impossible four minutes it took Wednesday to fully shower and apply eyeliner, Enid decided that Yoko was once again right. It really wasn’t that deep. 

She winked. “Not yet.”

As such, she discovered Wednesday was not nearly as confident when faced with an actual human being instead of a text bubble. She turned red. Enid laughed.

Instead of uttering some sinister threat for the crime of causing color to appear on the body of slenderman’s younger, more proportional sister, Wednesday just stuck out a hand. Enid’s eyes caught on those dark red nails, like blood, all tidy and glossy with fresh polish.

Wednesday cleared her throat. Enid jumped up and took her hand.

They walked for a while, Enid trying and failing to drag out some last-minute date info using all tactics, including but not limited to lying that she’d already figured it out anyway to threats involving pink sparkles sprinkled over ebony hair while she was sleeping. Wednesday graded Enid’s threats on relative effectiveness, yet none of them caused her to actually give up what they were doing.

Enid was giddy when Wednesday led her outside, curious when she took them beyond the courtyard gates, and then genuinely concerned when Wednesday pulled out a key and unlocked the door of the rowing team’s boathouse down by the lake.

“You’re taking me somewhere to kill me, aren’t you?”

It was obviously a joke, but Enid did admit to a level of suspicion that while Wednesday might not lure her to a boathouse with the intention of murder, the capability was very within her for anyone else. The fact that Enid followed the most suspicious person she’d ever met to a dark, secluded building with water and blunt objects around really said a lot about how much she valued her own safety. If she ended up dead she’d look like such an idiot (which seemed like a small worry over the whole ‘being dead’ thing, but ultimately scored higher on Enid’s anxiety list anyway due to her vanity).

Wednesday opened the door on rusty hinges, causing an unsettling shriek to split through the eerily silent, dusk air.

“Trust me,” she said, “if I planned to kill you, you’d have no idea.”

Then she disappeared into the dark. 

Enid stood outside, a chilly gust of wind fluttering by. Inside the boathouse, water lapped against boats and echoed off the damp concrete, old wooden walls creaking. Something howled in the woods behind her. Enid couldn’t hear Wednesday anymore. She shivered.

To any sensible person, this would be the time to run.

Enid leaned in through the doorway a little and called, “Did you bring my hat?”

A sigh. “I told you it was a northerly.” The echo of resigned, scuffing boot soles on gritty concrete filtered out from the shadows. Then there was Wednesday. Holding out the hat. “Of course I brought it.”

The boathouse was kind of creepy. The reflection of water on the walls moved shadows this way and that in a way that looked scarily similar to ghosts out of the corner of Enid’s eye, and it smelled like old wood and wet concrete. Shelves of boats lined the walls, their inky shadows spreading over the floor like spilled blood. The air was damp and chilly. Enid felt goosebumps break out on her neck.

Wednesday scuttled away, leaving Enid alone in the dingy creepiness of it all.

“Wednesday!” Enid hissed.

Her little serial killer wordlessly returned to take her hand, then led them past all the boats and shadows until they reached the dock. In the water sat a canoe.

Enid said, “What.”

“Get in.”

“When you said you’d take me on a date, I thought you meant to, like, the movie theatre or something.”

“I said to wear something waterproof.”

“I didn’t think that meant it’d involve an actual boat.”

“But you did think it’d involve… a movie theatre.”

Enid huffed. Wednesday held onto a dock post and stepped down into the rocking boat with an ease she had no reason to possess while Enid stood on the old boards above, arms crossed, informing Wednesday about how some movie theatres now had moving seats and little devices that expelled wind and water over the audience to make for a 4D immersive experience.

To which Wednesday replied, “And that’s still a more probable idea to you than a boat.”

Enid told Wednesday to go fuck herself. Wednesday told Enid to get in the boat.

She just thought they were going for a romantic ride at first, but was surprised to find that Wednesday had a destination in mind and pointed them in a straight line across the lake. She was right—the wind was at their backs on the way across. 

As they rowed, Enid asked, “I thought the only people who had access to the boathouse were the rowing team. How did you even get a key?”

“I asked nicely, and because of my sweet disposition, the captain of the women’s singles team lent me her’s.”

Asked nicely? Sweet disposition?

Enid concluded, “Blackmail?”

“Blackmail.”

“Juicy. What’d she do?”

Because she simply had to know. She might’ve been on the most important date of her life, traversing through dark, choppy waters with a maybe-serial-killer steering her toward a secluded forest, but acquiring a piece of hot goss would never not be the top bullet point on Enid’s priority list. Sue a girl for having hobbies.

“She cheated on her SAT exam.”

“How do you know that?”

“She went to my highschool and paid me two hundred dollars to write it for her when I was in tenth grade.”

With anyone else, Enid would have been shocked, but this was Wednesday, and as such the only shocking thing about it was the idiocy of this rower girl to not only think Wednesday wouldn’t use that against her at some point, but to pay her for her own blackmail.

“Didn’t you need to show, like, a piece of ID or something?”

“I used hers.”

“And that worked? I think I would have noticed if you had a doppelganger running around campus.”

“Caitlyn stands at five foot eleven and has blond hair and blue eyes, all of which is visible on her driver’s license. She could also bench 150 pounds at the time.”

Water lapped against the side of the boat. Their canoe creaked and rocked. The hoot of an owl sounded distantly from across the lake. 

“But it’s the American School System. They wished me luck and gave me a free pen.”

“Sounds about right.”

It started to get, like, really foggy halfway across. Enid was fine with it. So fine except for the fact that Wednesday broke out a fucking headlamp, and every time the beam moved Enid expected it to reveal a lifeless body floating on the surface or a disfigured something coming up out of the depths. By the time they reached the other side, it was pitch black and the only reason Enid hadn’t thrown herself over the side of the boat to escape was due to the fear of a monster emerging from the deep with a taste for blood and/or the spearmint gum she’d found in her pocket earlier.

Land was hardly any better, and certainly no brighter. It was fully dark now and when the nose of the boat scraped noisily on the shore of the far end of the lake, there was a big part of Enid that believed that sound might’ve served as a dinner bell for something big and with lots of teeth waiting in the shadows. Wednesday must’ve either believed there wasn’t a threat or was confident in her ability to be a bigger threat because she was unconcerned. She jumped out and, with an obvious amount of effort (considering Enid and the boat were both separately bigger than her, let alone together), pulled the vessel further up the shore so Enid could step out onto dry land.

“Okay,” Enid said, taking the offered hand to stand up, “you’ve taken me across a lake in a canoe procured through blackmail, now I’m following you into some creepy woods and I’m afraid of the dark, and I haven’t asked a single question.

“You’ve asked twenty-three.”

“Why are you keeping count?” Enid shook her head. Fucking robots. “Whatever. Point is I think I’ve earned the right to know where you’re taking me now.”

Wednesday shrugged and said, “You have.”

Enid’s eyebrows shot up. She did not think that would work. “Really?”

“Yes. But I’m still not going to tell you.”

She was such a little dick.

Wednesday ended up pulling the boat behind some bushes so it looked mostly hidden from the shoreline, then waited for a hesitant Enid at the edge of the pitch-black treeline to take her hand. Enid did, and in her other hand brandished a flashlight. Then they set off into the woods.

They walked for a while, so long actually that Enid almost began to consider that this was a trap and the next time her loved ones would see her face would be when her high school graduation picture appeared on an episode of Dateline. Her parents wouldn’t be surprised. Falling too deep into something was always how her mother thought she’d go anyway, and she was pretty sure following a suspected psychopath deep into a dark forest just because that psychopath just so happened to be hot and bisexual probably fit that criteria.

Wednesday led her to some old structure with grey, mossy stone, a half-eroded oak door that shrieked on ungreased hinges, ominous Latin scripture carved into the crumbling rock of the doorframe. As much as Enid trusted her, she refused to go inside. The terrifying ghost of a smirk appeared on Wednesday’s lips as she wordlessly let go of Enid’s hand and slipped in, and this time when Enid hissed her name, she didn’t come back.

Enid stood outside the door, eyes wide, heart pounding, pointing the beam of her flashlight around in erratic bursts every time the wind moved some branches on a tree. Inside the half-standing building, there was a faint click.

And, just like that, the forest glowed.

Fairy lights twinkled to life in the trees, bathing the mossy forest floor in twinkling orange and yellow. In the space between the trees and dangling lights there were two foldable camp chairs positioned around a fire pit—one of those ones with uneven legs and a rusty screen that you’d probably find for rent at a campground. Beside the fire pit was a cooler that had some type of animal lock attached, and off to the side, just outside the perimeter of light, there was a fully erected tent. 

Enid stood there, mouth dropped open, gaping at the cozy sanctuary that had replaced the previously eerie night in the span of a single second. She didn’t even jump when that stupid door creaked open again behind her. 

“What is this place?” she asked in awe.

“A crypt,” Wednesday replied casually, like that wasn’t the single most creepy answer she could’ve possibly given. “An old pilgrim who founded the town is supposed to be buried inside. Joseph Crackstone.”

“I more so meant the cute camping setup and not the—wait, isn’t that the guy who tried to burn down a school full of children?”

“He actually ended up getting killed by one of the students. I have yet to decide if that’s more embarrassing for him or the adults at the school who sent a child to murder a psychopath, but I’m leaning towards the school since he had dementia and thought he had a telekinetic cane so he probably wasn’t much of a challenge.”

“So… safe to say nobody should be around to pay their respects?”

This time, Wednesday’s ghost-like smile wasn’t scary at all. It was just tiny and there—a wordless confirmation lit up by fairy lights. “There’s one more thing.”

The way the night was going, Enid expected Wednesday’s next surprise to be the fully resurrected corpse of Joseph Crackstone joining them out by the fire for a few marshmallows. But Wednesday walked over near the chairs to fiddle with some strange little device she had on the table, which Enid realized was a projector when it turned on and stabbed her right in the eyeballs with a blue flash of light. She turned to look at the rectangular screen projected on the wall of the old, crumbling tomb, the shadow of her own upper body blacking out the screen where she stood.

In a flash, the blue loading screen was replaced by what looked to be a recording of some type of concert in a big arena. Wednesday must’ve brought a speaker along because the sound of screaming fans suddenly joined the owls hooting in the night.

Enid didn’t even know what questions to ask at that point, so she just waited for Wednesday’s shadow to join hers at the screen.

“I got Bianca to teach me about internet piracy,” she said. 

“And how did that go?”

“Much less violently than I thought given what regular piracy is like, but it has its uses. I found the Era’s Tour.”

Enid’s head snapped to her. “The Era’s Tour?”

“That’s the one you wanted to see.”

There was no “right?” at the end of that sentence, no hesitancy or question in her words. Wednesday knew Enid.

She knew her in a way nobody else really had. All the practical stuff—schedules and daily obligations engrained with such confidence that she could plan a date for 7:00 in the evening that required rowing across a lake and a creepy trek through the forest without worrying that either of them had somewhere to be. Enid liked that. That Wednesday kept everything in her perfect little computer brain so all Enid had to do was show up.

But Wednesday also knew her. Wednesday probably knew more about Enid than Enid knew about herself, but she’d keep it tucked in close unless Enid asked. That was just the way Wednesday operated—in little hums and idle responses amidst the clacking of typewriter keys that went on undisturbed, so that on the surface it seemed like she was barely paying attention when in reality she was filing away every detail. She knew Enid in that quiet way that didn’t make it obvious. Not in endless questions or prying, but in silence and steady eyes, in the way she’d wrinkle her nose when Enid forced her to try a sip of some sugary coffee she’d picked up, but then bring her the same one the next day without even having to be reminded of the order.

Enid had always been under the assumption that knowing her took a certain amount of effort. For her mother, knowing Enid meant a lifelong sentence of prayers and worries that she’d end up overdosed in a ditch after trying a pot brownie for the first time, and for the rest of her family, knowing her meant they’d always have to feel some low level of disappointment in the way that she was—or, more accurately, in the way that she wasn’t like them. It’s not like they were alone in that burden. Enid had first-hand experience with the exhaustion that came with knowing herself too. With knowing deep down that she could never change.

But Wednesday always had her hat when it was cold out.

Enid didn’t think she’d even been known absentmindedly before. Like it was nothing.

The projector cast a stark contrast between shadow and light on Wednesday’s face. There was the vague motion of the screen across her features, but her gaze was as steady on Enid as it always was. Light reflected on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, blurry colours shifting this way and that like the reflection of the water on the boathouse walls, flickering every few seconds into something new as the camera angle changed. Even beneath the shifting projector light, every part of her was right where Enid expected it to be. Every line and angle, every shade of brown in her eyes, every shadow and muscle and freckle.

She knew Wednesday too, after all. Had her memorized.

In a last flicker and scream of the crowd, the light changed into the steady gold of what must’ve been stage lights coming to life. It scattered across Wednesday’s cheeks, the bridge of her nose, the line of her jaw. The contrast made everywhere the light hit sharper, creating shadows and highlights like it was glinting off a knife’s edge, and Enid knew Wednesday had that kind of effect on things but she’d never seen her glow before. She looked like one of those copper statues made golden by touch. Ethereal.

Enid asked, “You did all this?”

“Yes.”

“For me?”

“Who else?”

The light changed. Wednesday’s face was back in the crowd, blurry projector colours shifting across the planes of her cheeks. 

Enid felt too much to speak. All she could do was breathe, “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

Enid kissed her. And that was all they saw of the concert.

.     .     .

The tent was short. Wednesday caught her hair on the zipper on the way in. There was some Spanish curse muttered, Enid’s laugh, the tingling of the tent zipper as she helped de-snare her, then a few violent zips of the door flap being closed. Enid asked where the bed was. Wednesday pointed at a lumpy drawstring bag in the corner.

“Looks cozy,” Enid said.

Wednesday gave her a flat look that at its core held no real annoyance. Enid liked that she didn’t even bother to pretend it did anymore, just let the fondness leak through, obvious and vulnerable like blood from an artery. “I need to blow up the air mattress.”

Aside from the sound of an owl hooting in the distance and the call of a loon across the pond, the rhythmic sound of air being pumped into the mattress echoed in the night, along with the sound of Enid eventually giving into the laugh building in her chest the longer she watched Wednesday dutifully pump the air mattress with her foot—such an abnormal person doing such a normal, mundane thing. It got her every time. Eventually it was done and Enid put on the sheets Wednesday had packed. Then they stood there, an odd type of anticipation fluttering in Enid's stomach until she couldn’t decide if it was closer to excitement or pain. A restless itch in her fingers. 

“Do you want to go to bed?” Wednesday asked. It was 8:30.

“Not unless you do.”

“Do you want me to start a fire?”

Enid pressed her lips together. She felt a little like she did those couple of nights ago in the changeroom with that love confession stuck in her throat. Her heart seemed to be trying to beat its way out through a space between her ribs, blood rushing under her skin, hands struck with the undeniable need to hold onto something and only finding the empty air around her palms when her fingers closed. The cliff was back, but she wasn’t falling yet.

Wednesday started again. “Do you want to—?”

“What do you want, Wednesday?”

Wednesday’s eyelashes fluttered as she blinked, then as her gaze darted down and just as quickly back up. For a second, Enid looked over the lip of the cliff—the thousand foot drop and all the rocks at the bottom. There was no good end to falling, only blood, her bones broken over the stones. She could see the aftermath of it with such clarity it was like she’d already lived it before she even let go.

But the night sky was as beautiful as a sunset and stars dotted the dark, and when Enid looked up at it for once she existed in what was true instead of what might be, and it wasn’t a thousand feet below on the rocks. It was right in front of her.

She could see Wednesday thinking. Calculating. The ones and zeros bouncing hesitantly into place. Then the soft rise and fall of her chest as she let out a deciding breath.

“Te deseo.”

“I don’t know what that—”

“You.”

“Oh, thank God.”

The inside of the tent existed in a muted orange from the lamplight, and the movement of two bodies cast shadows on the thin nylon wall. With the fairy lights and projector off, it probably looked like it was glowing from the outside, the only life permeating the darkness for miles. A sanctuary built from flimsy metal poles and a 30 watt lightbulb.

The night settled around them—chirping insects and sighing leaves, the door zipper tingling every now and then from that northerly breeze fluttering against the walls. Then, out of place, there was the rubbery squeaking sound of someone falling on an air mattress. A laugh. Another squeak and the giggle was muffled. The crinkle of a windbreaker tossed to the side, almost inconsiderate and loud against the dark quiet of undisturbed ground outside. Shoes toed off. Sweaters. Hair taken out of braids and falling loose over shoulders. 

There was a difference kissing Wednesday in the night versus when they were racing against a sunset and a torrential downpour. There was no urgency now. Everything was the colour of honey and the feel of soft skin, whispered questions followed by whispered permission, the hem of a shirt tugging tight before it gave in. Cotton slid like soft fire over Enid’s skin, over shoulders and messing up hair as it was pulled off.  

Wednesday told her she was beautiful in a language she didn’t understand. Enid told her to kiss her in English and Wednesday did. On her lips. On her jaw. On her neck, and then down. On her shoulder. Sternum. Stomach. 

And then down.

It was funny—when Enid pictured this moment she always thought it’d be born of some desperate need. Feelings bottled up, pressure building, all the strings keeping them apart pulled taught until they finally snapped. The collision would be violent, desperate, laboured breaths and claws dug in and drawing blood in their need to keep close the thing that’d been just a few words out of reach this entire time. Enid pictured fire. An explosion. The last epic flare of a star that had run out of molecules to combust.

But there was no fire. No blood. Not even a bruise.

(Well… maybe just one or two.)

Out of all the things Enid expected Wednesday Addams to be in a moment like this, soft wasn’t one of them. Her mouth moved over Enid’s skin, slow, deliberate, and careful, not quite like a knife that’d been dulled but rather one that’d been sharpened to such a lethal point the user knew they had to take great pains to avoid cutting. It trailed over her skin, tingling and light. Too light. Wednesday’s lips were on the inside of her thigh now. Enid felt like every inch of her was a fuse begging to be lit.

Silvermoon nails curled into ebony hair a little too tightly at first, loosening as Enid wrangled her restraint with an unsteady, breathy laugh. “Jesus, Wens. You’re not going to break me.”

Wednesday hummed, and her words were muffled by Enid’s skin—a soft, aching vibration and a graze of teeth as her voice swept over nerve endings in that casual, absentminded way she might say goodnight. 

“Well, that’s disappointing.”

Then she moved up.

And Enid almost ripped out a fistful of her hair.

Thoughts disappeared pretty quickly then. Enid was falling, the ground coming closer and closer until suddenly Wednesday moved her mouth or changed pace and it was gone, Enid was back at the top breathing heavy, fists clenched and heat prickling up her spine. Then Wednesday was back and Enid was falling again, the ground coming closer again. And then it was gone. Back at the top. Falling again. 

Gone.

“Wednesday.” She said it like a curse, growled and frustrated, and Wednesday laughed. 

The next time she let Enid hit the ground. Once. Twice. Enid could barely see straight.

Getting Wednesday under her just made Enid ponder how it was possible to have the restraint Wednesday did. Something about how she felt drove Enid fully insane. Guys didn’t feel like that. Guys were big and heavy and most of them didn’t even moisturize, and Enid had always gone for the lanky, tall types so all she’d ever really felt when making out with a dude was shoulder blades and ribs. And Wednesday was obviously athletic—muscles jumped and twitched as Enid mapped out the skin that erupted in goosebumps under her fingertips—but even in someone like Wednesday there was softness. Something pliant and delicate and inexplicitly feminine that Enid would forever be drunk off. It was like Wednesday had whiskey on her skin—the sweet honey kind that had you on your ass before you even realized you were dizzy.

She tried be slow. She tried to be gentle. She tried to take her time.

But Wednesday liked teeth.

Something high-pitched and cutoff ripped from her throat as Enid accidentally scraped a canine where her shoulder met her neck, and it really wasn’t Enid’s fault for turning a little feral after drawing a noise like that from a person who would rather burn alive from the feet up than let someone see her out of control. Enid did it again and again, until Wednesday’s breath was hot and shaky against her ear and her ruby-painted fingernails were starting to dig into the muscle of her shoulders.

Enid’s hands were shaking from the effort of restraining herself, but she moved one down—over soft, pale skin and ridges of bone, to the delicate dip of her hip, and down until Wednesday inhaled sharply and her nails pricked Enid’s muscles in the split second before she splayed them over her shoulder blades, concerned about that lethal sharpness even when she was on her back beneath her. That was easily fixed. Enid sat up, took her wrists and traced their soft undersides with her thumbs. Then she pinned Wednesday’s pretty hands to the pillow on either side of her head.

She leaned down, placed her lips right behind the shell of her ear and whispered, “What do you want, Wednesday?”

It was strange; that Wednesday would let her do this to her. That she wouldn’t let another soul so much as tell her what to do, but had placed herself willingly under Enid, breaths shaky and eyes fluttered shut, fingers flexing with the effort of keeping them where they were as if she was completely powerless against the grip on her wrists that would have disappeared the second she uttered the command.

Wednesday collected herself with an unsteady exhale, and even now Enid expected some smart remark to come out of her. In their two years, she’d never seen Wednesday short on wit.

But Wednesday’s voice sounded a little choked. A little desperate. It was a plea. Breathy and weak, broken of all its usual bite and replaced with something bare that sounded like surrender. 

“Fuck, Enid.”

And maybe Enid became a little desperate too. 

For the rest of the night it was just the sigh of wind through the trees and calls of animals in the woods, the golden glow of their tent in the pitch dark, the sound of sheets moving against sheets and soft breathing turned to less soft. Soft again. Whispered words. A breathy curse. Less soft.

For the rest of the night they existed in a sanctuary of lamplight and stars, and for the first time in her life, Enid felt love as something that made her float instead of fall.

.     .     .

“Enid, the mark you have left on me is indelible.”

“Do you mean that in, like, a figurative emotional sense? Or more in a physical—“

“I’m obviously talking about the hickey.”

“Right, yeah. Sorry.”

.     .     .

Enid woke the next morning to a freezing tent. Her nose was cold, and half of Wednesday’s body was settled heavy and limp over half of Enid’s, blankets pulled up to their chins. They’d put on clothes before falling asleep, so in stark contrast to the bareness of the night before, they were both now bundled in track pants and hoodies, courtesy of Wednesday’s forethought and packing list (but she must not have wanted to rifle through Enid’s drawers because the clothes were all either black or grey and smelled like Wednesday’s sheets). Wednesday even put on Enid’s tri-coloured hat, which now must’ve migrated somewhere between the air mattress and the tent wall. Wednesday, whose back still rose and fell with gentle, sleeping breaths, didn’t seem concerned. 

It was the only time Enid had ever woken up before Wednesday without an alarm, save for that morning with the pancakes last year before they left to go home. She remembered looking at her that morning, not in a creepy way, just in a this-self-proclaimed-child-of-darkness-has-her-lips-parted-and-cheek-squished-into-her-pillow-and-I-know-I’ll-never-see-her-so-soft-and-unguarded-with-her-eyes-open-so-yeah-I’m-gonna-fucking-look kinda way. She’d never told Wednesday about it, but often thought back to that memory whenever she caught her acting particularly tough and detached from happiness—how the sun scattered over her skin like it wasn’t afraid of getting scorned for it. 

She didn’t look at Wednesday now, but only because she thought if she moved she’d break whatever spell she was under that was keeping her unconscious past eight o’clock. It was also possible that Wednesday was just one of those cold-blooded creatures that went dormant when the temperature dropped below a certain point, leaving Enid sentenced to be her very-willing pillow until at least the end of May when the weather started to warm. 

But even if all that wasn’t true, Enid didn’t have a desire to go anywhere but where she was. Her arm was getting uncomfortably tingly from lacking blood flow. It could fall off for all she cared as long as it didn't wake Wednesday when it did.

So Enid let herself bask for a little bit—in the sound of the tent walls gently flapping and the birds chirping outside, in the contrast between her cold face and the warmth over her body, in memories of the night before. But mostly she just basked in Wednesday, who herself was basking completely and carelessly in Enid. She didn’t think she’d ever have this. 

Now she didn’t think she could ever give it up.

Wednesday woke not long after Enid’s arm went totally numb. It was because of nothing in particular, but she jerked her head up all of a sudden like fire had sprung up between herself and Enid’s shoulder. And Enid’s plan had been to pretend to be asleep in hopes Wednesday would stay in bed a bit longer, but she couldn’t help but snort at that reaction when the biggest immediate threat in the vicinity was the very girl who’d been snoozing on her shoulder a moment prior.

“Good dream?” she teased.

Wednesday must’ve been used to waking up like that because she just dropped her head back down as if this was a common hindrance. Enid would’ve praised God if she thought he had anything to do with it, but figured it was unlikely given everything she knew about how he felt about the gays. 

“No dream,” Wednesday replied, which just left Enid to conclude that she’d mistaken the chirps of morning birds for heavy gunfire. “I forgot where I was. Usually when I stay in a tent it’s not for a good reason.”

Right. This was Wednesday. Of course she had some ambiguously terrifying reason for waking up the way she did. 

“You could’ve just said it was a dream.”

“It was a dream.”

“Ooh, fun! What were you dreaming of?”

She knew Wednesday rolled her eyes. She also knew she’d play along. 

“Puppies.”

Enid laughed and Wednesday shifted so her head was more on Enid’s chest than her shoulder, prompting blood to start seeping, cool and tingly, down the length of her arm. She wiggled her fingers.

“So I was thinking…” she started, words drawn-out and punctuated in the way people started sentences that other people won’t like.

And Wednesday, in all her obliviousness, must’ve sensed this because she immediately asked, “In a good way or a bad way?”

“S’mores for breakfast.”

“That’s my fault for not presenting ‘horrifying’ as an option. But far be it for me to impede your desire to eat a handful of refined sugars for your most important meal of the day.”

“That’s such a long-winded way of saying you’ll make me a s’more.”

Wednesday let out a soft puff of air through her nose. Enid smiled stupidly up at where the tent poles met in a cross above them, easily translating the disguised laugh for what it was.

I’ll make you a fucking s’more.

Despite the promise of s’mores, it still took them another fifteen minutes to decide to get up, and the only reason they did decide was because a fly had somehow snuck its way in and Wednesday couldn’t get it from the mattress. After she’d completed her daily quota of violence, she rummaged through her endless bag of packed shit and threw Enid a green plaid quilted jacket, then pulled out a red one for herself. Enid knew for a fact neither of them had one of those in their closets prior to this.

“I couldn’t find a pink one,” she explained as Enid put hers on, confirming that Wednesday did indeed buy them specifically for this trip, because the day Wednesday Addams wasn’t over-prepared for every miniscule part of her life was the day Enid would probably die of hypothermia because Wednesday forgot her hat.

“Or a black one?” Enid asked.

“No, there was a black one, but it was solid instead of plaid and I wanted to match.” Wednesday casually handed her a toothbrush and a bottle of water as though Enid wasn’t nearly having a heart attack over the fact that Wednesday wanted to match with her. “Also, they were on sale.”

“It’s still cute.”

“I thought so.”

A while ago Enid wouldn’t have thought any part of Wednesday knew anything about what classified as ‘cute’, but she’d brought her to a little camping site with fairy lights and s’mores, so clearly she was more versed in the concept than Enid gave her credit for (or, more likely, just versed in what Enid classified as ‘cute’ and taking that information and sprinting with it).

They went about their morning routines—easy, casual, mostly wordless, like a couple married with kids might absentmindedly go through the same motions every morning, if those motions involved crumpling newspaper and stacking splits for a fire outside of a crypt with a buried psychopath inside (a.k.a. exactly what you’d expect for marital bonding activities involving an Addams). Unlike with the kiss, there was no elephant between them, no tension lying palpable in the early spring air. There was just a light layer of overcast, the smell of wood smoke, the chill of morning dew, and Wednesday staring really hard at the picture on the front of the s’mores kit package before she started roasting a marshmallow because she’d never made one before. 

Enid had never been this comfortable with anyone she’d dated before. Never been this certain. With every other relationship or crush, thoughts of the other person never left her mind. More specifically, what they thought of her—the things she said, the people she talked to, the way she acted, if her stuffed animals were lame or not, if they liked her friends and if her friends liked them. Enid would gladly shift every boundary or personality trait she had if the person she was with hinted at being unhappy with it. For her entire life, Enid didn’t remember a time when the only thing on her mind wasn’t making someone she loved happy, because if they weren’t and she lost them… well, that would leave her alone, and what would make her happy then? Certainly not herself. 

But Wednesday didn’t hint at things that made her unhappy. If it were up to Wednesday, she would broadcast all her grievances through a megaphone loud enough to be heard around the globe, take out ads and loop them on the screens in Time’s Fucking Square so there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind about the inadequacies of the world that should be rectified. Unfortunately for her, the megaphone technology didn’t exist yet and even her rich-ass parents probably didn’t have enough funds to foot the bill for a time spot on the screens in the Big Apple, forcing her to regretfully continue employing her current and only way of letting people know her every complaint—through brutally honest English. And sometimes Spanish. And sometimes French. And sometimes—

“Queste zanzare farebbero meglio a contare i loro fottuti giorni.”

—whatever the fuck that was.

She’d muttered it out of nowhere, glaring daggers at an empty spot in the air as though her next trick would be burning a hole through the molecules themselves, and even then Enid’s first thought was that it was either a complaint about the cold or a really long, really Italian-sounding hex. It said something about how comfortable Enid was that the person she loved could be talking irritatedly in a language she couldn’t understand and the thought didn’t even cross her mind that it had something to do with her.

In all her years, throughout all the different types she felt and people she felt it for, love had always been this chaotic, uncontrollable entity that made her head spin with a neverending barrage of ifs and buts and maybes. It was a building engulfed in flames. It was a car hydroplaning on the highway. It was a hurricane.

“I think your marshmallow is done.” 

The fire crackled and popped with a gentle, low-lying flame as Wednesday pulled her roasting stick away, placing the golden-brown marshmallow on the graham cracker and chocolate she’d already stacked on the table. She covered it with another cracker, squeezed until it was just the right amount of gooey, then twisted the stick as she pulled it out. It was an annoyingly perfect s’more.

“I want you to try it,” Enid requested, leaned back in a fold-out camping chair with no inclination to move until she watched Wednesday take a bite. Wednesday gave her a look that said ‘absolutely the fuck not’ so clearly she might as well have just said the words aloud. “Unless you’re scared.”

Then Wednesday promptly shoved the whole thing in her mouth. 

It was the type of power move Enid expected, however the result was Wednesday’s lips being only 1% lips and somehow still 100% marshmallow fluff and decidedly not too powerful-looking, and Enid would’ve kissed her if she wasn’t laughing so hard she couldn’t even get up to get the poor bitch a napkin. Wednesday got one herself and wiped her mouth, then got another one, wetted it with her bottle of water, and wiped her mouth again. It was definitely still sticky.

When Enid could finally talk again, Wednesday, who was still trying to chew the thing up, cheeks puffed with the obvious struggle of keeping the volume of food in, was already in the process of stacking another block of chocolate on a graham cracker. 

“So…” Enid hedged, “how was it?”

Wednesday, flat-faced and stoney and still chewing, garbled, “ Dithguthting.”

And Enid laughed again and thought that she'd never felt love as something so easy. 

It was a softly crackling fire. It was a Sunday drive in the summer with the windows rolled down. It was rain trickling out of gutters. For the first time in Enid’s life, loving someone was peace. And for the first time, being loved by someone wasn’t everything. 

It just made everything better.

.     .     .

They packed up in the early afternoon. Working together, it took them an hour and a half to dismantle everything, so Enid couldn’t even imagine how long it took Wednesday to put the shit together on her own. They left the firepit. They’d be back again.

They rowed across the pond again, no wind this time, just a bit of fog and ripples on water where the oars dipped in. They got back just in time to get showers and meet Yoko and Bianca in the dining hall for supper. 

When they approached the table, Yoko regarded them with an intense glance and a mouthful of spaghetti. “Your date ran overnight,” she said, words garbled. She pointed her marinara-covered fork at Enid. “I was assuming it either went well or Wednesday murdered you in cold blood. Glad to see it’s the former.”

Bianca, who was apparently all filled in on everything (even though Enid hadn’t told her, which left her to assume Yoko was behind it because Wednesday definitely didn’t) said, “I was personally rooting for Enid to kill Wednesday.”

Yoko casually mumbled around her mouthful of pasta, “Wednesday would probably be into that.”

“I would,” Wednesday said at the same Enid said, “She would,” to which Bianca replied, “I’m literally just trying to eat,” and that set the tone for most of their supper. 

There were a lot of questions from Yoko, and a lot of exasperated eyerolls from Bianca, who was obviously curious but pretending not to be too curious and even participated in her own muted form of teasing every now and then. Divina showed up in the middle of it, greeted them with a smile and a “here’s the lovebirds”, and Wednesday didn’t cut her tongue out with her butter knife for it so it was all in all a success.

All the stuff they hadn’t had time to unpack (and also coincidentally didn’t have space to store) was still in a pile on the floor when they got back. They cleaned it up together, stuffed things in corners and under beds until it looked some passable version of tidy, Wednesday promising to move most of it to her car at her earliest convenience. And then, with nothing left to do, Wednesday went to catch up on her writing. Enid sat on her bed, feeling oddly out of place. Returning from their little world in the woods seemed almost surreal. Enid almost didn’t know what to do in the space anymore, even though that seemed silly since it was their room before they even became a them. If anything, returning to the only constant in their relationship should’ve been a comforting change of pace considering everything that’d been flipped on its head between them in the last three days. 

But it was like coming home after a few years to find your parents still had your Princess Jasmine comforter on the bed and crayon drawings pinned on the walls in your room. Everything that’d happened seemed too massive for them to just return and have everything be… as it was. Like they’d outgrown the single beds on either side of the room. The stark invisible line in the middle where rainbow turned to monochrome. 

Before Enid could make a plan on the best way to organize their furniture so it looked like a them room instead of a them-but-not-this-them room, Wednesday’s phone, which had been left in the room since the night before, buzzed. Buzzed again. Buzzed again. 

Buzzed again.

It had nearly vibrated its way off her nightstand before Wednesday absentmindedly said, “Enid, your phone.”

“Wednesday, your phone.”

And it wasn’t often Wednesday Addams looked shocked, but she did then. She whipped her head around, turning to stare in awed silence at the device as it let out one final buzz and stopped. Someone was calling Wednesday. And it wasn’t Enid. This was unheard of. 

After a long moment her eyes shifted to Enid, questioning, as if she’d have an answer for this shit that wasn’t the start of the apocalypse or something. As if on cue, Enid’s phone buzzed too. Her’s was already in her lap, so she picked up Bianca’s call on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Tell your girlfriend to stop wasting my damn time.”

Enid grinned, tamping down the flock of seagulls in her stomach that just started freaking the fuck out over someone referring to Wednesday as her girlfriend. “I doubt that’ll make a difference.”

“Good point. Put me on speaker.” Enid put Bianca on speaker. Bianca said, “Hey. Dick.”

“I refuse to respond to genitalia that I don’t even own.”

“You just did.” 

Enid watched the disappointment dawn on Wednesday’s face like cold coffee over a white shirt, and had to physically shut her eyes and press her lips together to keep a cackle from interrupting their phone call.

Bianca continued. “Did you see coach’s email?”

“I—”

“Who am I kidding, of course you didn’t. Pack your bags, psycho. We’re headed to Notre Dame on Thursday.”

“Oh.”

And that’s how they both realized Wednesday and Bianca had qualified for NCAA’s. 

Enid went nuts for both of them, staying on the phone with Bianca for ten minutes afterwards to continue telling her how excited she was for both of them and how hard they were going to kick ass, to which Bianca agreed “the hardest” and Wednesday said nothing at all. In fact, she said nothing at all for the entire conversation, except for that small “oh” when she found out.

Enid thought something was fishy. It’s not like Wednesday would typically be jumping over the moon over something that excited her or breaking out Enid’s own ‘golden retriever on crack’ method of support, but Enid expected something. A satisfied look. A demolishing insult about the other teams. Her firing a shotgun out through the window. Anything. 

But Wednesday just went back to her writing. 

After ending the call, Enid waited for Wednesday’s writing hour to end. At the telltale sound of paper being pulled from the carriage, she hopped down from her bed and made her way across the room to hop onto Wednesday’s, right on the corner at the foot, closest to her desk chair. Wednesday, who knew Enid well enough to recognize that she was about to be engaged in conversation, softly placed her page in her wooden case, then put the wooden case full of pages in her drawer. And shut it.

“Are you ever going to let me read your book?” Enid asked.

Wednesday shifted her chair so it faced Enid a little better—diagonal to the bed, almost knee-to-knee. Then she lifted her pretty dark eyes to Enid’s and said, “When it’s done.”

“That’s too long.”

“Now that I know it tortures you so, I’ll make sure to take my time.”

It was such a Wednesday thing to say that Enid snorted. She wondered what trademark reaction her girlfriend (she still couldn’t get over that) would have when Enid opened up a conversation about feelings. Only one way to find out.

“You didn’t seem excited about the NCAA’s.”

Wednesday seemed to consider this for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m unsurprised, but pleased. Less pleased that I’ll have to spend a week in a hotel room with Bianca, but otherwise… yes. I’m pleased.”

‘Pleased’ was a definite far cry from ‘excited’, and Enid had a feeling Wednesday knew that, which just meant one thing: deflection. Definitely a trademark ‘Wednesday’ reaction to feelings. Luckily, despite Enid’s penchant for chaotic thinking and not knowing which way was up, she did know Wednesday. While her talents might’ve lied in logical ways of thinking and effectively stabbing things with swords, feelings were Enid’s wheelhouse. Sometimes she felt like she could see Wednesday’s better than she could see her own.

“Let the record show that I’m very excited for you, but—” 

“You, the record, have shown this. And played it. For at least ten minutes. The record may be broken at this point.”

“The record thinks she may be the only one excited.” That would be the last time Enid referred to herself as ‘the record’. It sounded stupid as soon as it came out of her mouth, but Wednesday rolled her eyes in that fond, minuscule way she always pretended not to, so it had to have been at least a little appreciated. “Am I wrong? Because you can totally tell me to fuck off if I am.”

Wednesday wouldn’t tell her to fuck off. Enid knew that. Wednesday also might not actually open up about what was going on, and that would be fine. Enid would accept it and let her go to her tournament and work through it herself if that’s what Wednesday needed.

But Wednesday was silent for a long time. Her eyes shifted to the floor, and just stayed there for a bit. One second. Two. Ten. Enid, ever married to constant motion, tried not to fidget.

Finally, gaze still fixed on the hardwood, Wednesday said, “I’ve always been content on my own. It’s rare for me to miss someone. I’m not used to it. It’s just… a strange feeling.” She looked up. Pretty eyes. “And a very illogical one to miss them before I’ve even left.”

Enid got the impression that Wednesday never knew how sweet she was when she actually explained the things she felt instead just warring with them in her own mind and going MIA for the better part of an entire day. It was why it affected Enid so much. She knew Wednesday wasn’t trying to pull the wool over her eyes with sappy lines and promises, she was just laying out what she felt in her heart and hoping they could understand it together.  

Like most times when Wednesday was sweet, Enid felt like kissing her. She didn’t now because she wanted her to know her feelings (as rare as they apparently may be) were completely valid. And that Enid had the same ones.

“I miss you already too,” she said. “I never thought about how stupid it is, I’m just used to it.”

“It’s horrible.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything I can do about it?”

Enid shrugged. “Not really.”

Wednesday was put out by this, eyes dropping back to the floor. Of course she’d think there was some lab-procured cure you could get for the fatal condition of feeling. The only thing that might’ve come close were things that you could only get at a hospital or a dark alleyway from someone with a gun in their waistband, but Enid’s mom had warned her about those types of cures so they were a big no-no.

“But…” she hedged, raising her eyebrows like she’d just come up with some novel idea. “Maybe I could make up for it when you come back.”

She didn’t give Wednesday and her stupid, beautiful brain a chance to think Enid just meant that in a nice platonic way and not the way she actually meant it, which was still nice but decidedly not so platonic. Wednesday looked up like she normally would when Enid spoke, none the wiser until she saw Enid was standing. Enid put her hands on her shoulders to steady herself, then put a leg over her lap, straddling her thighs. She ran her thumbs absentmindedly over the base of her hairline at the back of her neck.

Sure, her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might throw up. Sure, the seagulls in her stomach were now a herd of pterodactyls flapping with an absolute purpose. But this—being with Wednesday like this—no longer felt like something dangerous. It was just exciting.

“Or maybe…” she continued, drawn-out and slow, like this idea was just coming to her and she needed help putting the pieces together. “I could make up for it before you go.”

Wednesday got the flashing neon hint this time and kissed her. And she made up for leaving Enid too.

.     .     .

Enid broke her ankle.

She broke her fucking ankle.

It hurt like a bitch, both when Wednesday left that Thursday morning and when Enid tumbled down the stairs of the gym that evening. She’d had a hell of a workout, to the point where her legs had surpassed soreness and jumped right to numb jello. She found out just how not-numb they were when she looked back at Yoko to comment on the latest episode of Grey’s Anatomy she’d watched and ended up stepping out too far, heel catching on the edge of the stair and twisting and snapping and she fell all the way down the last five steps and fuck.

It. Hurt. 

Like.

A.

Bitch.

Yoko said “shit.” Enid said a lot of curse words. Then she cried. 

Yoko ran to get their coach. An ambulance came. There was a stretcher, which felt a little dramatic given it was only an ankle as opposed to a broken neck or something, but probably not that dramatic given said ankle absolutely could not have supported her down the remaining two flights of steps.

Five hours, an x-ray, and a clunky red cast later (they didn’t have pink when she asked, which was just the cherry on top), Enid and Yoko were being brought back to campus in their coach’s car. The interior was black with blue underlights, and Yoko sat in the front, fucking around with the radio while her coach kept searching for Enid’s eyes in the rearview mirror and repeated everything the doctors already told her. A broken ankle took around 8 weeks to heal, not counting the months of rehab to get her range of motion and strength back to where it was. 

“It might never be the same again,” Doctor Michael told her—a woman in blue scrubs with equally blue nails, black hair loose around her face and the sleeves of her white coat rolled up to her elbows. “But it might. I don’t want to discourage you, but I also want you to know the reality of it.”

Enid was well aware of the reality of it. She was attending Nevermore on a running scholarship after all. No ankle, no running. No running, no scholarship. No scholarship…

Well. Yeah.

On the way back, Yoko tried to cheer her up by telling her Doctor Michael looked like Callie Torres from Grey’s Anatomy. Enid didn't want to be cheered up but it was true so she agreed anyway, but ultimately spent most of the car ride staring out the window, watching the streetlights and glowing convenience store signs flash past, picturing some sad Adele song playing in the background.

Yoko walked her back to her room (or, more accurately, crawled along at a snail’s pace so Enid could keep up on her crutches). Her and Yoko usually talked as they walked. A lot. Silence between them wasn’t awkward when it was there, but it was a rare occurrence given who Enid was as a person, paired with the fact they had a lot of the same interests so they had a lot to talk about.

But Yoko didn’t speak the whole way back, and Enid didn’t either. It was two o’clock in the morning at that point and they were the only ones around. The click of crutches and softly scuffing sneakers echoed in the cool, clear air, bouncing off the bricks of the buildings on either side of them, and up into the atmosphere to nowhere. Yoko was carrying Enid’s bag. They were both still in their running clothes.

After the camping night, coming back to their dorm room felt like returning to an outdated home, still cozy and warm with memories, but needing to be changed around to make room for new ones. When Enid opened the door tonight, it just looked the same as it did last year before they left (minus a line of duct tape down the middle and plus an assortment of random camping equipment milling around most of the previously empty space). And that seemed about right.

“I’m gonna get a shower,” Enid decided, clicking her way over to her closet. Yoko, still wordless, came over to help pick out her stuff, then, just as wordless, carried it to the bathroom for her. 

The first time she spoke was after she’d hung up her towels and shower supplies on a hook outside Enid’s chosen stall. “Okay, serious question: do you need me to help? I totally can. And if you think I haven’t seen worse, keep in mind that I used to frequently help my nan shower before she moved into the nursing home, and she was 92 with boobs down to her hips.”

Enid laughed, though the way her chest squeezed with the motion felt oddly close to crying. She shook her head, shooing Yoko away with the promise that she wouldn’t slip and break her neck or get her cast wet.

“I’m going back to the room to pack a bag.” Yoko sounded almost cautious, taking slow steps backwards, as if afraid Enid was a poorly-built house of cards that would topple the minute she took her eyes off her. “Then I’ll be right back.”

“You don’t need to stay with me.”

“I’m staying with you.”

“Yoko, I’ll be fine .”

“Physically, yes. But without Wednesday around someone’s gotta keep you from going all spiral-y. She’ll have my head and probably every other limb if she comes back to you beaten up and sad. I’m doing this purely for self-preservation. Not everything’s about you.”

Enid snorted, and after a long, hard look which Enid assumed was for the purpose of making sure she didn’t spontaneously combust, Yoko left. The door clicked softly shut behind her. And then Enid was alone.

Left with just her thoughts and the sound of an air exchanger lowly humming from somewhere in the ceiling, she tried to focus on the ringing in her ears. All of a sudden, her nose stung. Her eyes began to burn and she pressed suddenly wobbly lips together as pressure built in the bottom of her throat. She blinked a lot, but her vision just kept getting blurrier. She sniffed once. Twice.

The door creaked open again. Yoko called, “Are you crying yet?”

Sniff. 

“No.”

“Oh, honey.”

And Yoko came back in to catch her toppling house of cards.

She sat on the gross bathroom floor with Enid and found an awkward position around her stretched-out leg to pull her into a hug. It was a tight one; tight enough that Enid felt like it was safe to fall apart a little in it and she wouldn’t lose any pieces. And then Enid cried. Like, really hard. Harder than when she felt her ankle snap. Same as on the walk over, Yoko said nothing, just held on and rubbed her back until the breaking dam had let out enough water to settle into a river.

Then Yoko's voice came, so uncharacteristically gentle that it didn’t even echo off the spotty ceramic tiles. “I know you’re worried about your scholarship, and I know you wanted to stay here for the summer because going home is the last thing that you want. I wish I could make it better for you, Enid, I do, but all I can say is that life is shit. It sucks so bad sometimes and there’s more bad than good.” She squeezed her a little tighter and tucked her chin over Enid’s shoulder like Enid was holding her up too. “But if you’re a good person, which you are—the best one I know, actually—things tend to work out exactly how they’re supposed to. Even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

“You’re such a good friend,” Enid choked out.

“Truly the best, I know.”

“No, you’re such a good friend.” Enid sniffled and pulled back, because Yoko was just being a sarcastic dick but Enid wasn’t. “You’re always dealing with my shit and talking me down from doing stupid stuff and giving me advice and I’m always a mess but you always fix it. You’re kneeling on this disgusting floor for me and you shirt is literally wet from my fucking tears and—jesus. I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“You’ve done so much for me and I’ve done nothing.”

Yoko pulled back like Enid wound up and hit her, eyebrows furrowed so much a crease appeared between them. For a moment she looked at Enid, almost angry. She wasn’t wearing her sunglasses. Her baby hairs were frizzy around her hairline where it was tied into a ponytail. Even now, with Enid bawling like a child on the floor, Yoko looked at her like she wanted to slap some sense into her.

“Enid, that’s the most stupid shit I’ve ever heard you say, and that’s an insane bar to reach considering the amount of stupid shit I’ve heard you say.” Enid choked out a watery laugh. Yoko still looked like she wanted to punch her. “You’ve done lots—more than enough, and even if you hadn’t… God, Enid. You don’t have to earn this shit. It’s not work.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“It is when it’s you.”

And Enid’s tears had calmed down, but with that someone must’ve fucked around with the coals behind her eyes again because they were burning. Again.

“Well…” She sniffed. Blinked. Didn’t matter. The world still went blurry until it spilled over. “Fuck you.”

Yoko sniffed and said, “Fuck you too.”

And then they were both crying on the floor like babies. What an unstoppable pair they made.

She often thought that Yoko was probably her soulmate, but not in the way that Wednesday was—a piece missing from her heart, taken wherever life was created from stardust and light and brought back to Enid in the form of a person who gave her every single thing she didn’t have on her own. Yoko felt more like they were made of the same stardust. They were bound together by like parts, cursed to understand each other better than anyone else to the point where Enid was sure that even if they got reincarnated as mosquitos or something, Yoko would be the one rolling her compound eyes while she pulled Enid away from biting a bear.

After they’d both stopped crying and Yoko had pulled back, sitting cross-legged on the floor and wiping her cheeks, it was time for the logical questions.

“Are you going to tell Wednesday?”

“Would it be wrong if I didn’t?”

“Usually I’d say yes, but that bitch is crazy on her own, and even crazier for you. She’d walk back if she couldn’t find a bus in time. Just tell me what lie we’re going with.”

So Enid (and Yoko) had to lie to Wednesday. At least for a little bit. Guilt was an ever-present fixture in Enid’s mind, the only thing that slightly relieved it being the fact that she was only doing it so Wednesday could focus on her tournament. No other reason at all. Not one. Definitely no reasons involving Enid avoiding thinking about going home and how saying it out loud to the only person who’d ever given her peace would give her not-peace and ruin everything. It was all for Wednesday’s sake. 

And it was only for a week! That was nothing.

Like most lies, this one was more believable sprinkled with a little bits of truth.

“Say hi to Yoko!” Enid facetimed Wednesday the next day, sitting on her bed with Yoko beside her and keeping her thumb far away from the ‘flip camera’ button, lest Wednesday glimpse the bright red cast that went up the middle of her calf. “She’s staying with me while you’re gone so I won’t be lonely.”

Behind Wednesday’s head, there was one of those abstract printed canvases that cheap hotels put up to appear less cheap. Also in the background of the call—not visually but auditorily—was Bianca.

“That’s crazy, because I’m staying with Wednesday so she won’t be lonely.”

“You’re staying with me because some higher power decided I needed to be prepared for Hell before I went, so they sent me a free trial.”

Safe to say that Wednesday bought it easily without Enid having to employ any effort at all to convince her. It was almost worse that she believed it so readily. Wednesday didn’t trust anyone, and it’s not like Enid had given her a reason to think anything was amiss, but she just took what Enid said and believed it for the simple reason that it came out of her mouth.

Still, the guilt wasn’t enough that it was a struggle not to tell her. She hoped Wednesday wouldn’t sacrifice her own obligations (especially ones that might involve gold medals) for the sake of Enid’s clumsiness, but she couldn’t risk the fact that she might. They were both athletes, after all. She knew as well as Enid how detrimental an injury like this was in any sport. It’d be like if Wednesday broke her saber-holding wrist. Although, knowing Wednesday, she probably knew how to fence just as well with her non-dominant hand.

“Can you fence with your left hand?” Enid asked her one night, having talked about it with Yoko too and now they were both curious like the information-hungry little goblins they were.

“Of course. Only an idiot pretending to be a fencer wouldn’t be able to fence with both hands.”

In the background, Bianca said, “Um, I can’t.”

“Point proven.”

“Maybe if you spent more time training with only one hand instead of both, you’d be able to beat me.”

“Maybe I should cut off your right fucking hand and see you beat me then.”

“Jesus. Touchy.”

Listening to the back-biting that was the entirety of Wednesday and Bianca’s relationship was Enid’s most entertaining activity to date. She had yet to witness a moment of civility between the two, but had no doubt it likely happened in the space between phone calls given that on their last facetime Enid checked and Bianca still had both her hands.

Despite the comedy show, Enid’s guilt grew exponentially as the week went on, especially when she got that dreaded call from her coach saying they were sending her home ASAP to heal. She’d go to physio and train with a specialist and, with any luck, get back to running again next semester. She only cried a little about it that time, but only because it was expected, and really it was decent news all in all. She still had her scholarship. She just… had to go. For now.

Every day she’d wake in Wednesday’s bed (because she didn’t dare offer it to Yoko in fear Wednesday would throw both the sheets and her best friend in a sea of flames as soon as she got back and somehow spotted a black hair on her equally as black pillowcase) with a bigger stone in the pit of her stomach. She had to tell her eventually, sure. She just had to wait until she won. Then she’d feel okay with it. 

But when Enid answered Wednesday’s facetime call in the afternoon before she was scheduled to return, and the screen opened up to an image of her and Bianca with gold medals around their necks, Enid only told them congratulations.

“Enid, she comes back tomorrow,” Yoko urged that night. “It’s not like she’s gonna jump on a redeye when her bus literally left an hour ago. You’re in the clear. You have to tell her.”

Yoko, as always, made a lot of sense. 

Enid, as always, wasn’t attracted to lines of thought that made sense.

“She’s happy. I don’t want to stress her out.”

“First of all, happy is a strong word to use with her. Second—what’s your plan? You’re just going to greet her as she gets off the bus and let her find out for herself?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, she’ll be here tomorrow at six, so you’d better figure your shit out.”

Yoko was tough, but she was right. So Enid devised a plan.

12:34 PM: Can’t wait to see u!!!! I’ll be in a thing when you arrive so I can’t meet u when you get off the bus, but text when you pull up <3

12:35 PM: Looking forward to seeing you too. We are behind schedule because of weak bladders. Should be back by 6:30.

12:37 PM: <3

Yoko packed up and moved back to her room. Enid sat on the bed and tried to do something productive, but the only thing she was doing was watching the clock tick away, minute by minute. Then hour by hour. And then—

6:19 PM: Just got back.

Then Enid timed her. The bus would be parking at the University Center, meaning it would be about a seven minute walk from there to the dorm if Wednesday walked outside, which she would because it was a nice day. Enid’s heart pounded as she counted the minutes.

One.

Two.

Five.

She called Wednesday.

“Howdy, roomie." Fuck off. Why did she always have to answer in the most endearing way possible when Enid was already feeling way too much. "I thought you were busy”

“I um… I have something to tell you.”

“Good or bad?”

“I don’t really know how to say it. I’ve been thinking about it all day and I still don’t have a script, and I should’ve told you earlier—Yoko told me I should’ve told you earlier—but I didn’t want to distract you, and then I didn’t want to ruin your post-win high, so I waited until now but I still don’t—”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

Enid’s eyes flew so wide it was a mystery that they didn’t pop out of her head. “Oh my God! No! No. Jesus, no. Of course not.”

“Good. For a second I thought I’d have to spend the summer without you.”

Enid squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to face any of it—the breaking of the news, what it meant for her and Wednesday, the guilt and regret and the four day long bus trip back to San Francisco. She wanted none of it. The only thing she wanted was Wednesday and soon she wouldn’t even have that.

“Right. So about that…”

“If it’s hard for you to talk about it now, we can wait until you get back to the room. I’m going in now.”

“You are?”

Sure enough, the sound of a key fitting into the lock in their door rung through the room. “I don’t mind waiting for you to—”

“I broke my ankle and I have to go home for the summer.”

The lock turned. Wednesday opened the door, black duffle bag on the floor by her feet, key still in the lock, phone held up to her ear. Her eyes immediately landed on Enid sitting on the edge of her bare mattress, two suitcases lined up at her feet.

Wednesday, both in person and over the phone, said, “Oh.”

She looked so casual the way she was standing there, fencing windbreaker on with a hoodie underneath, grey trackpants, black runners on her feet, braids a little frizzy and loose from probably sleeping on the bus. Enid’s window decals and the sun that was beginning its descent painted kaleidoscope colours on the hardwood, the reflection bouncing up and giving Wednesday this muted glow like she existed through a pane of stained glass. She was still holding the phone up to her ear. She was the most perfect Enid had ever seen her. And it’s not like Wednesday wasn’t that perfect all the time, but there was a certain beauty in brevity—in the way things seem brighter, more intense, right before they fade away.

Wednesday dropped her hand that was holding the phone without bothering to hang up. Her voice was flat. Even. Not a twinge of a tremble or emotion. “When do you go?”

The person stoking the coals was back. Enid’s eyes burned, but she wouldn’t cry this time. This hurt was on her, and she needed to own it without making Wednesday feel guilty for her. “My cab is coming in two hours.”

“Oh.”

Wednesday pressed her lips together the slightest amount, and Enid didn’t even try to read into what it meant because she didn’t want to know. Then her eyes darted between the bare bed, Enid’s cast, the suitcases, her side of the room, and back to Enid. Then all of it again. Then she blinked, took her key out of the door, picked up her duffle bag and came into the room.

She asked Enid how she broke her leg. She asked why Enid didn’t tell her she broke her leg, which was the only hint she was feeling any type of way about it because she’d already explained her reasons on the phone and she knew Wednesday listened, but she also knew she didn’t know what else to say. Wednesday could barely process her own emotions on a good day when Enid was there to help her through them, and now Enid was here dropping this bomb on her and fucking off to a bus in the next two hours and leaving her there to clean up the debris she didn’t have a garbage can for.

“What about your exams?” she asked. She’d crossed the room to sit on the edge of her own bed, mirroring Enid’s position five feet away, minus a cast and a mountain of suitcases at her feet.

“I can take them online. They want me back home and healing as fast as I can so I can keep my scholarship for next semester.”

“You can’t heal here?” 

“They were okay paying my way for the summer when I was actually training to compete, but now that I’m out they think it’s better for me to go stay at home where I have family to help me along.”

“I can help you along.”

God, she must’ve been trying to make Enid cry. “I don’t have a choice, Wednesday. I can’t afford to stay here and I need to keep this scholarship. My parents have six kids; my college fund is basically a penny.”

Wednesday’s eyes dropped to the floor in disappointment, but Enid could tell she understood. Anyone else would drag her through the wringer for not telling them earlier. They’d had all this new love they expected to be able to build on in the coming months and now it was gone. Enid wasn’t enough of her old, overthinking self to believe that Wednesday’s lack of reaction was a lack of caring. Wednesday just didn’t show her feelings in outbursts like that. Everything was calculated. Processed.

She didn’t even look up as she asked, “Is that… what you want?”

Well fuck her. What kind of question was that?

“Of course I don’t want it, Wednesday. It’s just—I can’t do anything about—“ suddenly choked up, Enid cut herself off. She refused to sound pitiful when she was the one who caused this. She cleared her throat and blinked her eyes. No tears. She repeated quietly, “I don’t have a choice.”

Wednesday nodded, head still lowered. She was accepting this better than anyone else could’ve possibly done considering how sudden it was. Enid should’ve given her a warning. She knew Wednesday hated surprises, and this wasn’t even anywhere in the realm of a good one.

Enid watched through the beams of light streaking onto the floor as Wednesday’s throat bobbed with a swallow before she looked up. It was probably just the reflection of the sun on the hardwood bouncing up, but her eyes looked a little more glassy than usual. She blinked. Cleared her throat.

“Well, you don’t need to take a cab. I’ll drive you.”

Enid smiled around the pressure in her chest that was seeping up to the bottom of her throat. She shook her head. Her voice was strained with forced normality, and even then she had to break off into a whisper in the middle in order to continue. “That was hard enough last time, and we were just friends. This time it might—”

Kill me.

It was dramatic as all hell and she choked up too much to say it, but she believed it was true. The longer she dragged it out, the more painful it would be. She wouldn’t make it there without telling Wednesday to turn the car around, and Wednesday would in a heartbeat because that was what Enid wanted.

Wednesday must’ve understood. She didn’t try to force her. She didn’t ask anymore questions. 

Well, except for one.

“Do you want to watch Grey’s Anatomy?”

And that was when Enid finally cried. Wednesday hugged her. Enid thought about her standing outside the bus station in the rain not even a year prior—when she’d run to her and clung onto her like she never wanted to let her go. And it was still true.

They did watch Grey’s Anatomy. Enid could tell Wednesday was trying to make it normal by commenting on this stupid thing and that stupid thing, tearing down every one of those surgeons credentials like it was her civic duty. But they were both looking at the clock, and the more minutes that passed, the quieter they got. Then it was just them leaned against each other on Enid’s single bed like every other night, soft breathing and warmth. Then Enid had to go. 

Her and Wednesday verbally confirmed that they would do long-distance, which Enid honestly figured would be the case but was flooded with relief regardless when she asked Wednesday if she wanted to do that and Wednesday gave her a look like she was about to ask if she broke her ankle or her brain. Yoko came to help her with her stuff since she didn’t think she could handle Wednesday walking down with her. 

Wednesday kissed her, and even Yoko had the good sense not to make some teasing comment about it. She waited until they finished, took the handles of Enid’s bags, cleared her throat, and said, “Let’s get you home, Sinclair.”

And after what felt like a lifetime of scratching and clawing her way towards Wednesday Addams, Enid walked away from her. Well, hobbled away. She was on crutches, and the intermittent click of the loose metal made the moment much less cinematic than it felt, but it was still sad all the same.

“You need to take care of Wednesday,” she ordered Yoko as she held open the dormhouse door for her and she clicked her way through. 

“What? Like, make sure she doesn’t go on a killing spree to cope with you leaving? No offence, Enid, but I’d have to be an idiot to get in the way of that.”

“You know what I mean. Don’t let her get all dark and broody.”

“That’s literally her entire personality.”

“Don’t let her be alone.”

Enid was actually worried about that, but Yoko just snorted. The cab was parked just up the sidewalk on the street curb like a hearse waiting to take her to the graveyard. But the sun was setting behind it and the air was just chilly enough to need a sweater, and all in all, despite the sound of luggage wheels rolling over the sidewalk and the click of Enid’s crutches, it was a nice day to leave. Beautiful, actually.

“C’mon, me and Wens?” Yoko said. “We’re best buds. She couldn’t get rid of me if she tried.”

Enid warned, “She will try.”

“I know.”

“And I’d be hesitant about calling her Wens.”

“I literally will never say it to her face.”

The cab came too soon. It was a newer one, all shiny and yellow with a fresh black logo on the side. The driver popped the trunk and opened the door to get out and Enid rushed to make peace with it all, because if she didn’t at this point she’d flood the poor man’s backseat with tears, and there was probably some type of damage deposit she’d have to pay for that.

But then Yoko dropped Enid’s bags like they’d caught on fire. She ordered the driver, “Get back in the car,” and upon the furrowing of his bushy eyebrows and a confused point to himself, Yoko reiterated with significantly more urgency, “Get back in the car.” 

“Should I…” He looked helplessly at his door and then back to Yoko, and Enid did the same, not having one sweet clue about what was going on. “Should I leave?”

“I don’t care what you do, but these two are about to have one hell of a moment so I suggest making yourself scarce.”

Wednesday called, “Enid!”

The cab driver got back in the car.

Enid whipped her head around. And there was Wednesday. She was still wearing the hoodie, windbreaker, and track pants combo, and it's not like Enid expected her to change into full glam to come down and say goodbye against her wishes, but she didn’t expect Wednesday at all so she was allowed to be shocked by every bit of her, even the clothes she’d seen her wearing two minutes prior. Her braids were still a little loose and a little frizzy, but she must’ve been in too much of a rush to put her sneakers on again because she was donning her shower crocs. 

A breeze fluttered by and Enid’s hair blew into her face, and by the time she brushed it behind her ear Wednesday was jogging. Good thing she kept her crocs in sport mode. Enid was already choked up, which was exactly why she wanted to avoid this.

“Wednesday, I told you—"

“We can get an apartment.”

What?

“What?”

“I can harbour you in the room like we do Thing until we figure it out.” 

She stopped in front of Enid, wind ruffling her bangs as she puffed out a breath. Her cheeks were a little flushed even though the twenty foot jog definitely hadn’t exerted her, but Enid had never heard her speak so fast before. Her words were tripping over each other, rushed and unprepared, and Wednesday usually talked fluid and dark like blood from a clean cut, but this was a rip—artery severed and blood seeping out faster than she could cover it, though she kept trying.

“I’ve got money saved up and my parents will help if we need them to. I’ve got a summer research position at a forensic biology lab and Bianca said the Seven-Eleven is always hiring down the road.”

Enid had no idea when this crazy idea came to the girl who viewed the world in ones and zeros. She didn’t think it was within Wednesday to have crazy ideas like this. It seemed like some type of unattainable scheme Enid might throw out into the universe—the type of one the universe would throw back at her and say ‘too ambitious. Too good to be true. Lower your standards.’

She didn’t know what to say. Leaving just made sense.

Enid pointed out, “I mean, we started dating a week and a half ago, and for 70% of that time you were three states away." She almost took a step forward, forgetting the cast and the crutches and everything, but remembered just in time to hastily jerk one of her clacking metal poles forward to catch herself (not exactly rom-com worthy). She puffed out a frazzled sigh as she righted herself, shaking her head. “Jesus, this is the kind of shit you think people are idiots for.”

“We’re not like them.”

“That’s probably what they said.”

“We’re not like them. We were roommates first, and even if what you’re saying turns out to be true and this doesn’t work out, we’ll be roommates again and my life will be better for having you in it. It doesn’t matter in what way you’re there, I just want —” she cut herself off, closed her eyes and took a breath.

Enid had never seen Wednesday like this.

Desperate. 

Looking at her now, Enid realized she’d rarely ever seen Wednesday in the sunset either, just that one time at the bus station almost exactly a year ago. Enid had refused to look at her then in fear she’d break down and Wednesday would leave, so if Enid was really leaving again now, she made sure she looked this time. Her usually pale skin shone golden in the sun, hair looking more brown than black. Enid could see every part of her in vivid detail—every pore and freckle, every eyelash and faint frown line around her mouth, and when she opened her eyes the sunshine made them glow the colour of honey. Wednesday held her gaze the same bold way she always did under bangs that were bordering on needing a trim.

“I don’t need you to survive,” she stated. “That would be pathetic.”

If this was a plea for Enid to stay, it didn’t start the way she’d expected. The directors of their movie were looking around confused, wondering if they should keep taping or if this was going to end very differently than most rom-coms had the nerve to.

“I can make it on my own as I always have and would be content with that as I’ve always been. This was unexpected—” Wednesday made some uncalculated, uncharacteristically hasty gesture between them as though Enid would be confused about which ‘this’ she was referring to. “Us,” she clarified further.

“Yeah. No, I got that.”

“I didn’t want it, and I didn’t plan for it, and if it ended I would go back to the solitary existence I always expected I would have because for all my life the only thing I avoided more than being needed by people was needing them myself, and I would survive.”

Enid had no doubt that she would. Wednesday was perhaps the most capable person she’d ever met. You could drop her on any corner of the earth, in any city and climate, and if there was one thing that was certain it was that the very environment would submit to her will within the week. She was stubborn and refused help, so adamant about going her own way that the thought never crossed her mind that someone might want to hold her hand along that path. But Enid did.

And honestly, Enid could survive without Wednesday too. Maybe she didn’t used to believe that she could live without anyone, but she was sure of it now, and Wednesday was too because she knew she’d go right back into that building the minute Enid told her she was leaving. 

So no, neither of them needed each other. Wednesday was right. 

Wednesday took a breath. Held it. Then let it all out.

“But I have this sickening fear I’ve become reliant on you, Enid. And the only thing more sickening than that is that I’d like to continue to be. Because I love—”

Enid didn’t think she’d ever be cutting off a love confession from Wednesday Addams, but hopefully she’d be nice enough to say it again for her sometime over the summer when Enid's lips weren't shutting her's up like they were now.

Behind Enid, the cab engine started, then faded away like the red in the sky at sunset. Soon it would be dark, and Wednesday and Enid would put the sheets back on her bed and the fairy lights back in the corners. The night would fall and Enid would think that maybe Wednesday wasn’t a missing piece of stardust and light. Maybe Wednesday was made out of whatever substance comprised the dark spaces between the stars, crafted perfectly to fit into all the empty spots Enid didn't have the capacity to fill.

And stars didn't exist without darkness, but Enid knew she’d exist without anyone. Even without Wednesday.

But she didn’t want to.

.     .     .

“Did you know when I first met you I thought you were a serial killer?”

“A fair assessment. What do you think now?”

“I’m kinda still on the fence about it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”