Chapter Text
Enid is a solar flare of color inside the Addams monochrome mansion. Dressed in an atomic orange set of overalls and bile yellow athletic shoes, she is a sore thing to view, but there is one small aspect to her wardrobe that almost blends her in. She is wearing Wednesday’s sweater beneath the overalls and worrying the grey and black striped sleeve cuffs between her long fingers. One lip is snared between her pearly teeth and Wednesday struggles to decide where her focus should rely: on the canines that seem a little longer and sharper than they use to be or the fact that Enid is wearing her sweater.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you all. Um…again. Sort of.”
Tall, elegant Morticia who Wednesday is both very much alike and the exact opposite of, clasps her hands together beneath her chin and heaves a dreamy sigh, “Oh it’s so wonderful to have you here, dear. We were thrilled when Wednesday informed us of your decision to stay.”
Her father is the living shadow Morticia Addams casts. He dwells near her ever and always and when she speaks, a glow comes from within the flat color of his eyes that speak of endless awe. He tips his head backward to smile up at her the way a priest basks in the glory of his Goddess. Wednesday loathes that she can commiserate with what he is feeling now. In a moment he turns from his wife to beam at Enid, ambling forward with arms outstretched until Enid takes his hand by reflex and gets a little wide eyed when he begins shaking it profusely in a blatant display of glad tidings, “Yes, yes we are so thrilled! Oh Miss Sinclair, it will be such a delight to have you fill these haunted hollows with your particular, Ah…”
When he trails off, his head tilts in the direction of his wife who happily supplies for him, “Neons.”
Much like the blinking of an aged florescent, her father goes from something dull to a blinding sickly yellow and he nods with his massive almost-wicked smile, “Neons, yes! I cannot wait to see the bright reds of whatever you may drag in here after a full moon and the other colors that infect us by your dastardly, atomic presence.” By way of explanation, he gestures to the overalls and the sport shoes with the expensive swoosh on the side.
Oddly, Wednesday watches her wolf grow small at the mention of a full moon. Her shoulders come up to her ears while her eyes take on the feral glint of an animal cornered, the kind that should never be cornered. She swallows hard enough that they all hear it bounce off the walls and she flicks her gaze between all of them lined up before her.
“O-oh, sir, you don’t need to worry about that! I’ve been practicing with my parents all summer or, I guess, for about a month now but! But I work really hard and I don’t always understand things right away but I did my best this time ‘cause it was important so I know I can be—anyway, I swear you’re all safe.”
Grandmother, who stands a glooming monolith of harried aesthetic and layers of dusty, stained clothes beside Wednesday, twists her mouth up and whispers in a clear befuddlement, “Safe?”
Enid still hears it and the feral look gets a little more intense, her hands curl into fists by her hips and when Wednesday spots the lengthening of her claws, she swings her arms behind her back and takes a minuscule step back. Only for a second does she look to Wednesday in a silent plea but Wednesday does not understand either. What exactly does Enid think she is protecting them from?
“Y-yes. When it’s time, I’ll just lock myself in a room with my, ah, favorite sweater and then it’s all good. I might be a little loud, I’m sorry for that but I won’t ruin anything or hurt anyone or…accidentally kill someone’s dog. Well…maybe some furniture but my dad is a carpenter so he can, o-or maybe I can, fix whatever might get broke?”
Instantly and to Wednesday’s immense relief, her father cuts the side of his hand through the air as if to physically swat Enid’s words from existence and gives her a stern (the gentle kind of stern, the kind he does when he is passionate about something he cares deeply for) look, “Nonsense! You are a welcome guest of the Addams, my dear, and it would be an insult that we give to you if we,” Wednesday agrees with the crinkle his nose forms, a thing of utter disgust, “locked you away while your primal beast howls for the outside! That is not our way!”
Grandmother nods solemnly and presses her hands into the folds of her many skirts likely to search for a sweet, “That is not our way.”
Gomez gentles and lifts a hand to set on Enid’s shoulder when her watery eyes lift to meet his, offering that paternal kind of smile that Wednesday received so often as a young girl when the world became overbearing and confusing, “We welcomed you and that means all of you, claws and fangs and fur to boot. In fact, we have been buzzing with excitement since our little Viper informed us of your lycanthropy! It has been an age since a werewolf has claimed this place and stalked it with savage snarl and upon wondrous hind legs.”
Morticia taps her fingertips against the ridge of her palm in a whisper of a clap, the agreeable kind of clap, “Yes, dear, it’s going to be thrilling experience for us all. None of this talk about locking or trapping, I beg. You should be and will be given total access to the property. It is our wish as a family that, while you stay here, you treat this place as if it were your own home. Please, do not smother your delightful nature for our sake.”
“Besides! The ursine population has become outrageous, they’ve been scaring off my favorite pack of coyotes. If you felt the urge to thin the heard, I’d be grateful.”
Enid’s glossy lips (they are the same shade of bubblegum ice cream Wednesday emptied back onto the street after sampling it as a child and, despite herself, the idea of tasting the flavor again but on Enid’s lips is a tempting one) part then close exactly three times before she squeaks out, “Oh.”
“Enid,” Wednesday finally inserts herself in her dry monotone, attracting everyone’s varied levels of interest, “are you overwhelmed?”
Again Enid’s eyes widen and flick across the family like she is waiting to be scolded, “What? No! I’m fine.”
“If you are, we can begin your tour of the home just us alone.”
“N-no, I’m— I am so good, Willa. Why don’t we—“
“Enid,” Wednesday begins again, sharp enough to cut through whatever her friend was saying, “my family understands a great deal. You do not need to upset yourself by pretending you are not overwhelmed.”
Again Gomez smiles but now it is a little cheeky and that means he is apologetic, “I get very passionate. Why don’t you and Wednesday search for a room to your desire? We can finish our meeting when you feel recharged.”
The hands finally remerge from behind her back—sans the lengthy claws—to fiddle with the sleeves of Wednesday’s sweater (that she is wearing) once again. Again, Enid lowers her chin to chest in the perfect semblance of a scolded child and her lip is gnawed on by her impressive canines. She seems to have words but does not know how to use them and Wednesday’s heart lurches for the kinship she feels in that. She wonders how often as a child Enid was forced to endure unpleasant situations for the sake of propriety. As someone who often can feel far too much—as opposed to the popular misunderstanding that her apathetic mask is because she is cold and heartless and emotionless—and then subsequently become overstimulated by it, she cannot fathom how she would have survived into her current age if her parents expected her to preform past her limits, to ignore the way her body flags from the way her unusual mind works. She is dimly aware that she and Enid do not possess the very same characteristics in that regard but they are similar enough that being subdued and forced to endure cannot have felt good and the reflex to swallow discomfort for congeniality is another thing her parents have done to hurt Enid.
(This is so unforgivable Wednesday thinks she might grow fangs set in a mandible strong enough to rip the human throat clean from its neck. Should they be allowed to speak, to press more shame and discomfort into Enid’s sinewy frame the temple of Wednesday’s worship and the place shame does not belong, well then. Neons will be made, swatches of bright glowing red and pink and white.)
“Very well,” Wednesday steps around her Grandmother who shows Enid her crooked gap toothed smile and past Pugsley who looks perfectly content with the situation, “we shall conjoin with you at supper.”
Pugsley lifts a hand to Enid who waves back but her shoulders are still hitched up, “Nice to meet you. Let’s play pirates, later, if you want.”
Enid summons a smile that is genuine but dim and she nods, “That sounds fun. Can’t wait!”
“Your hair is pretty.”
Now Enid blinks and her mouth flaps a couple of times, “Oh. Thank you. Yours too!”
“Pugsley. You’re embarrassing yourself. Go away.”
The pale fullness of his mouth splits for a funny little sound that is a laugh and he smiles a bit like Gomez, “Okay! Uncle Fester said he was gonna let me feed him cherry bombs.”
“What?” Enid swallows loudly again, eyes flicking between the siblings to check for the lie or the joke, “What?”
The others begin drifting off like a dark cloud but the lengthy form of her mother hesitates a moment in the archway that will lead her away, tilting her head back to smile sweetly at the pair of them. When she speaks it is soft enough they should not be able to hear it but they do, “Darling, thank you for trusting us with your stay. We won’t let you down.”
Wednesday hears: It is painful for me to see that you have been bashed over the head with expectations made by a heavy handed mother for so long, you cave beneath the weight of them even when she is not here because you keep them there by instinct. I am heartbroken to see such a wild spirit cowed. While you are here, you will be loved in the Addams way. We will not fail you. Not like them.
Enid cannot hear anything but the actual words spoken because she does not know them nor has she yet grasped the depth of an Addams spirit. (Not yet but she will.) So she just nods jerkily and offers a shaky smile and when she speaks it is a little choked, “Thank you Misses Addams. I appreciate the offer to stay. I won’t let you down either.”
Wednesday thins her lips in displeasure because how could Enid say such a thing? She could not fail them if she tried. It is not her job to please them while she is here, while the sins of her parents who are not the worst but far from the best still stain her, still have cut the strings at the back of her ankles to hobble her.
Wednesday’s mother smiles tightly and says, “Of course.” But really says: You could not fail us if you tried, sweet one. Give us time and we will heal that hurt in you. We know how to love and we know you need love. Welcome home.
The moment they are alone in the hall, Enid crumbles and sets her face into her hands. Alarmingly, sounds of heavy breathing that usually mean tears rise up along with the emotional display.
Wednesday parts her lips to say something, literally anything, but Enid beats her to the punch, “Oh god that was so embarrassing. I’m so sorry Willa.”
“What.”
Enid lifts her head and Wednesday flinches back from the shinning slick of tears on her cheeks, “Your family is literally the nicest people I’ve ever met.”
“Yes,” She begins because that is objectively a fact and one mostly overlooked or misunderstood but a fact all the same however it confuses Wednesday further when that fact follows the apology, “I do not understand why you’re crying. I would assume they offended you but you just implicated otherwise. Unless I’ve misunderstood. Have they offended you? I’ll rectify it immediately.”
“I didn’t—usually I’m so good at this!”
Wednesday is lost. There is a tight line to Enid’s brow—that means discomfort—there are tears still glittering on her cheeks, catching candlelight—that means misery, that means Wednesday will turn sharp soon—and her mouth is a wobbling line, emulating a frustrated wave being shoved around by the greater ocean behind it—that probably means more misery or maybe that she is trapping words in the cave of her mouth. None of it, she recognizes, is a good thing or something Enid should be housing while she is in this home, while she stands three feet from Wednesday herself. The plan of inviting her here was to lift her spirit, to break the chains that had been weighing her down all summer, but it would seem Wednesday has failed her within the first half hour.
Wednesday lifts her chin and stares at the corner of Enid’s eye, at the pretty collection of pastel blue pigment applied there and the sheen of glitter overtop it, “Enid, I do not understand what is happening and I apologize for that. I am not asking you to explain while you’re clearly still raw but I wish to assist. Would you like to be returned somewhere you feel more safe?” You will not go back to that place Enid, I do not care if they love you in their way, it is not enough and it is choking the life from you, I will keep you safe in this way, “Perhaps you would like to be returned to Yoko’s?”
It is as if she is trying to confuse Wednesday because suddenly, Enid laughs. It is choked by the water in her eyes and a tightness that must be in her chest but it is a sound of joy. She sniffles and shakes her head vehemently, “I’m not upset, Wednesday.”
She blinks and feels her face pinch, “I would disagree based on the sight alone.”
“I…I’m not used to—I just didn’t expect that. It surprised me and I got a little flustered ‘cause I had this whole plan of how I was gonna introduce myself and charm them and make them love me—“
“I assure you, no charm or plan is needed for such an endeavor to occur.”
“—I’ll admit I was expecting them to be different. I only met them that one time and they were kind of—I dunno! But then your dad immediately blindsided me and your mom is so sweet and they really don’t care if I go all…feral or whatever?”
“You are a werewolf, Enid.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Only barely,” She watches placidly as Enid wraps her arms around herself for self imposed comfort and tightens her jaw, “I told you in my letter that it is the inherent disposition of an Addams to adore wild things. It is practically against our religion—not a genuine one of course, we are proud heathens—to cage a beast, especially one who is an apex predator such as yourself. My father and Uncle have set lawn chairs on the roof balcony alongside a telescope so they can watch you hunt in the forest. I informed them, of course, that they need your expressed and verbal consent before they do such a thing and if they do not acquire it, there will be hell to pay.”
Stars cloud the murky blue of Enid’s irises when her head lifts, pink mouth parted in wonder, “Really?”
Ah, at last, she understands. “Hm,” Wednesday runs her eyes along Enid’s frame that is haunched from hugging herself so she is almost at a height with Wednesday herself, “you assumed you would not be welcome here despite my invitation.”
A low keening sound comes from somewhere deep in Enid’s chest, “I accidentally killed a dog, Willa.”
“Yes. I suppose it would be humiliating to only have racked up such an immeasurable and puny kill. Rest assured, no one will judge you for that here. There are plenty of creatures out there that will be a significant improvement upon your first.”
Another whine and Enid takes a step closer, one hand twitching outward like it intends to reach and take but Enid drags it back to fiddle with the sleeves, “That’s not what I’m saying. I…I’m dangerous, Wednesday. I know I won’t hurt you or other wolves but…my parents were—you should have seen my mom’s face when I woke up and she told me we had to go apologize to Miss Rodger. They think it’s because my wolf was…inside, for so long or maybe because of the way it came out but I’m—“
“Marvelous.”
Enid reels a bit from the interruption and then softens as the word sinks in, “Are you listening?”
“Are you? Have you been listening, Enid? Have you been hearing me but not retaining? This is not easy for me, forgive me if it comes out poorly,” Oh, this will be a first step and it is hard to take but she wants this so badly, so with her jaw twitching side to side (Enid can see, Enid can know how Wednesday ticks and twitches and needs to move her body sometimes, just a little, for comfort) she reaches between them to hook her pinky around Enid’s and does not quite meet her eye when she says, “You are welcome here. Meaning: we will protect you if you don’t feel safe even from your own self. No one is afraid of you, not here. If your parents recoiled from your beautiful savagery then it because they made you scared first. You are a werewolf Enid, you should not be told you are frightening and prodded into fitting inside a box that makes you socially acceptable, makes you tame. You cannot force a wild thing to stop being wild. It makes them angry, they lash out, they defend themselves and their nature because it is being threatened. You are dangerous because it is as you should be. We celebrate you here. You’ll see, once you feel safe and you aren’t made to fear what you can be, maybe then you won’t get so…emotional.”
No, it did not come out right. She is unhappy with that explanation but it was the best she could manage vocally. She wanted Enid to hear: They are disastrous disappointments for a werewolf brood, they are disgusting for taking you, a beast, into the city and then whipping you for being something that belongs in a murky forest, far from civilization. You are not a dog, you are a wolf. I hate them, Enid. I wish you had been handled gentler and shown love and comfort for what you are. They blamed you for being a late bloomer but it is their fault. I love you, I love you in this skin and I will in your other too. You are not dangerous, not like that. You are the precise edge of a blade and would that I could caress you, would that you taste the blood and in it know my profound yearning for you, that you could at least understand all the things about me I cannot put to words because it is too much.
“Willa,” Her head jerks upward to meet Enid’s eyes and, damn it, she is crying again, “you’re—is that why you invited me?”
“Amongst other reasons,” Unblinking and unapologetic, she flatly says, “I hate your family.”
Another watery laugh and this time Enid smiles with it, her eyes concealed behind a sheen of tears but it makes them brighter and that knocks the breath from Wednesday’s lungs, “My brothers are nice. My dad is…okay. I wish he would…do literally anything, sometimes.”
“Passivity in the face of constant condemnation is worst than committing the crime itself.”
Enid wipes the tears from her face using the sleeve of Wednesday’s sweater and it is embarrassing but she feels a small sting of jealousy that a part of her was allowed to comfort Enid that way but the whole of her was not. Enid jovially begins swinging their arms between them using the tether of their hooked pinkies.
“Do you, like, eat dictionaries to absorb words?”
“No. I read them. Like a normal person.”
“Right,” Enid grins at her, gives a little tug to their tether as a prompt to follow as she starts walking down the hall, “wanna show me around now?”
Stubbornly, she digs her heels in until their arms pull taut between them and the grip she has on Enid by a single finger alone starts to strain, “Wait.”
“What’s up? I’m good now, really. Thanks for noticing and, ah, yanno. Comforting me.”
“I’m not entirely certain that’s what I did but that is not why I stopped you.”
Enid cocks her head to the side in a way that is very canine in nature, “What then?”
Curse her for remembering, may anything above or below that is watching strike her down because that awful ooze is rising in tide within her and it is warming the tips of her ears and the back of her neck.
“Previously, you made a request of me.”
“Huh?”
“Enid, do not be difficult.”
“I’m not! You gotta remind me, I forget stuff!”
How could she forget this? Wednesday works her jaw side to side and feels her fingers start to twitch too. Enid’s eyes dip to their conjoining to catalogue the movement and, unceremoniously, takes it upon herself to comfort Wednesday by taking her hand between both of her hot palms and giving it a squeeze. There is a lightening strike within her surely as she is the rod to Enid’s touch that is the burning ozone and blinding light before it hits. She flicks her eyes down to their hands only momentarily to appreciate the vision (what has she become, how wretched a thing she is) then lifts it back to Enid’s scrunched face.
“A hug, Sinclair.”
“Oh! We don’t have to do that right now, Willa! This has been a lot.”
“For you.”
“You did a whole emotional speech.”
She clenches her jaw so hard the teeth make a terrible squeaking noise, “It was far from it.”
“It made me emotional.”
“That was not my intention.”
“Not the bad kind.”
“All emotions are bad, Enid.”
“If you say so,” Enid beams at her and Wednesday wonders if, when she dies and is buried in the yard beyond these walls, will they write Wednesday Addams on her headstone or if they will write Icarus because she is a creature who flew to close to this sun and melted, met the sea, downed beneath the dark waves of her endless love, “can I save my hug and cash it in later when I really need it?”
Here is another chance for another step to be made, can she be brave or will she be the thing she has always accused Pugsley of being? She meets Enid’s eyes, furrows her brow line to a serious thing and thins her mouth into a purse, “You may hug me as you desire.”
Enid’s mouth parts so Wednesday heaves a sigh through her nose and reiterates, “Meaning: if you feel the urge, you may hug me whenever you like. Just…give me a small warning first so I can be prepared.”
There is wonder in every line and plane of Enid’s darling face, it fills the color in her eyes and opens her mouth in a long waiting part but no words come out. She just stares and Wednesday stares back. Until it becomes unsettling.
“Shall we?” She gestures down the hall.
“Yeah.” Enid watches her even as they begin walking again, Wednesday sees it from the corner of her eye and wonders why Enid is so surprised. She is aware that emotional empathy or emotions in general are one of the things in her cons list as a person but still, this is Enid. Has the girl not grasped that Wednesday has and will always hold her separate from others? That she and she alone will be gifted an undying kind of devotion no other living thing will receive from her, that kindness in this form is not her nature but it is something she can do for Enid. No, perhaps not. Does that make her a bad friend?
(She wonders how Enid’s face might look if Wednesday took her hand in her own, if she braided their fingers together and managed the ability to say you’re beautiful or it makes my heart sing to have you here. I don’t have pretty names for you yet but you are my person and having you at my side completes me. I missed you too.)
Enid peruses the many rooms available to her the home has to provide in a stupor, still befuddled that they had not chosen one for her and that it is Addams policy a guest be afforded their autonomy to pick what they feel suits them. Wednesday had not persuaded her by giving her information on anything they passed and had not said a word when she stepped into a dimly lit room with an arched dome ceiling painted wholly black, a personal library in it, a roll top desk, a workstation in a corner, and a bed that is concealed under a canopy of fabric.
“Whoa, this one is amazing. Can I stay in here?”
“Of course.”
Enid moves into the middle of the room to stand on Wednesday’s favorite rug, looking at the reading area nestled inside the heart of the square shaped bookshelves and over at the round bay window on the far wall.
“This isn’t someone’s room, is it? It’s really…clean. Not that your house is dirty! Just, like, someone lives in here.”
“It’s my room.” Honestly, with how much Enid wrote to her of her smell and her personal attachment to it, she does not know how Enid did not immediately recognize that this was Wednesday’s unholy dwelling. Perhaps werewolf senses can be overwhelmed the same way regular ones can when overstimulated though that had been a while back, so she does not know.
Enid had whips around in fright, her arms coming up to hug herself again, “What!? Wednesday! You were gonna give me your room?”
“Past tense?”
“What?”
“I am giving you my room. Guests can choose whichever one speaks to them.”
“But it’s yours Willa! Where will you sleep?”
Wednesday furrows her brow an increment, “Elsewhere.”
“No!”
“No?”
“I mean,” Enid began fiddling with the sleeves again and Wednesday realizes that fiddling is Enid’s version of Wednesday’s twitching, “I’m not kicking you out. I don’t want to. Can we share? Would your parents be okay with that?”
“Why would they not?”
Remarkably, Enid had gone all red. Her pretty ears and her cheeks had soaked up a neon color that was stark when it was framed by the bleached blond of her hair. Wednesday found herself taking a step towards it in wonder, becoming an explorer who has just stumbled upon a lost artifact of ancient wonder and untold beauty.
“Well…we’re two girls. And…”
“Yes?”
“And I’m….I don’t know about you but…would you be comfortable sharing? With me? After…what I said?”
Wednesday thinks she understands but when she blurts, “I thought I had made my point about your wolf. You are not a threat to me. In fact, I’ll admit there is a very ardent excitement in me to see your lupine form when I am not half dead and you are not fighting for your life, as impressive as that was.” That seems to be the wrong guess because Enid sputters. She jerks her head away so she can hide her red face in her hands and begins tottering towards Wednesday’s favorite reading chair in a clear bid to put distance between them.
“Oh my god,” She squeaks, peeks through the fan of her fingers at Wednesday standing still, unblinking, unfazed in the doorway and hides behind them again, “that is so not what I meant, Wednesday!”
Ah, blushing is usually a sign of embarrassment that is derived from the romantic emotions so—“This is about Ajax.”
That is also the wrong answer because Enid makes a sound that is similar to an animal being killed and throws herself into the chair. It is forced across the wood floor by a number of inches—Enid’s strength is impressive—and the squeak the legs make causes a flinch from Enid. She does not speak.
“He may visit if you desire,” Wednesday is an Addams and Addams do not love selfishly, she knows she can be abhorrent and that she is decidedly not for everyone so she can recognize that she could potentially not be for Enid in the now or the future and she accepts that presently and for all futures but that does not make it stop the hurt or the green licking flames of jealousy, “I am not sure if you gathered but my family, my parents specifically, they are…avid supporters of love, let’s say. In the same vein that we consider it blasphemy to cage a beast, we consider it even crueler to cage love. If we did that—oh it might kill an Addams, actually. That would be an interesting experiment. Back to Ajax, experience has to be won. My parents recognize this. They will not mind.”
“Oh my god.”
“Just….allow me some insight if you bring him here. He is a weak boy and blunter than a spoon, nothing like you. I’ll need to prepare the house and my family. Else wise he might not survive.”
Finally Enid jerks her head up and oh, she is scarlet. The skin around her majestic scars is pale white so the red that boarders it is twice as pronounced. Wednesday finds herself enamored by the pooling of blood under her skin, blood that once flowed freely from that same spot for Wednesday, to protect her. Enid gave flesh for her.
“I’m not talking about him either! I broke up with him before school let out!”
Wednesday Addams blinks.
“Pardon?” Oh that is news. What wonderful, gracious news to hear. Her heart hums pleasantly, contented that Enid is not weighed down a romantic partner but also it stutters in its song because that means Enid is alone. Enid should never be alone. On the list of things she considers blasphemous, it goes:
- Enid being alone
- Caging Enid’s wolf
“I told you that! In th-the texts!”
“I did not read all of them. Just the ones where you seemed upset.”
“Well,” Enid lifts her feet onto the chair so she can hug her legs to her chest and sets her chin on her knees, “there you go.”
Wednesday takes a number of measured steps towards the nook carved into the personal library but does not cross the threshold, stands outside of it looking in. Enid is staring dejectedly down at the side table that once sat by the chair but is further away now, covered in a silk doily and containing a stack of books that have hundreds of markers poking from the pages where Wednesday has made annotations she may want to return to. Part of Wednesday preens to see Enid here, in her safest most sacred place, the spot not even Pugsley or Thing or Uncle Fester are allowed entry to. The splash of atomic orange and bile yellow give it life, give it a lone beam of sunshine to feed the wilting things and give the shadows a way to be darker, healthier.
She wants to fix this. She does not know how.
“My parents will not care if you share my room with me.”
The frothing waves in Enid’s eyes churn in a storm when they look to her, “Fine. They don’t care. Do you?”
“What a preposterous question,” My very soul is shared with you, my reason for breathing and my torturous continued existence is hinged upon sharing it with you, “of course I care.”
Enid glares at her which is so stunning Wednesday nearly swoons, “Then why offer?”
“Enid. I care. They do not mind but I care if you stay.”
The glare withers on the vine and Wednesday mourns it’s loss but the death is sweetened by the shy smile that blooms from the confusion, “Oh. I’m…dumb.”
Instantly a snapping, snarling rage fills her and Wednesday takes a single step into the room, her teeth showing from the fierceness of her frown, “You are not.”
Again, Enid stares at her in that same kind of wonder she was blessed with previously. She swallows loudly, “I can be. Sometimes.”
“Hm. To that, I’ll acquiesce.”
Enid sets her chin back on her knees and watches Wednesday, watches her breath and not blink and just stand there. “I told you I’ve been grouchy lately.”
“So you did.”
“Wanna sit with me?”
Yes, always, “If you’d like.”
The chair is Wednesday’s favorite for two reasons: the first being that it is a classic Victorian piece with a wide seat and a high winged back that is large enough she, by herself, can sit sideways in it and still be comfortable. The second is, of course, because one of her great great aunts choked to death on plum while sitting in it. There is room aplenty for Wednesday to settle beside Enid on the chair, lodging herself against one of the winged arms with her shoulders squared up and her hands twisted together in her lap. The heat of Enid pressed against her is nostalgic, it reminds her of blood sacrifices given during a blood moon and the feeling of a fuzzy pink coat brushing her cheek while her body was wobbling from the system shock and a revival lent to her by the ghost of an ancestor. They are quiet and still for only a few moments before Enid’s knee starts bouncing and she starts looking around the room for enrichment.
“Willa?”
“Where did this wretched nickname spawn, by the way?”
The corner of Enid’s mouth pulls to the side in a rather enticing display of mischief, “My heart?”
A gift from Enid’s heart? Is that a truth or something that was created by mischief, “Fine then.”
Enid clearly did not expect that response because her eyes widen and she blinks profusely, “Okay?”
“Get on with it, Sinclair.”
“Oh, right—can I have my hug now?”
“You may.” The heat is better than any fire, any pyre that Wednesday could be made into for the sake of this wonderful girl, it fills her better than the ooze—the love—because it is caporal. Enid envelops as surely as the maw her father taught her about and the bite does not sting.
(You’ll feel divine for even being considered.)
It crawls across her skin like the toppling of an ant hill, like millipedes dumped from a jar overtop her head. Every little prick of touch reminds her that any moment it can become poisonous but will never become so, because Wednesday is not afraid of it anymore. She welcomes it gladly because it is Enid. Strong arms wrap around her thin waist and tug to pull them more flush, unhappy to remain passive or still which is so utterly Enid that Wednesday lets her eyes slip shut in a show of comfort.
(I trust you, don’t you see? I can close my eyes when I’m with you)
She succumbs to it so gladly. Her head gets heavy without the constant strength she uses to keep herself rigid, placid, apathetic. It tilts and falls against the delicate wings of Enid’s collarbone and is kept there by an encouragement from Enid’s hand that curls around her ear. Somehow, she is moved enough that she is hugged against the span of Enid’s ribs and encouraged by Enid’s hand to press her head under the sharp jut of her chin, fingers splayed across her ear and the hinge of her jaw. This hug does not smell of comforts like blood and perfume and sweat and the starch in their uniforms, but it is heavier. It is the divine end that was promised to her the moment her blood was conceptualized. Wednesday’s blanket that Grandmother made her—the one of a thick quilt with chainmail inside it—does not even compare to comforting weight of Enid surrounding her, crushing her to her breast and pressing against her skin. An odd noise tickles the back of her throat, one she does not know or has ever made. One that feels like it was ripped from the very insides of her and laid bare between the two of them here. It is not loud, but it does make Enid jump and slacken her grip, “Oh, sorry Willa, I forgot—want me to, I’m gonna let go, you gotta move a little bit—“
“Don’t.” Her hand flashes up to grasp Enid’s bicep, fingers curling around it with the grip strength of a cellist and digging into the meat of the muscle. If Enid really wanted, she could fight the way Wednesday draws her arm back to its previous resting place. Could fight the way Wednesday presses the arch of her palm against her bicep in a silent command to give me more, Enid. But her love is a gentle heart and has always been far kinder than Wednesday has ever deserved. Not needing to be told, Enid tightens her grip, and that noise comes out of Wednesday again. It sounds….happy, perhaps.
(This thing can save her; she is sure of it now. There will never be a more sublime end than the death she will suffer in Enid’s arms. This Wednesday will pass away to the beyond but what remains behind will be a new woman. That horrible change she has dreaded all her life is not so bad after all because it is barely a difference, but just there. Oh, what an empty tomb Wednesday had been before. What is the point of a grave if not to hold a body, if not to keep something pretty and preserved, safe inside? She was a useless coffin, an empty hole in the ground, but she is full now. Enid was always meant to rest within her, to grasp the lid and seal it shut, and it was Wednesday who would never, ever let another inside. Now, she is swallowed, now she is consumed, and now the mouth is her. She hungers. There will be days that pass, weeks into months into years, and in every one of them Wednesday will crack open her jaw and consume every morsel of affection Enid gives but it will never be enough. Let the grave take her, preserve Enid a creature who cannot grasp the monster of an Addams love, because she will never be free of it now. Wednesday wants everything.)
“Are you…okay?” Enid’s breath brushes the skin of scalp exposed through the part of her hair. Wednesday squeezes her eyes tighter shut—counts to three inside the cave of her mouth and feels her body relax again—to tamper the urge to shiver, to splinter apart and torment Enid with the burned image of Wednesday dying in her arms.
“Yes. Thank you for asking.”
Enid’s fingers scape against the small of her back when she adjusts (how long have they been sitting here? How has Enid been able to sit this still without combusting?) and hooks her arm around her hip, tilting her head in such that her cheek presses against Wednesday’s forehead.
“You shit.”
Her brows furrow but she does not move from her newly discovered haven, “What have I done?”
“You like hugs.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“Oh really? Sure doesn’t seem that way.”
(This moron is really her salvation? Her beloved end? The thing Wednesday will chew up and never have enough to fill her hungry belly with? How lucky for her but she will have to work with her on her deduction skills, her ability to notice what is in front of her.)
“You are the exception, Enid.”
Another long, length of silence proceeds. Enid does not speak but she does adjust again, just enough that they can sink a little lower into the chair, settle into a position that will make it comfortable to sit here for longer.
Then, “Good.”
There is something afoot. Wednesday had been in a love haze when Enid has first come to stay with them and the week that proceeded the settling of her new self—gifted by that hug—had dulled her sense but thoughts clear and she realizes: something is afoot. Enid is acting strange. Her eyes grow a little hungry when she watches Wednesday now and she always seems to be watching her, flicking to her any time she moves or speaks. It is the all-consuming gaze of a predator cataloguing every breath and step of their prey, learning their posture and consonance so they can gauge for the very best time to strike. It is positively thrilling. If this is what love is, then Wednesday begins to wish she had found it sooner.
The coiled snake, the wolf in the tall grass with eyes so big and fangs so deadly, never strikes. Just watches. For days at a time, steeping Wednesday in a want for the apex, practically begging Enid to just sink her teeth in but she refrains, is constantly swept away by the Addams, and turns back into a delightful spite, noisy and bright and beaming once they have her.
So Wednesday begins watching too.
The hunt is fun, it leaves Wednesday delirious with the insipid amounts of content that fill her. Each time Wednesday notes the shift between Enid and the wolf, she boils from the heat of a not-so-distant fire. The issue is, Wednesday does not know what Enid wants, what she is hunting for, why she is waiting to strike, what she wants to bite into. So it becomes a new mystery to solve.
There is a knock on the door that Wednesday, sat at her writing desk, does not respond to. This is her writing time and everyone well knows that Wednesday does not like to be interrupted during tasks but especially this one. So she surmises—since her family is excellent about respecting boundaries and her needs for them to remain respected—that the knock is not for her.
Something whizzes by her cheek when she tilts her head slightly to the left to avoid the object thrown at her, “Enid.”
From where she is sprawled across Wedneday’s bed (because they had tried to have a second bed in the room for Enid but in the middle of the night, Enid had moved off it and come to sleep at the foot of Wedneday’s and it seemed pointless not to share after that, not if Wednesday would wake to the sound Enid made after she kicked her in the face) with her legs kicked up on the wall, crossed at the ankles, and head hanging off the edge, she calls, “Someone is knocking. I wasn’t sure you heard.”
“I am constantly aware of my surroundings, at any given moment, be it awake or asleep,” She frowns at the page in her typewriter that now will have to be retyped for the slight typo caused when Wednesday accidentally hit a key, “the knock is for you.”
“What? Why—”
“That is correct!” Gomez’s excited pomp filters through the wood of the door, “May I enter? Or may you exit?”
Wednesday’s fingers hesitate over the keys again, the shinning black of her nail polish refracting the candlelight coming off the magnitude Enid had lit to ‘give it less of a haunted vibe’, “Father, you had better not be here to issue challenge.”
“Quite the opposite! Pugsley has requested a trip to town, and I wished to extend an offer.”
There is a loud thud that Wednesday does not need to turn around to know is the girl falling off the bed instead of getting off in a graceful, normal way that is chased by her thundering footsteps and the door being pulled open.
“You want me to come?”
“I would, yes! It occurred to me that I have fumbled and made a grave error that needs immediate correction. To be honest, my dear, you have been more kind to us than we have deserved after how cold our welcome was.”
Wednesday’s lips almost tick up into a smile because she can hear Enid floundering, “W-what? No! You were wonderful, you’ve all been so kind to me! I love it here!”
There is a pat, pat, pat that Wednesday knows is her father beating on his chest with the flat of his palm, “Oh it makes my heart scream a banshee wail to hear you say so,” everyone in this family is ridiculous, there was no need for such theatrics (though Wednesday’s screams a banshees wail too, each day that she gazes at Enid thriving in this dark place, her dark place), “but be that your truth, the fact remains: you were not given a gift!”
“A…gift?”
“Ceremonial,” Wednesday supplies in a flat tone without taking her eyes off her work, “ancient custom.”
“But…I thought the gift was letting me stay here?”
Perhaps Father is correct, they have deeply wronged her if that was all they had given her to make her know they are grateful for her choosing them, for staying here.
“Oh my dear, no, no, no. Your staying here is our gift. We have been delighted by your bright spot—Grandmother has been complaining about losing sight in her left eye for days, how remarkable!”
Father says: We have not been many people’s first choice, even amongst what should be our peers, the ones you call Outcasts. But what happens when even the Outcasts cast you out? Well then, your body builds a love that will become so strong it can create a new pantheon, it can rope in stars and pull down the moon for you to wear on a necklace. An Addams is not mournful for our difference—why could we need the acceptance of our peers, their subpar welcoming and praise, if we have a love like this between us? You are welcomed into it, you saw it and you chose it and now it’s yours, now you’re ours. One of us.
“O-oh…thank you sir, that’s so…nice.”
Her head jerks sidewards at the sound, watching her wolf from the corner of her eye because that had sounded like—
“Oh no, I apologize! I did not mean to cause tears—are you a hugger?”
“Oh my god, yes!? Are you? I figured—non like, judge-y, I swear!—that everyone in this family was anti-hug?”
“Au contraire! Burn it down!”
“The saying is bring it in.”
“Not in this house!”
There is a blur of movement in her peripheral view that finally convinces her to turn away from her work and peer completely over her shoulder. Enid is a bright spot—wearing a cornflower blue dress today, bright white-to-pink leggings beneath and tall boots—when tucked against her father’s chest and squeezed in his thick arms. She is a few inches taller than him in the boots, but he is beaming, entirely content to have provided her some semblance of comfort after being the cause of an emotional response. Their eyes meet over the top of Enid’s head (because she has bent hers down to tuck against his chest, a smile pulled up that Wednesday can see and her eyes tightly shut), his hand patting a comforting rhythm between her shoulder blades, and in his eyes, he says: You were right to bring her here, she needs us. Because she can see in his smile a little fracture, something that comes from the fact that he cannot conceptualize any parent mistreating their child and with it comes his Addams blood roaring to repair the deficit.
Wednesday gives a small, curt nod that says: she is ours now, if they hurt her again, I will drag them bloody into the night, I will sunder the fucking world for her.
Gomez Addams mouth parts slightly in surprise, his eyes widening in recognition and Wednesday turns back around to resume working. The sound of rustling fabric is the alert that the hug has ended followed closely by Enid’s excited squeal.
“I’d love to go to town with you, but I don’t need a present Mr. Addams. I promise, my gift has been being here too.”
“Well,” Ah, fascinating, even her flowery father with his poet’s tongue does not know what to do in the face of Enid’s sweet sunshine, “you are an outlier, aren’t you?”
“Addams have the weirdest way of complimenting me.” There is a smile in her voice and pure joy. Good, she thinks, that is precisely how you should feel.
“I agree with my Father.” Wednesday reaches to twist at the release mechanism and rips the page free to peruse it, a slight furrow of consideration dimpling her forehead. She knows he hears what she does not say and that is a damning confirmation for him. She knows he hears: I love her, is she not deserving of everything I am able to give? Don’t you love her too? Father, you had better love her because I will burry myself with her in the backyard. I am her grave, she is in me now.
His answering laugh is one of pure delight, “Oh we must celebrate! Enid, loba, do you like milkshakes?”
There is a swirl of excitement as Enid gets ready to leave, chatting with Gomez who remains in the hallway leaned against the doorframe. Most of it is inane—it sounds like she is describing what Legos are because that was Pugsley’s request and reason for going into town—and Wednesday easily tunes it out while she works through a paragraph that has been plaguing her for the past thirty minutes. Another handful of random keys are pressed when, suddenly, Enid’s hands curl around her shoulders and a kiss is being placed against the top of her head.
Slowly, she turns to fix Enid with a blank stare.
“See you when we get back!”
A pucker appears in the skin on her nose from how it scrunches up slightly.
There, for just a moment Wednesday sees the predator slip into Enid’s smile and into her eyes when they flick down to Wednesday’s pursed lips. The beast is gone when she looks back up.
“If you keep writing past your usual hour and we aren’t back by then, make sure you take a break and eat something. Thing will tell me if you didn’t, and I’ll be pissed at you.”
“Oh my.” Gomez mutters to himself and Wednesday feels her cheek twitch. She spins back around to glare at her typewriter while she begins burning from the crown of her head downward.
“Go away. You’re annoying me.”
After they return, Enid is rosy in the cheeks and laden with shopping bags. She shows Wednesday the plethora of things Gomez bought her while they were shopping and drags Wednesday from her cave to join her family in the sitting room. She sits stiffly in an armchair nearest to the fireplace, holding a novel in her lap that is left unread because she is watching Enid again. Enid who is sprawled across the rug with Pugsley, both of them huddled around a sheaf of paper depicting the instructions on how to build the massive Lego haunted house that sits in four separate bags in front of them. Pugsley has that face again that is scrunched up and when he turns it on Enid, her wolf splinters apart with kind laughter and lifts a hand to set on top of his head, rifling the hair until tuffs of black poke between her fanned out fingers.
Her lips thin into an unhappy line. She wishes to be sat with them, for Enid to have her hand in Wednesday’s hair, but she is too enraptured by the sight of Enid and Pugsley bonding. Her soft brother—an Addams through and through no matter how weak he is—deserves to sample some of her sunlight too. She can share, just with him, only this once.
From the corner of her eye, she catches her mother’s attention on her and inclines her head just enough to meet her gaze, a silent way of her acknowledging the interest and promoting her mother to get on with it.
Morticia has her usual dreamy smile lifting at her painted lips and a sparkle in her eye. She speaks to Wednesday in French, “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Wednesday stiffens. She lifts her shoulders to her ears and almost glares at her mother, answers back in Italian, “It was none of your business.”
Gomez snaps his head towards his wife, eyes wild and full of a frenzied passion that makes Wednesday roll her eyes, “No. Not in front of Enid, have some decorum.”
Without looking up from tearing into the plastic bags and delighting in the chaos of hundreds of colorful little pieces flying everywhere, Enid snappily replies in an overly cheery tone, “I think it’s beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a love like theirs, and that’s coming from a werewolf. It’s absolutely everything. Now I know exactly what I want in a mate.”
Have you not seen me, my love? Do you not feel me, hear me, what more do you need? Taste me then, take my blood, chew on my bones, lick the marrow out and you’ll find it there, all screaming your name, “Et tu?”
“Quit complaining,” She shoots out an arm without taking her attention off the instructions, fingers wiggling with her palm held up in offering, “and come help, we need your big brain.”
Wednesday notes the deeply pleased look on her mother’s face when she stands from the chair with nary a complaint or waspish retort. She gives her daughter a slight nod of approval and a soft rebuttal in French, “She is perfect for you. Congratulations.”
“Cara mia…”
Wednesday swiftly turns her back on them, top lip pulled to beneath her nose in utter disgust. Ignoring the sound of her father’s kisses trailing up mother’s arm, Wednesday sets her palm in Enid’s and stares down at her sitting on the floor. Enid jumps and jerks her head up, eyes wide in shock, as if she had not realized what she offered and certainly had not expected the offer to be taken. Quickly but not quick enough Wednesday does not notice, her eyes move to her parents then back to Wednesday.
When she feels some of the pressure start the slacken, she acts quickly to twine their fingers together and grips Enid’s hand hard so it cannot escape her. She furrows her brow at Enid and hopes she hears, ‘you offered, you can’t take it back now, it’s not fair to me.’ She continues staring blankly down at her wide-eyed friend, “I would rather chew off my own fingers than play with a child’s toy. Especially with you and Pugsley.”
Enid’s mouth opens and closes enough times it leaves a window open for Pugsley’s cheery voice to spear through the bubble between them, “This one is for adults, Wednesday!”
“Well, between the two of you, you almost make a full adult.”
“Look,” He thrusts the sheaf of paper upward, reaching around it to tap on a particular set of images, “this one has a pully system that we have to put together!”
Interest sparks in her gut, body tipping forward enough her braids swing in a short arc that brush them against Enid’s cheek. She tilts her head while she reads, “Those little plastic bricks form three dimensional objects that can create torque?”
He sees that she is in his snare—a hunter that has caught its prey, mouth to throat seeking blood, the Addams way—and finishes closing the trap’s teeth around her by lifting slightly-yellow-clear things, “It comes with ghosts.”
“Very well,” She settles on her knees between the two of them, surveying the scene and spots a few of what she thinks are the bits that create a pully, “I’ll bet with a little creativity we can turn that crank into a guillotine.”
“Willa!” Enid scoots a little closer, enough that their shoulders press together, and scowls at the same pieces she had been looking at, “Nothing dangerous! But…could you…actually do that though? With Legos?”
Pugsley wiggles around, fast fist pushing into his overall pockets and comes up with something silvery and glinting in the light, “I have a razor blade!”
“Oh my god. Why do you have a loose razor in your pocket!?”
Wednesday leans forward to dig through the pieces with her fingertips, her other hand still clasped tightly in Enid’s, “I agree. Pathetic Pugsley, at your age you should have learned to conceal a scalpel or barbers knife, at the very least.”
Enid’s hand does not leave hers except for when they need both to press little blocks into place, but it always begins seeking hers again the moment it is free, pushing across the rug and wood floor to tangle with Wednesday’s. After their toy is completed, Enid draws Pugsley against her ribs on the left and Wednesday against the right, her chin atop Wednesday’s head and one arm around her brother’s shoulders so she can take a selfie with their creation in the background. She shows it to Wednesday who sees her own dark eyes not looking into the lens but looking at where Enid had been in the glass face while they were assembling. She looks horribly sick with love, burdened to the very bone, heavy enough with it that it has begun shifting the muscles—she is smiling, not with the teeth, but there is a notable curve to her maroon mouth—and filling the deep wells in her eye sockets with the refracting sunlight seeping between the cracks in Enid’s teeth. She wonders if Enid can see what she sees.
Wednesday comes awake with her fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger sewn into the inseam of her pillow. Still groggy from being unconscious only seconds before but instantly alert. The lower edge of the blade bites into the skin of her index and ring finger, dogging in just enough past the tissue for her to feel hot blood bead up. In her haze of between-conscious-and-not she had slid her hand too high on the hilt and this one contained no cross guard to prevent this very thing. Blearily, she tries to adjust to the dark and reels back when she realizes there is a face hovering inches from hers. The waning gibbous has sneaked lengthy arms of silver through the window to touch it, lighting up the eyes and refracting yellow light back on her. An elbow is dug into her belly—that is what woke her, must have been—and one of Enid’s legs is half hanging off the bed while the other is wedged against her hip. They both stare at each other with a knife between them.
“Enid?” Her voice sounds husky in her own ears from sleep, “What are you doing?”
“I had to pee,” Her shinning eyes—predator’s eyes—lower to the blade held near her throat, “Do you seriously sleep with a knife under your pillow?”
“Naturally,” Her head flops back down as the spike of adrenaline leaves her in a rush, arm splaying across the mattress beside her and the knife hung between her bleeding fingers, “you startled me.”
“I—you’re the one with a knife! You little weirdo—that scared me! How the heck do you wake up that fast and have a knife pointed right where I was?”
Tiredly, her eyelids start to droop shut and the peace of Enid’s presence begins to lull her back to a state of immense comfort, “Practice.”
“Weirdo. Gimmi that,” Fingers press against her hand to pry her grip away from the knife and she hears it clang from where Enid throws it on the floor, some distance away from them, “no more knives in bed.”
“Self-protection is vital for women our age and, while I do not feel unsafe here, there are plenty of reasons that attend our school I keep a knife for.”
“You have a werewolf in your bed,” Enid emits a jaw popping yawn and sinks back into the bed against Wednesday’s side, brushing her cool toes against her calf and her spine against the outside of Wednesday’s arm, “What do you need a knife for? I’m way better than that.”
“Hm,” Her chest flutters with the wings of a bird in its death throes, “maybe I need it to keep you safe.”
Enid lets out a sleepy snort and kicks backward, gently, with her foot against Wednesday’s leg, “Thought we didn’t insult each other anymore.”
“I am infinitely more dangerous than you are, beast.”
“Are not,” Enid adjusts a little, tugging the corner of the blanket up to hug beneath her chin and lets out another long yawn, “I guess between the both of us though, anyone who tries to break into our dorm this year is gonna be real sorry.”
Wednesday preens over that because to her it sounds like I have your back and I’ll keep you safe, but I know you won’t need me. We are a pack, just us two, and ours is the most vicious. Let any who try to come between us suffer and die. She tilts her head on the pillow they are sharing to hazily stare at the back of Enid’s head, tousled from sleep and lit up like wisps of starlight in the silver moonbeams cast over her from above. It is dark—the time of scavengers, a time when a cunning fox like Wednesday would thrive for a hunt, when she should be seizing her moment and setting her teeth into something—so part of her comes alive in that moment, waking for the taste that her hungry love thirsts for. Enid is breathtaking in the moonlight even with her back to her, even with her heat pressed so close but not quite close either.
Slow enough that she can allow for enough time to change her mind, she lifts her arm from the corpse pose she sleeps in to test an urge. She gingerly touches the backs of her fingers against the nape of Enid’s neck. The skin is smoother than even she could imagine but just as hot, feeling like a thin scrap of leather stretched over a jar full of coals. Touching it feels almost as sweet as it had to seal her thumbprint in hot wax, it nearly takes the flesh from her bones. Her index finger unfurls to push up into the fine hairs at the back of her neck, dragging the blunt edge of a nail against the scalp in an exploration, before curling back into the fist with its brethren.
(She is a monsoon, a gale force of love that will destroy absolutely anything in her path. She rages for Enid, for this lone touch that has been the bane of her existence—before. Before Wednesday Addams died in the arms of a girl, sat in a chair just the two of them, and was reborn in her arms too. Love is all she is now, love and rage and all the darker emotions of a nasty scavenger. Now it is her holy prayer to have just one more hug, to take every little thing Enid is willing to give her, to soak in the warmth that threatens to burn her alive and push herself to the very edge of her ability to handle more, just little more.)
Her hand drops away to curl back in, ready to let that anomaly be the first text in her holy reportage. To let that wrap like silk around her bones so that it can be stored safe, remembered, and felt for an eternity. This memory can be her burial shroud.
Enid makes one of those animalistic keening noises that is exceptionally loud in the dark middle of the night, “Why did you stop?”
She whispers the words and they, each one, crawl across her skin, feel like the touch of fingertips scratching into the divots of her spine to mine for the nerves beneath.
“I should have asked for permission.”
Enid does not turn around but she scoots backward a bit, pressing the whole length of her against Wednesday’s right side and tilts her head forward on the pillow to expose more of the back of her neck, “I appreciate the thought but that felt nice. Keep going.”
This time she turns her hand around and curls her fingers around the back of Enid’s neck until her palm presses flat to it. A low grumble comes from her bed partner and Wednesday is delighted to learn that she can feel it as a tickle against her skin when she touches her like this. Her thumb swipes across the skin to feel upward behind the red ear. The skin is softer here because its thinner and Wednesday enjoys that she can feel Enid’s muscle shift beneath, can feel the curve of bone, the swell of a vein pressed up against the surface of the skin. It would be so easy to dig beneath, past the skull, into the soft grey matter of her brain. She is violently aware of this and how Enid must be too but allows Wednesday to continue probing.
(Enid trusts her. She has tilted forward in a kind of supplication only Wednesday should be expected to preform, exposed an artery and an easy place to cut knowing Wednesday would cover it in protection, put her own meat between the air and her weak spot. Exposing the neck like this is how wolves die, how they are grasped and shaken until the neck snaps, but Enid gave it to her freely.)
She holds fire in her hand, feels it and knows it to be softer than silk, knows it flexes and shifts with needy lungs and a rapid heartbeat. It burns, it makes her palm sting, but the ache is so good that she cannot give it away, will not even if she keeps her hand here until her flesh welds to Enid’s and they both melt there, leaving nothing but bones stacked together in such a heap, whoever finds them will not be able to tell them apart. Bravely, a few fingertips creep up into Enid’s hair, twitching enough that some of it begins to wrap around them. A soft feeling overtakes her when her eyes finally notice that the darkness she is leaving on Enid is the blood from the knife wound, smearing against her pale goodness and defiling it with Wednesday’s overbearing, all-consuming love. That some of it has wetted the ends of her soft hair. Even in the dark, Wednesday marvels at the contrast of her immaculate black polish set against the bleach blond of Enid’s hair, seen like small black dots buried in starlight. When she applies the barest amount of pressure, her fingers splayed out like they are sitting on the neck of her cello reaching for frets far apart, Enid shivers and leans back into her hand. Fascinating.
“Enid?”
“Mm?”
“I am your friend, am I not?”
A breath leaves Enid that sounds like a hybrid between a scoff and a sigh, “Sure. I mean—yes, you are. My best friend. Who I love, very much. Yes.”
“And Yoko is your friend, correct?”
Wednesday’s lashes flutter over wide open eyes when she feels Enid’s confused rumble against her palm, ring finger stretched over the pulse in the side of her neck, “Yes?”
“When you spent that week with her…did you allow her this?”
Long quiet proceeds, fills the space between them and the tickling on her skin makes her think this would be where someone might normally feel tension for abrasively approaching something they ought not, but Wednesday is patient, calm, placid. Her thumb swipes up to flick against the backside of one of Enid’s earrings.
Finally, Enid asks in a soft almost whisper, “Ask me that in a different way, I don’t understand.”
“Did you share a bed with her?”
Oddly, some muscles tense under her hand, “No.”
“Given the chance though, would you?”
“No.”
Interesting, “Hm. Good.”
Enid turns her head just enough that Wednesday can see one eye peering at her, yellow and backlit by the moon, “Why?”
Wednesday just stares at her with her fox eyes, untouched by the moon the way a wolf’s is but curious, sharp, always watching to learn and once she has figured out what she sees, she will dart in and sink her teeth in. A frown tugs on Enid’s lovely mouth, makes her roll over and scoot closer, “You don’t get to ask me those questions and refuse to answer mine.”
“I absolutely can. I didn’t make you answer.”
“Wednesday Addams,” Enid curls long fingers around her bicep, hot even through the long sleeve of Wednesday’s nightgown, watching her with the eyes of a hungry wolf, “tell me why.”
I’m possessive, I’m a green eyed monster, the thought of you sleeping this close to someone with the back of your precious neck exposed to anyone but me makes my insides boil, because I love you and I do not know what you think of me, because an Addams loves selflessly but I am a wretch and if she has felt your heat I’ll flay every bit of skin that has known yours from her body, “You’re very nosy. Has anyone else told you to mind your own business?”
When moonlight catches the wet on her teeth, exposed in a massive grin, Wednesday swallows down the leaves and petals of love bloodying her throat, “I am the gossip queen of Nevermore. Its hard to get the dish without sticking my nose places. Besides, this doesn’t count. This is just between us.”
“Hm,” How easy it is to sway her now if Enid simply says us, “off the record?”
Enid presses her smile against the pillow very close to Wednesday’s ear, “I don’t think anyone would believe me if I told them what a smart ass you are sometimes. Then again…”
“Hm?”
“Nothing.”
“Pot and kettle, my—” Wednesday snaps her mouth shut so quick the teeth click, takes a moment to press the words my love, my heart, my everything, my reason for breath, my darling against the roof of her mouth with her tongue and tries again, “wolf.”
Luminous yellow eyes watch her, bright in the shadow of night and focused when the rest of her face is partially obscured. They are the beast in the weeds, the hunter that Wednesday has been watching and waiting for, they hold a stare that sends chills through the long length of her family history.
(Oh, she belongs there, her wicked thing. What a fool she was to ever try and fight fate and how patient, kind fate was to hold Enid to the side until Wednesday had come to her senses, allowed herself to be tainted by the kiss of another first so she could know what she did not want, and allowed Enid into her heart. What a treasure it will be for Wednesday to lead Enid down the annals of her history, pointing out every aunt, cousin, uncle, and grandmother until they come to the blank place that was left for them. How she aches to see Enid’s name nestled within the roots of a tree that accepts her, that will love her, that will cherish her and keep her for the next set of Addams to marvel at once their curse takes root.)
Enid begins worrying her lower lip between her teeth again—two moons set in her face, two glowing lanterns drawing Wednesday to her as a moth beseeching their luminous yellow light—while she watches Wednesday. Lush lips part, expose shinning canines, close to chew until the skin is raw, then, “That was almost sweet, calling me…your wolf.”
“I can manage it, sometimes. Do not come to expect it though.”
The torchlights shift, moving through the dark, until they settle just below Wednesday’s nose, “Can I tell you a secret?”
“You can trust me with anything, Enid.”
“Your family is probably the weirdest people I’ve ever met in my entire life, and I love them so much. I don’t think I ever want to leave here. I don’t know how you do it, every year, for school. I…judged you, when we first met, and your parents too. I thought you were—“
“Freaks.” She supplies it in a dry, warm tone, offers the words not as a stinging insect but as kindling for a fire.
“Sorry but yeah, I did. Everyone does, huh? But…now I feel like maybe I’m the freak. Your family is…wonderful. Like, Disney movie level perfect.”
Wednesday reels back as if she has been struck, “What a terrible thing to say. Take it back, immediately.”
“You know what I mean. Mine, they’re…okay? I thought things weren’t that bad but after staying here for a while—I know why and how and who you get your sweetheart genes from. I’ve never been so welcome before or felt so comfortable except for, maybe, when I was alone at school before you came but I didn’t really like that either,” A long wind blows through Enid, comes out as a tired sigh, “Do you think they’d care if I moved in?” She says it in a warm, lilting tone that conveys merriment but Wednesday swallows it bitterly, takes it very seriously the way she takes most things.
“No.”
When Enid rolls her eyes in the dark, catching, and refracting moonlight, she can track where the glow goes, “Be real.”
“It’s your home too, now. We’ve accepted you as one of ours, once we get our teeth in, we lock our jaw and don’t let go,” Wednesday pokes at the hinge of Enid’s jaw with the tip of her finger, tracking the glow up until it disappears behind Enid’s eyelids, “I figured you would know something about that.”
“Are you sure you’re human?”
“That’s comes down entirely to a debate on semantics and who you ask.”
“So there isn’t a chance you’re all secretly werewolves? Because the way you guys talk about family and love sometimes trips me out. I didn’t think humans were…like that. Could get it.”
“There is no type of love that can compare to that of an Addams. There are scientific journals and manuscripts in the family library that have been left by those who have studied it, extensively. I did not bother with it all much, as a child, but I did enjoy the one written by a late 16th century doctor who went mad trying to understand it. He put an ice pick through his eye—isn’t that fascinating?”
Enid makes a soft gagging noise, “How is that anything but gross?”
“Because even after he lobotomized himself, he still felt the rushing, raging waters of the all-powerful, no-one-can-escape-it Addams love. It did not matter how much of him was left; the love remained.”
“So,” Enid shifts a little closer until her nose is pressed against the round cap of Wednesday’s shoulder, “not human then.”
“Semantics.”
A loud yawn splits the air, “Bet I could give you a run for your money. Wolves mate for life, you know. It takes a special kind of love to fall for one person and only love them forever. Maybe even as intense as an Addams, maybe?”
“As do we. I assure you; this isn’t a competition you can win. Have you seen my parents?”
“I’ll die if I don’t find someone. Wolves can’t live alone, not forever.”
“I’ll die without my someone, I’ll die the moment she does because my soul will not be able to bare a single second without her.”
“Well, my wolf will know before I—“
“Enid. Go to sleep, we can debate about who loves harder and supernaturally strong tomorrow, over breakfast.”
“That means you don’t have a good comeback,” Enid’s hand on her bicep curls inward to hug their arms together, pressing it against her chest as if it is a teddy, and rests her temple on Wednesday’s shoulder, “I win.”
“That is not even remotely close to the truth nor how debates work.”