Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November 18^th, 1979

Paris, France

Enid was getting ready in front of the mirror.

She was wearing one of her own designs – a silk jumpsuit adorned with gleaming pearls on the shoulders, all white except for a touch of golden along the margins. It was long and flattering, tight on the waist, loose on the arms and legs, with a cleavage that had shocked mass media when she first debuted it. A thin gold necklace rested with grace against her skin, and the heavenliness of it all juxtaposed against her rosy, shining eyeshadow.

She heard a knock on the door.

“Enid, it’s me. Can I come in?” Bianca’s voice asked.

“Yes, of course.”

She entered the room in a royal-blue dress as Enid put on heart-shaped gold earrings.

“Good timing. I’m just getting finished. One more minute and I’ll be ready to go.”

“The chauffeur’s outside.” Bianca approached her. “Here,” She extended a hand, holding out a piece of paper for Enid to take. “A telegram came for you.”

“Thank you, Bianca.” She smiled, brushing her hair one last time. “I’ll be outside in a minute. You look lovely!”

“Are you flattering yourself? This is one of your dresses.”

Enid chuckled. “I just can’t help myself.”

Bianca flashed a grin and headed for the door with the type of confident grace one was either blessed to have or cursed to miss out on.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Sinclair.”

She left and Enid wondered once more what on Earth had driven Bianca Barclay to work on management instead of modelling. She would have been a showstopper on the runway, no doubt.

But by no means was she complaining about her career of choice – Bianca was, by far, the most dexterous right-hand she had ever hired. Within Enid’s fashion company, all operations ran through her, she was a top executive and secured the business thrived. The woman had a wicked smart gut and the most astute of instincts; she was passionate about what she did. Her ambitious, strategic input on matters was indispensable to Enid, and by extension, obviously, to Enid’s brand, which Bianca was second-in-command to.   

The designer entered her closet to choose a coat to wear. She picked a hip-length belted trench coat made of leather – baby pink with red circles – and put it on. The telegram Bianca had delivered had been left to rest on her dressing table in the meantime. Enid picked it up.

“Can’t join you. So much work. I’ll meet you at dinner. Have fun missing me. Yoko.”

Yoko Tanaka was full of shit.

It was true, she had a current particularly demanding museum collection to arrange and develop – something about art nouveau paintings, she was a curator – but in this case, Enid was sure what she meant by “so much work” was actually “I’m with Divina” – her girlfriend, who had flown to Paris from Madrid the night before, having been away for two weeks working. Needless to say, Yoko had missed her terribly. No one could blame her for that, or for choosing to spend some extra time with her before meeting Enid, or especially, for withholding that specific information from her message.

So yes, Yoko Tanaka was full of shit, but Enid didn’t mind.

Her shit and Enid’s shared a lot of similarities.

Or once did, anyways.

*

Enid was tired as soon as she arrived.

But she was also the most talkative person in every room she stepped into, it was a natural gift, so no one really noticed. After a while, she almost even stopped noticing herself. It was 5 in the afternoon and she found herself at a cocktail party hosted at a luxurious house in Champs-Élysées, in the 8^th arrondissement, by one of France’s most important theatre empresarios. Pascal Laforest. The invitation had come through his wife – a socialite of the highest order, very fond of Enid’s creations.

Enid was usually immensely passionate about the opportunity to unwind with socialization, especially at times she just really felt her mind call for a break, but this once, despite how badly she needed a pause, she was having a hard time relaxing into one.

To her, it was tiresomely late after some ruthless weeks of nonstop design production, back and forth meetings and abnormally light sleep.

She didn’t allow herself to feel worn out as long as she was working, she kept moving and moving, thinking and thinking, but since she wasn’t working anymore, she felt exhausted. One could argue that in two hours or less the cocktail party would be over and she would be going home – or back to the office – but the gathering was a private reception to a much bigger event she had also been bestowed tickets to: the musical concert that the host had most recently organized, taking place at the epic Palais Garnier. After that, of course, a dinner party at a fine dining restaurant.

She wouldn’t get to be alone with her own thoughts for a long time.

Fortunately, Enid Sinclair was also a ray of sunshine and an effortlessly charismatic social butterfly who managed to enchant a room full of people with just the flash of a smile. So she drank a tequila sunrise as she lovingly greeted people, flooding the room with goodwill and cheerfulness, taking compliments and giving them back, chitchatting as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

She had been spending so much time in Paris since her designs blew up in '75, her French was much better now too.

One hour after arriving, she was at the bar serving herself of appetizers, making conversation with some actress who waited for her drink. She was starting to wonder why Bianca was taking so long in the restroom when she heard her voice enthusiastically call for her from behind.

She followed the noise, and as soon as she did, Bianca’s entire presence was thrusted far away from her mind. She couldn’t believe what was in front of her – who.

Their eyes met at the same instant, when Enid turned around as the other walked into the room. It was an irrevocable moment. They fell straight into each other’s sight.

And there she was.

Inexplicably in front of her.

Just like that.

Wednesday Addams, in all her darksome and slightly dismal glory, as mysterious as one could ever possibly be.

Beautifully terrifying with eyes as engulfing as the moon. Her glance was pitch-black and strong even when its familiar stoicism flickered momentarily, taking in Enid’s presence unprepared, to let through an emotion of shock blending into marvel so all-consuming it looked as if she could have crumbled to the floor right at that second.

Enid stood still, paralyzed. She was taken by an overpowering astonishment that swelled inside her chest. When it abruptly stopped, when it came crashing down, it left her feeling euphorically weak.

And then she looked at her. Really looked at her. Wednesday was, as she had always been, a walking dark cloud. Enid first felt as if not a minute had ever passed, not a thing had ever changed. But then looked longer, deeper, and the passage of time hit her like an irreversible slap in the face.

Wednesday was the same, but she was also different. She carried a unique type of sophistication now, an elegance utterly morbid that only she could pull off – she was older, more mature, looking more self-secure than ever, if that was even possible; it suited her. Her dress was as beautiful as it was terrifying. And she was all heart-shaped lips, and clear-cut facial features, and dark hair, and darker garments.

Enid could not, for the life of her, look away.

Bianca spoke. It didn’t matter. Enid couldn’t bring herself to hear a thing. Everything other than Wednesday Addams was irrelevant, it dissipated into the void, ceasing to exist.

The world was moving but she couldn’t. People’s mouths were opening and closing but a muffled sound was all that reached Enid’s ears. She swam in it. She swam in the noiseless noise and in the color of Wednesday’s eyes. God knows for how long. The buzzing got stronger and stronger until it was killed dramatically when Bianca poked the skin of her arm without any regard for delicacy.

She crashed back into reality.

“Enid.” Bianca voiced. Judging by the annoyance in her tone, Enid guessed it wasn’t the first time her name had been called. She wanted to say something, apologize for her behavior or excuse herself, but felt physically unable to. All she managed was a nod.

Bianca sent her a confused but relieved smile and cleared her voice to continue whatever she was saying before.

“Well…this is Wednesday Addams, as I was saying. Pascal has been working with her.” Oh fuck. “She’s the star of tonight’s concert.” Oh God fuck. “I’m certain we’ll enjoy every second of it. In fact, we have the utmost excellent seats!” Oh she was so fucked. “It’s a privilege. We’re incredibly excited, Miss Addams.” Oh what the fuck. “I’ve seen Enid find inspiration for her collections by listening to classical music for nights on end.” Oh why did Bianca speak? “So I’m sure she’ll swell with inspiration after tonight. Luck must be on her side! Isn’t that so, Enid?”

Bianca was smiling. But it wasn’t funny at all. Bianca was also blissfully unaware of the meaning her words carried, so no one could really blame her.

Enid knew she was expected to say something now – for Bianca’s sake at least, because considering Wednesday’s wide-eyed stiff posture she was just as catatonic – but all she could do was stare.

She felt mocked that the universe could so casually throw this at her and watch her struggle to speak for entertainment.  

“What are you playing?” She finally said – practically out of breath, her eyes boring into Wednesday’s – too light-headed to follow up Bianca’s question or to remember a smile and a polite handshake was the minimal etiquette that usually went with these things.

But that was all painfully secondary because, God, there they were, out in the open. Irretrievable. Said and heard: the first words Enid spoke to Wednesday after years of hitting a wall whenever she tried.

She felt slightly embarrassed at the realization. They were nothing like she had planned. She had spent summer midnights and winter dawns thinking about how this moment would unfold if it ever became a reality instead of a hope; perfecting the words she would say, laying out entire lists of possible scenarios, preparing herself for all the countless emotions she could feel.

All that planning hadn’t done a thing. Her planning had involved beautiful words and the moonlit view of a pretty place and the offer of her beating heart. Reality was inability to speak and a cocktail party she had to take painkillers to attend so her head would stop aching with stress.

“The Four Seasons.”

Wednesday’s voice kicked Enid’s train of thought out of a bridge into a river. All the built-up tension worth of years and years broke inside Enid with the God honest truth of a blushing, debilitating, heart-expanding shock.

She had forgotten about how soft Wednesday’s voice could be. She had forgotten about how calm, and calming, it absolutely was.

Alas, time had been brutal and distance had been unforgiving. Together, they had been foul.

She had never truly forgotten about the small details, oh of course not, she couldn’t – she couldn’t erase them from her mind if she tried, they were like precious pearls not even the most severe weather could extinguish. But time and distance, working together in malice, had made the small details more and more blurry. One of those details was her voice.

The memory of it was there – it was, it never left – but Enid could only touch it with the tip of a finger, never catch it with her full hand. Year after year, that miserable unreachability felt like losing Wednesday all over again.

But the moment in front of her was anything but blurry. It was Wednesday’s voice, instantly recognizable – her living, breathing voice – and Enid immediately wanted to hear it again. It was so strong of a wish, so pathetic a desire, that she had no idea what to do with it.

Her astonished reaction must’ve been alarmingly embarrassing because Bianca’s yellow smile could have blinded someone.

“Anyhow,” Bianca said, enlacing her arm with Enid’s. Wednesday didn’t hesitate to silently follow the interaction with her gaze. “It was great meeting you, Addams. I hope we can talk again some other time. Will you excuse us for a minute?”

Bianca dragged Enid strongly but mindfully, guiding them away from the party’s epicenter into an unbusy corner near a case of stairs.

“What’s gotten into you, Sinclair?”

“Nothing— Nothing at all. I swear.”

“You know that was Wednesday Addams, right?”

Enid was painfully aware of such fact and that was the entire problem.

“That girl’s a phenomenon!” She exasperated in a whisper for the sake of discretion. “She’s, like, the first woman to make it that big in her field! Hell, in any field. I know she’s just a scythe away from looking like the grim reaper but that’s not a good enough reason for you to space out and dismiss her, Enid.”

Bianca was slightly upset and Enid frivolously wished that she had hired someone less competent or less watchful all those years ago, if only to save herself of being called out at that moment for an unusual circumstance of poor social skills only life history could explain.

Enid sighed. “I...had no idea she was going to be here.”

“Well, I’m sorry. My attempts at talking to you about the show weren’t successful, sure, but I merely respected your wishes.”

It was true.

Enid hadn’t cared to know more than the basics about what she was doing tonight. It was a party and then a concert. It would be fancy. She would chitchat with fancy people. That was all she needed to know. She wasn’t in desperate need to attend another high-class event – one that wasn’t even related to fashion, mind you – but she was in desperate need to think about the deadline for next season’s collection. Anything other than that was just background noise taking up space from her brain.

“Still, I know I told someone to hand you an announcement. Didn’t you read it?” 

“It must’ve gotten lost in the pile of stuff all over my desk.”

“Listen,” Bianca got closer, taking a deep breath and sending Enid a sympathetic look. “This could be good for us.” She shook Enid’s shoulders lightly. “Wednesday Addams is respected. She will go down in history as one of the most important women of this decade, and the next too, I’m sure. There’s not a better person at this party for you to talk to.”

Enid concurred. Not because being seen talking to Wednesday Addams would look good in the picture, but because she had wholeheartedly hoped to talk to Wednesday again in this lifetime.

“I doubt she would agree to wear one of your designs, for obvious stylistic reasons.”

Enid wouldn’t even want her to. Enid’s designs were warm, radiant, extrovert, envisioned to stand out at disco nights. Wednesday’s style was uncanny, as gloomy as if the nightfall were a person. Two very different approaches. They both knew it. They had never wanted to change that about each other before.

“But you could adapt! You could propose designing something for her. That would be fucking mind-blowing, nobody would expect such a thing! Wednesday Addams and Enid Sinclair are names from different worlds, there’s not a more unlikely duo.”

Enid felt her heartbeat start to reach her fingertips. She felt like an open wound under a microscope.

Her thoughts flew to her desk and the drawer in it no one was allowed to so much as touch. It was full of loose pages with sketches of dark gowns and dusky prints and gothic pieces. She had made them all thinking of Wednesday, for Wednesday, during all the nights she was the last one standing at the office with nothing but emotions to let out and reminiscing baroque music playing on the background.

“This could be an amazing opportunity to hit the headlines at full force. But that’s assuming, of course, that you could fall in her good graces. Sadly, I don’t think anyone has ever managed such thing.”

That was not true at all.

“Still, the least you could do is talk to her. I could get Pascal to help. Where’s your go-getter spirit, Sinclair?”

She had no idea. She felt dizzy.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Bianca stayed silent, fazed by Enid’s lack of energy. The emotions in her face morphed almost entirely. It was like watching a switch being turned off. She disposed of her professional stance with the same quickness she put it on each morning, looking more like a concerned friend.

“You sound strange, Enid. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I just need to use the restroom. Give me a minute. I promise I’ll come back as good as new.”

“Will you let me know if you need anything?”

“Of course, Barclay.” Enid gave her a weak smile. “I’ll be right back.”  

She walked away and did her best to find the restroom without accidentally stumbling into people who would pull her into more rounds of small talk. When she saw the restroom’s door in front of her, it felt like being blessed with a miracle. Inside, it was spacious and classy. The chandelier alone had probably costed more than a car. She was alone there too, which she felt grateful for.

Next, there was cold water on her hands, and then cold water gently spattered on her neck, cheeks and forehead. She took deep breaths, trying not to fall victim to the spiral of her own thoughts. The door was opened. She was ready to force an amiable smile through the mirror for the sake of not drawing attention to the discombobulated look in her eyes, but there was no need for that.

“Wednesday.” Enid whispered weakly – like one would whisper a secret or a religious plea.

Wednesday closed the door behind her and came closer. Enid wondered if she had followed her to the restroom. She hoped the answer was yes.

“Enid.” The blonde tamed a sudden urge to sigh at the way Wednesday pronounced her name, at the mere fact she said it. “This is quite the surprise.”

In typical Wednesday Addams fashion, her expressiveness was null. She was the image of imperturbability.

With an even voice and a steely spine, she really would have nailed the act of apathy if only hadn’t it been for her eyes – it was always her eyes that gave it away, Enid knew well. They were hesitant, couldn’t quite face her nor quite look away – avoidant but searching, longing yet woeful.

And with this, Enid’s chest succumbed to a mixture of loving and aching. Because it was Wednesday. She was certainly different but nonetheless she was still Wednesday.

Her Wednesday.

Still one to deal with emotions in odd, reserved ways that only Enid could grasp; still awkward under Enid’s observing gaze, the only one that could decipher all her tricks, read all her wordlessness; still as familiar as always.

Enid could barely bring herself to think.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m playing a concert tonight.” Wednesday responded, frowning her eyebrows. “You know this.”

“Yes, I guess I do now, but—” She wanted to know everything.

She wished to learn all the steps that had led her to that precise moment. How was her life now, how were her days? Had she moved to Europe? When did she go from Wednesday Addams, the strange girl sitting alone at the library, unusual music prodigy, to Wednesday Addams, the bizarrely fascinating, internationally acclaimed virtuoso cellist?

Enid wanted to hear it all – Wednesday’s entire life story, the parts she knew and the parts she didn’t, over and over again.

Did she detest Paris and all its lights and colorful streets? Well, of course she did, but could she tell her about it? Did she still talk to her parents using the most peculiar of vocabularies? Did she still collect forgotten literature from the oldest, gloomiest antique stores one could ever possibly find? Was the most enraptured she ever looked still when she played anxiety-inducing melodies on the cello?

If Enid were to step forward and pour her heart out, try to make it right, would Wednesday accept it? Would she still hug her back?

Was it all fresh in her head, could she still picture it? – the life they lived together.

“I meant— how— I didn’t know you— It’s just that—” Enid couldn’t force coherency out of her shaking mouth.

Her attempts at forming phrases were devoid of logic. She was speechless – which was an abnormal occurrence for her. It felt as if her brain was a malfunctioning electrical wire undergoing a short-circuit.

She wondered if Wednesday could draw conclusions from that alone.

Ultimately, she was only able to bring herself to blurt out yet again the same question. “What are you doing in Paris?”

“I believe my answer hasn’t changed since you first asked. I was forced to join this meaningless, soul-sucking party. If that’s any more clarifying.”

Enid chuckled, well aware that she was a blushing mess. “I’m glad to see your wit’s the same.”

The right corner of Wednesday’s lips curled into the most subtle of smirks. “Don’t you know I pride myself in staying consistent?”

It was spoken more matter-of-factly than interrogating, but there was a certain charm to the way she said it. And it wasn’t exactly a smile, but it was the closest thing to one that Enid saw on Wednesday’s face since they parted ways five years ago.

And so her nerves shrank.

She took a deep breath and only then seemed to grow aware of the uptight grip that clenched her shoulders with tension.

“I promise I’m not usually this awkward.” Enid laughed softly, under her breath. Wednesday tilted her head discreetly at the sound, as if to hear it better. “This is a special circumstance. Well, obviously— you are.”

This time around, it was Wednesday whose composure broke down into unresponsiveness, whose answer took longer to come out, whose big eyes and sealed lips didn’t dare to move as her brain fumbled to produce suitable thoughts to turn into utterable words.

“This is an incredibly special circumstance, indeed.”

Wednesday battled for self-discipline, not wanting to give away a reaction too telling, too compromising, after all, five years had passed, they were in uncharted waters. Enid knew this – besides finding it adorably heart-warming, she also respected it.

So if she noticed a succinct slip of emotion in which the corner of Wednesday’s eyes curled and melted while looking into hers, she didn’t say anything, her heart merely skipped a beat.

“Last time I saw you…” Enid sighed – unravelling a smile, losing herself to the memories. “God, do you remember it?”

“October of ‘74.” Wednesday stated with a certain delicacy, as if the date at question was sacred. “It was an extraordinary autumn that year.”

Wednesday averted her gaze only to hide how her eyes had been consumed by reminiscence, fluorescing underneath numerous layers of nonchalance.

“All seasons were so pretty in New York. Those were days to be alive for.”

A precious moment of silence fell between them. It was soothing and patient, full of nostalgia-infested daydreams.

Wednesday was the first to speak again.

“Your hair is shorter.” Enid uncovered a flake of curiosity in the other girl’s tone, in her eyes. “You don’t dye it anymore?” Spoken like it was a question she’d been dying to ask.

Enid wasn’t able to hold back the thunderbolt that electrified her – it felt astronomically heartening to hear such a small detail dwelling softly on Wednesday’s lips, a small detail cared for and remembered.

It was priceless, even. Wednesday Addams, the girl who overdramatically claimed to be allergic to color, with mourn in her eyes at the absence of those old trademark pink and blue highlights from Enid’s hair.

“I do!” She smiled and twirled around.

She held her hair up and offered the phenomenal view of softly-colored pink and orange hair strands messily, partially hidden below her natural blonde, blending into it.

“I know it’s a pretty unusual approach.”

Which was most definitely true.

Any kind of dyed hair was considered atypical by most. People were just barely starting to become acquainted with the concept of it, so Enid was no stranger to the sideway glances her colorful hairstyle had always attracted.

Making that her image, though, was probably one of the smartest moves of her career – because now she was the future of fashion, some level of eccentricity was allowed, it was good for business. So she embraced it utterly and boldly. Made it hers. Every three months or so she would try something completely new, reinvent her looks, the more unique the better. Magazines would go insane. Old-fashioned people didn't like her much.

But it was one of the only ways in which she felt she could truthfully be herself.

“You like it?” She asked, turning to face Wednesday – who gulped.

“It looks…” Her eyes wandered all over Enid’s features and she seemed to get lost in them at some point. “Marvellous.”

“Yeah…” Enid tried to suppress a wide smile, bouncing back and forth on her feet. “That’s it…October of ’74. Shit, all the other years before too. They make everything else fall flat in comparison, don’t they?”

“Nonetheless,” Wednesday took a small step back. “It wasn’t all good.” She lowered her gaze, bothered by where she was taking the conversation. “1974...you were leaving for Italy.” When she looked up again, dim had settled over her eyes. “Plus, you know…the other thing.”

A wave of melancholy wreaked in Enid’s throat. She swallowed it down – so thickly and so dryly that she was certain Wednesday heard the noise.

“I’m sorry.” Her heartbeat felt heavy, weighing down her body. “You stopped writing me back.”

The words were desolated before they even left her mouth, so low they were barely a whisper.

Enid waited – bit her tongue and the insides of her cheek with terrible strength when her eyes began to water; tried to translate the seemingly untranslatable emotions locked within Wednesday’s glare.

Waited.

And waited some more.

But she was met with nothing. There wasn’t an answer coming.

When she opened her mouth to continue, however, Wednesday interrupted. “You know better than to ask why, Enid.”

It wasn’t bitter or derisive. In fact, she sounded terribly crestfallen.

For a lingering moment of silence, they simply stared at each other as if the world itself had stopped. They were swollen whole by their own words. It was abrupt and sudden when a lady swung open the door and entered the restroom. Enid was so caught up in the maze of emotions tangled around her chest that she gasped in surprise.

The two girls stepped away from each other hastily at the same second, jumping as if they’d been burned, and then grew flustered after realizing why they’d done it – old habits die hard, they guessed.

They shared a cautious look and took the foreign third presence as a cue to allow one another some space to revaluate their exchange of words, perhaps, the last couple of years too. And so, each went to a different corner of the sink – Enid looked in the mirror, pretending to retouch her makeup and her hair, and Wednesday washed her hands at the slowest pace imaginable.

During that time, Enid’s thoughts did nothing but mesh together. A swirling between the past and the present and the uncertainty of the future. She was barely awake to take in her reflection while she stared directly at it.

After what felt like an eternity, the lady left. They were alone again, and they didn’t know what to do.

Enid looked for a sign of any kind in Wednesday’s eyes – reassurance to stay or a request leave, a nod to speak or a reprimanding look to keep her thoughts to herself. But the giant elephant in the room was out of hiding, and it had left them with nothing other than aching reminders of their trials and tribulations.

So they both just stood there: facing each other, not moving in the slightest, not wanting to go but not knowing what to do, afraid a move not thought-out well enough would be the final nail in the coffin – the thing that would push the other away beyond repair.  

For a while, it was merely a bittersweet, lingering suspense, but then the reality turned so palpable and the silence so deafening that Enid felt her lungs crush as the restroom shrank around them. 

Contrary to before, she was now awake. She was awake to realize silence dig its claws into her crippling fears, to realize it was so deathly quiet she could’ve heard a pin drop. And she was awake to watch as Wednesday immediately closed her mouth after a fleeting wish to speak, and afterwards became completely incapable to look anywhere near her blue eyes.

With that, Enid knew she had likely overstayed her welcome.

So at the brink of tears, incapable to even utter an audible apology, at last, she decided to leave, if only to save Wednesday of more discomfort.

She walked to the door, feeling defeat consume her with every step.

Yet the strangest thing happened.

Wednesday grabbed her wrist and brought them face to face again.

“Did you come with him?”

Oh.

There was a blister of possessiveness in her tone. There was also hope and apprehension, one in each hand, they hit like a punch. But above all, there was brilliantly masked despair.

Enid shook her head. “I divorced him.” Her throat felt dry. “Long ago, Wednesday.”

“How long?”

“Two years.”

Every bit of stoicism in Wednesday seemed to crumble to pieces for the glimpse of a second.

“Why?”

Wednesday – purely gobsmacked, shocked and wide-eyed – tried not to let eagerness show through a deeply curious voice tone.

“Wednesday…”

But truth be told, Enid didn’t know what was worse:

One, the fact that the cellist had no idea that she had divorced Ajax in ‘77 – which could only mean that she hadn’t spent the last years hunting down every article and magazine headline with Enid Sinclair written on it, like she had hoped for, like she herself had done with the name Wednesday Addams.

Or two, that the answer to that million dollar question was as easy as ever to guess, never the more breath-taking. The answer stood right in front of her, wearing a black dress, lips parted, stealing her heart for a second time. And there was nothing she could do about it.

“You know why.”

Wednesday’s glare was famous for its intensity, but at that moment, Enid thought, intensity was an outright euphemism.

The blonde gulped looking into those dark eyes. It was a weakening sight.

It was a glare too deep, too rare to ever be replicated. It was Wednesday, capturing Enid’s every facial feature, taking her in as if it was the first time and her life depended on it. It was Wednesday, realizing something, feeling something. And it was Enid, unable to take her eyes off Wednesday’s freckles and then Wednesday’s lips.

The realization that followed was a deadly one. One she hadn’t recovered from the first time, all those nine years ago, and one she wouldn’t recover from now.

She realized she craved to kiss Wednesday.

It was the final tap that sent the glass shattering.

She watched with rapt attention as the other girl breathed in and out. It was beautiful and lethal. But then, as soon as she decided on a definite emotion, she immediately polished it off her face.

“I must go. I’m expected to be backstage soon.”

And with that, not offering Enid a chance to protest, she walked away and tore open the door to leave. But then came to an abrupt stop, seemingly deciding against her decision.

She closed the door slowly, contemplative, tasting the flavor of her next decision in her mouth, and looked back at Enid.

“You were wrong, by the way.” She said. “I didn’t stop writing you back. I haven’t. I just assumed there was no point in sending you my letters anymore.”

And then she left.

—

February 3^rd, 1970

Manhattan, New York

“Can I sit next to you?”

Enid lifted her head, expecting to see anyone but the unsmiling, lugubrious girl who always sat lonesome by the most far-flung, unlit corner of the library. The one who always came in and went out around the same time every day. As silent as she wasn’t even there, never flinching in her determined walk or stopping to look at who she was passing by.

Yet there she was.

Dressed in black from head to toe, standing perfectly still with books clutched to her chest, wearing long pigtails that matched her thick bangs. Looking directly into Enid’s eyes for the first time, making her feel privileged for it.

Enid could’ve cursed herself for falling speechless at the sight, but God if it wasn’t a sight worth falling speechless for.

Enid had never talked to the girl before. Had never even been that close to her. Oh, definitely never face to face. If that were the case, she wouldn’t have forgotten. If she already knew what to expect – if she knew about the eyes, the nose, the jaw, the freckles, the lips – then maybe at that moment she would’ve been able to think something other than oh…fuck.

But at that moment Enid was helpless, too busy taking it in. In fact, she took it in with such depth that she forgot to answer.  

“I’m sorry—” Enid shook her head, nervous. “I didn’t get that.”

“Every other seat is taken.” Enid looked around – it was true. And undoubtedly, the girl was bothered by the disruption of her routine. “May I?” She inquired with polite words, little patience and the most impassive pair of eyes known to mankind, pointing at the empty chair next to her.

“Of course!” The blonde winced at her own voice – embarrassingly high-pitched. “No need to even ask, really.”

The girl sat down after an instant of hesitation in which she sighed somewhat irritated.

Enid pretended not to look as she then carefully put down her books on top of the table they were now sharing, picking something by Agatha Christie to read.

Enid pretended not to look some more.

This girl was the embodiment of inapproachability. The mere sternness of her facial expression was enough to dissuade anyone from attempting to strike up conversation. But well, Enid Sinclair wasn’t about to be stopped by something as trivial as that.

Enid Sinclair was infuriatingly curious, the personification of spontaneous determination and undying energy. So what if she felt incredibly giddy out of a sudden? She felt an even stronger wish to speak to this girl, find out as much about her as time would allow.

“You come here pretty often, don’t you?”

She did nothing but look up from her book in utter silence, sending a sidelong threatening glance Enid’s way.

Enid felt pushed up against a wall. “I’m sorry, did I— did I say something wrong?” Confronted with a gaze that morbid, well, maybe she had underestimated just how misanthropic the other was. “I just— I’ve noticed you around. Other times.”

“Do you always find it interesting when a student visits a library with regularity?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

In all honesty, she had no idea why she was apologizing. Or why she was curling her fingers against the palm of her hand in an attempt to take a sudden tingling off them. She had no idea why she was nervous.

It was something about her. Something about her face, perhaps. It was a face like no other – like a secret you couldn’t ever possibly forget. Her whole presence had a spell of its own, it was terrifying and endearing in equal measure, it spoke and it pulled, and Enid was at the mercy of its effect.

Of course, at that moment she simply brushed it off as shakiness from the coffees she had taken before.

So even though a part of her felt like crawling into a hole, she had to insist.

“What’s your, uhm— your major?”

The girl sighed, annoyed. “Music. Juilliard.” And went back to reading.

“Oh, shit. They’re extremely selective, aren’t they? You must be good!”

“They are. I’m the best.”

“I’ve never met anyone who goes there before.”

“How exhilarating.”

“I’m, uh— I take interest in arts too!”

It suddenly hit Enid that maybe they had more in common than one would originally expect.

(No, she wasn’t very good with instruments, in fact, she had only played piano once before, at a music store, and her friend Yoko had to apologize to the rest of the costumers, but she was an artistic person. Actually, being artistic was the sole reason she found herself in New York, God knows how many miles away from home, away from her parents who disappointingly told her she was wasting her life chasing a whim.

But she knew she could build something for herself. And even if not, at the very least she still deserved to get away and offer herself more freedom than she was given by her upbringing. But she knew her ideas were good, her acceptance letter into the Fashion Institute of Technology told her that much.

She had moved to New York in August of last year, into a small studio in the East Village. She had found a job at a flower shop. She had started her classes in September. She had discovered that New York’s rhythm suited her perfectly even if it also drove her insane. She had quit her job and found one that payed better as a waitress at a diner. She had befriended her co-worker, Yoko Tanaka, who studied Art History at NYU.

And by the end of the first semester, which she had poured immense effort into, intellectually and creatively – feeling so excited about being given an opportunity to show her worth that she didn’t even mind the mess her sleeping schedule had become – she was sure that the decisions that had led her to that point in life were the right ones.

She wanted nothing more than to be a fashion designer. She was more than okay with living and breathing color theory, fabric science, visual communication and creativity to get there. The entire process of developing and producing entire collections by herself, with only her bare hands and sprees of ideas, was the most liberated she ever felt.

And despite what everyone else seemed to think, with their pity looks or disapproving lectures, she was exceptionally lucky. She had found a passion she wished to nurture for a lifetime and she had the guts to go after it, chase it down to the most extreme ends.

How many people could say that? Certainly not her mother).      

"Musical arts isn’t my forte, though. I don’t think I could properly handle an instrument. But I go to, uhm, design school.”

Surprisingly, that seemed to incite a response. The girl looked up from her book for a proper first time, shamelessly gazing Enid from head to toe.

God, the blonde thought as her heartbeat roared.

“Aren’t you supposed to possess a marginally competent sense of style if you study fashion?”

“Oh.”

At first impact, she had no idea what to say. Enid was fully taken aback. But then she chuckled – honest to God, chuckled – and the light-hearted sound seemed to puzzle the other girl by a tenfold.

“I see. You don’t like my clothes?” Enid inquired, rather amused by the situation.

They didn’t just dress differently; it only took a second of scanning the space between them to realize…they were polar opposites. Each other’s antithesis, in style as much as in demeanor.

So much so that, in fact, anyone who caught sight of them at that precise moment, sitting side by side – one all vivid color, one all gloomy monochrome, both peculiar in their own visually antagonistic ways – would probably think it to be funny too. And they’d probably have a lot of questions as well.

It was senseless to take such a remark to heart simply because…the two of them were so absurdly different.

“They make my eyes sore. To say I was shocked the first time I looked at you would be a preposterous euphemism.”

“When was the first time you looked at me, then?”

Enid suppressed a smirk, hit by a sudden wave of confidence, watching as the other girl was now the one taken aback.

“I haven’t kept record of the days.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “But you sure make it your mission to be unignorable.”

So they had both mutually noticed one another from afar at the library before. Enid definitely felt completely normal about that information. There definitely wasn’t a spark of contentment swelling inside her chest at the thought.

“That’s a very silly assumption. I just dress what I like.”

“I’m not a fan.”

Enid giggled softly behind her hand at the girl’s goddamn nerve. She had never met someone with such a miserably inadequate social filter, so stoic and deadpan, silver-tongued even, yet so audacious, borderline hostile.

“I’d be offended, but I can see we present ourselves to the world very differently.”

“You’ve noticed.”

“I won’t take it to heart.”

“Suit yourself.”

The girl puffed, irritated, and shifted her gaze back to her book, although it was easy to tell she wasn’t actually reading by the way her eyes were static, frozen on the page’s margins, staring rigidly into nothingness.

Whatever Enid had to take away from that display of body language didn’t evolve much past one or two remarks since even the girl’s side profile was a distractingly pleasant vision that ate away her capacity to concentrate on thought development.

There was a small goosebump that ran from her ribs up the back of her neck.

She cleared her voice. “I’m Enid, by the way.”

There. Done.

She had said it. She had ripped off the band aid.

All she asked in return was to be told a name too.

“Bold.” Their eyes met again. The girl’s dark gaze, somehow, smirked. “I didn’t ask.”

Her eyes were wicked and maddening and diabolical and divine. Enid suddenly feared that she might’ve bitten off more than she could chew by talking to her in the first place. She was challenging to decipher, even more challenging to speak to. She seemed impossible to get to know.

Plus, Enid also felt looking into her eyes made her feel incredibly weak.

It was upsetting but it didn’t upset her at all.

Instead, it fascinated her in every aspect. It shouldn’t, but it did.

So yeah, she might’ve bitten off more than she could chew, but she was going to chew it regardless.

“You’re lots of fun.”

The irony was left to echo and fade away in the air. Silence returned to the table as Enid winked, sneered and gracefully turned her head back to her own duties, continuing to sketch a pattern, ordering her facial muscles not to betray her into showing concern.

The girl’s eyes bore into Enid’s figure, into her working hands and careless smirk. She stared and stared, without ever saying a word, as if she expected Enid to stare back, to regret looking away so she could be the one to get the last word.

She stared and stared until she shook herself out of it and turned her attention back to her book. But then, as if not able to properly concentrate on her reading, she kept looking here and there, shifting quietly on her seat with a sour expression.

Enid’s smirk grew larger, but her head didn’t move. The girl sighed and rolled her eyes, disgruntled.

“My name’s Wednesday. Addams.”

Enid bit her lip as it dangerously threatened to wide and flash a smile.

The name was singular and distinctive; she couldn’t think of one that did the girl better justice.

And then a wise, prognostic part of herself suddenly knew it all – skipped right onto the last page and read it brazenly, drank up its words in a hurry, holding onto its paper for dear life. Enid suddenly knew beyond doubt that Wednesday Addams was a name she would never forget.

She looked back at her – she looked back at Wednesday. She opened her mouth to speak but was cut short instantly.

“That’s enough.” Wednesday told her. “I will go back to reading now. Interrupt me and you’ll regret it.”

And that was it. Exactly how it unfolded.

For the rest of the afternoon, Enid stayed silent, leaning over her sketchbook, tracing and drawing with will and purpose, every so often talking to herself in low whispers about the results of her work; and Wednesday stayed silent too, deathly quiet as she devoured Agatha Christie’s novel, every so often glancing at Enid when she murmured to herself. 

—

Enid wasn’t as good as new when she came back from the restroom.

She felt her chest was made of glass and her heart was at display for everyone to see.

She needed to talk to Wednesday but couldn’t because she was nowhere to be found.

She felt dazed but hectic. She needed to get some air outside in privacy but she needed to entertain herself with something other than her own thoughts. She wasn’t able to keep up with conversations but she wanted to try to feel normal through the process of having one.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Wednesday. She kept looking at the big clock on the living room’s wall, counting the time left to the concert, counting how much time had passed since her conversation with Wednesday in the restroom. Thinking and thinking.

She needed to talk to her. She hadn’t said enough. She hadn’t said any of the things she should’ve said. She hadn’t apologized the way she should’ve. She hadn’t asked Wednesday the right questions. She hadn’t answered hers the right way.

It couldn’t be left like that. Not again. The mere thought was asphyxiating. She had to talk to Wednesday.

She felt nervous throughout the rest of the cocktail party. She felt nervous when it was over. She felt nervous getting inside the limo with Bianca, heading towards Palais Garnier, heading towards Wednesday – hopefully, because Wednesday had fled their encounter in such a hurry that Enid really prayed she hadn’t scared her off and she had ran away.

For the first time in recorded history, Enid didn’t stop at the entrance of the Opera to gaze at its grand mythological staircase in awe. She felt nervous climbing up each step, wondering if her invisible footprints overlapped Wednesday’s.

Le Grand Foyer, the Opera’s exquisite room of golden beauty - always Enid’s favorite place to wander before a show began - was now way too misplaced, way too dream-like; it catapulted her anxiety. 

She felt nervous finding their seats at the box. She felt nervous waiting, once more, for the concert to start. She felt really nervous.

When people started clapping, Enid practically jumped from her seat, hovering over the balcony looking desperately for the cellist. But the beauty of Wednesday Addams was her ability to make one hold their breath in anticipation, of course, so she took her time, only coming in last.

The applauds got louder with her entrance on stage. Enid was held motionless by the sight. Her heartbeat cheered louder for Wednesday than a coliseum full of people ever could’ve, but at the same time, she felt nothing but a complete ease of spirit.

Unlike her colleagues, who sent glowing smiles at the sold-out crowd in the world’s most famous opera house, Wednesday merely nodded, keeping a blank face as she walked to her seat with her instrument. She was perfectly center staged, directly facing the audience. The other musicians sat in a circle around her as an ensemble of strings, split between violins, violas and cellos; behind them, standing alone, was a harpsichord. She took a deep breath, running her eyes through the spectators in uncharacteristic eagerness. And then she put herself in position. She signaled at the orchestra with a head movement, and the concerto started.

It was Spring. Enid recognized it instantly. It was heart-stirring.

The entire theater had its eyes on Wednesday, held its breath in wonder as she played with a nonchalant expression and closed eyes. She was the person everyone had come to see, it was abundantly clear.

Enid felt proud. Enid felt fortunate.

The sensations tickled her chest, rushed through her veins, exclaimed and erupted, rising above any natural limits.

Pride and fortune went beyond the ordinary, they became something else entirely new.

Whatever shock had paralyzed Enid after their moment at the party vanished as the cellist played.

It was magnificent.

The cello as the lead added a stunning level of depth and drama to Vivaldi’s composition, especially with Wednesday Addams holding the bow. The sound was unprecedent, a complete revolution. She was enthralling to watch as she played Spring’s birdsong without batting an eye, losing herself to the melody ever so stoically.

The man sitting on her right was the lead violinist. They looked at each other from time to time. His black hair was curly and his glasses were bigger than his face. It was easy to tell he was younger than his peers, younger than Wednesday even – he had the kind of baby face only someone in their early 20s was blessed to possess.

There was a moment where he and Wednesday were the only ones playing, each following a different music sheet, each complementing the other.

He smiled joyfully at her, and against all odds, she almost smiled back with the corner of her lips. Enid’s nails sunk into the armchair’s tissue. She wanted to stop the concerto and ask who he was, ask how he had managed the miracle of not being loathed by Wednesday Addams, but obviously, the idea was delirious.

It was unimportant too, she realized as the entire orchestra fell again on the same rhythm, playing at a quick, cheerful pace.

Enid had always loved that part of Spring. She had always loved to hear Wednesday play it – a bright tune brought to life by a dark, moody soul.

She sighed. Wednesday was a genius.

Enid watched her play, hypnotized by every move. The melody was heavenly. It was dreamy and ethereal, her own personal favorite. But she knew the cellist couldn’t wait to get it over with, always looking forward to the epic bleakness of the next season. So when Summer followed, Enid was overjoyed.

Vivaldi’s Summer was grim at first, and then alarming, striking. Ultimately, violent. She remembered once questioning Wednesday about it.

(“I don’t get it! Summer doesn’t feel anything like that. I’d know, I’m from California.” She had said.

“It’s not a straightforward seasonal picture, Enid. It tells the story of a farmer on the countryside. The days are terribly hot, and he fears an approaching thunderstorm. He knows the violence of nature could potentially destroy his livelihood.” She had explained. “By the third movement, it does.” And then smirked gloriously).

So when silence filled the room and the musicians took one long deep breath, bracing themselves for the third movement’s presto, Enid was ecstatic.

The intensity with which Wednesday played it was breath-taking. Wonderfully frantic. No one was immune to it. Her fingers moved exceptionally fast up and down the instrument’s string chords, hitting every note with unbelievable precision as her other hand bounced the bow back and forth swiftly. She played at full tilt, it was impossible to keep track of her movements.

Even in all her flawless composure, there was this more impulsive, loose side of Wednesday that one only saw when she did something purely driven by passion. It was all over her body language whenever she played.

She lost herself to the music’s power – shaking her head along the melody, bouncing the cello between her legs during the faster parts, looking up with a serene face and eyes shut, smirking occasionally at her crescendos of choice, obviously the most appalling ones.

Enid felt herself smile, unashamedly and widely, as she struggled to breath evenly and keep her heart from barging a hole through her chest.

She felt there were a thousand emotions choking her throat.

Crystal clear, profound, unmistakable emotions.

Emotions that spread in waves all the way from the cavity of Wednesday’s cello to Enid’s beating heart.

She felt an absurd longing. A happiness so strong it was overwhelming.

When a lingering, solo, severely sounding chord from Wednesday ended Summer’s concerto, every person in the audience was on the edge of their seat. The whole theater was in awe.

“Christ.” Enid turned her head towards Bianca’s voice.

The picture was one of a kind.

She was astonished, resting a hand on her chest, at a loss for words with a wonder-struck expression, looking as if she had transcended into a higher dimension. Enid knew exactly how she was feeling, because undoubtedly, she was feeling it too.

“That was so intense I think I forgot how to breath.” She said.

“Wednesday Addams will do that to you.”

The third movement of Summer was the most demanding, so the musicians were allowing themselves a few extra seconds before continuing onto Autumn. Enid turned her head to keep glancing at the stage. And there she was at the front of it, Wednesday Addams, glancing back at her.

She didn’t look away. They didn’t. They couldn’t.

The happiness that throbbed in Enid’s heart was of a nature so earnest that it could have made an entire tyrannous empire fall.

Chapter Text

February 18th, 1976

My Enid,

It takes everything in me not to write you back.

I recognize I avoid it at every cost, I can admit as I’m protected under the certainty not a soul is around to read my thoughts.

Every time a new letter from you comes in – forwarded from all sorts of places – I tiptoe around the implications of what’s happening. I keep myself so tremendously busy I hardly give myself room to breathe. I clean the house, I read at libraries, I play Tchaikovsky for hours, I get home late from work on purpose; I even sit through horribly lengthy conversations on the phone with my mother. But it is impossible to keep me distracted for too long, after all. And once I allow myself to take a longer look at the envelope whose existence I’ve been dodging, it is excruciatingly painful.

When I gather courage to read your words, they expand into my chest, they carve out parts of myself I deemed to have been asleep. I’m reminded of all we left behind in New York. I’m reminded of everything. The more these moments happen, the more I find that I have little to no strength left in me to reach for diversions to bury the emotions I have for you under.

It takes, perhaps, however, even more in me not to send you what I write.

It’s a responsibility I assume. In the end, I believe it’s for the best.

Because I can’t have you but not have you, Enid. I can’t bring myself to be yours merely by the halves. You understand, don’t you?

The only fitting way I find to deal with that is to not have you in my orbit, and to exit yours. Otherwise, I might do something violent. It’s not that I would mind it, but I know you would.

Well, regardless. I hear your name has been gaining life of its own – much, much more than before, just as you told me in some of your last letters. That’s terrific news, sincerely. That is a victory the world owes you; it is long over-due.

Ironically, I suppose that makes my past-self wrong about one or two things, because I always said your extravagant style was lunatic at best and vomit-inducing at worst, but turns out people love it, perhaps they’ve all gone mad. Anyhow, they’re calling your designs innovative, aren’t they? That’s spectacular.

And just between you and I, or me and this paper, I confess you always made it work. All your pinks and blues and yellows and oranges won me over before I could stop it. Isn’t that just horrifying?

This week I’m in Germany. I have a concert in a few days. I always wish I could see you in the crowd. I picture it for good luck.

The mark you left on me will always be indelible.

Yours,

WA

—

Wednesday Addams was always prepared.

She had never done a single thing halfway in her life. She had never done something badly, or God forbid, mediocrely. She had never made a threat she couldn’t follow through. She had never walked without a dead-set purpose. It just wasn’t conceivable.

She was prepared for everything and anything at all times.

Except for Enid Sinclair.

Except for seeing Enid Sinclair across the room after all too many years.

She was disastrously and foolishly unprepared for that.

The universe had certainly played its finest cards. She had been brilliantly double-crossed by fate’s all-knowing eye, backed up against a corner she couldn’t escape from – and in all honesty, didn’t even want to.

But guiltier than the universe itself was Eugene Ottinger. Wednesday cursed his name in at least five different languages inside her head as she was paralyzed and bewildered in front of beautiful, celestial, inescapable Enid Sinclair.

She had only joined that obnoxious excuse of a ceremony to put an end to Eugene’s unreasonable whining about how she “didn’t experience life” and “never did anything fun with him” – he was a peculiar species of soft, overly dramatic, stubborn people, much like her own brother, him and Pugsley were two birds of a feather.

So she had reluctantly agreed to join him last minute, clearly choosing the worst possible day to make a good deed in the name of friendship for the first time in her life.

It’s not that she didn’t want to see Enid – although one could argue that having cut communication ties with her through the course of various years was a strong indicator of the contrary – but Wednesday wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to face the one person who had caringly and patiently beaten down her towering defenses, who had unloaded the weapons she carried for protection and made her feel comfortable without a shield perpetually held up.

She wasn’t ready to inevitably watch her slip between her fingertips again, like sand to fade into the air against blowing wind.

Wednesday’s feelings for Enid were, perhaps, the only battle in life she couldn't win. But Enid wasn’t someone she could have. It was as wounding to accept as it was venomous to swallow mercury, but she had made peace with it – depressing and haunting peace, but alas, peace. Yet to face those blue eyes was to have the white flag of defeat destroyed and a war stirred up recklessly inside her chest.

To look at Enid was the death of the entire act. And so the act died.

She was unable to divert her gaze as Bianca Barclay dragged Enid away, staring statically at the door the blonde disappeared into long after she was gone from the room. She was sure something in her brain had been permanently broken.

She just stood there, in that same spot, unmoving. Around her, the faces and the voices swam into each other abstractly.

She was physically frozen but her thoughts moved up, down and sideways with all the stops out. They were vanilla-perfumed, cherry-flavored and rainbow-colored. They were Enid through and through, the only thing that her mind could focus on, taking over her senses again and again, damning self-control and rationality to hell.

She was brought back to Earth many minutes later by a rushed, faraway sight of shining blonde hair rushing through people.

She could’ve recognized that color and that silhouette if she was blindfolded.

It was a fast glimpse too, there one second and gone the next. If Wednesday had blinked, she would’ve missed it. Thankfully, she had incredibly dry eyes.

Next thing she knew, she was following Enid like the world was ending and there were seconds left to live – in fact, it was much more intense than that, because in such scenario Wednesday would’ve just sat down and waited. Her senses were as hyperaware with adrenaline as ever, so she caught up in time to watch the blonde disappear hastily into the restroom.

That made her stop abruptly in her tracks.

The only thing standing between them was a door, and that hit Wednesday like a ton of bricks.

Because she had followed Enid out of impulse, drawn and called towards her by an urge so strong that it defied reasoning. Everything else slipped, she hadn’t thought about what she would do afterwards, at all. What was her plan? What would she say? Did Enid even wish to talk?

She hadn’t pondered about a single detail. She acted on spur of the moment. Her decision had been an emotional one. What a disgraceful thing to admit. Enid Sinclair made a mockery of her sanity.

Wednesday stood outside looking at the door, thinking about the woman on the other side.

Enid was her Achilles heel. But Enid...well, she was also just Enid.

(She had a sparkling disposition and creativity that came in waterfalls. She wore her heart on her sleeve. She adored to dance and spoke Greek proudly. She dressed in the morning with enthusiasm. She wrote heart-stopping letters and had always loved Wednesday with her entire being).

Enid was just Enid.

And so she took a deep breath and opened the door with trembling hands.

They talked. They reminisced about the good. They felt safe. The bad was just as unavoidable. They felt hurt. Enid was about to leave. Wednesday stopped her. And then she asked that damning question—

“Did you come with him?”

—because she couldn’t not know.

She expected to be deeply hurt by the answer, same answer as always.

To be told a sorrowful ‘yes’ would smash her heart to smithereens, but it would also give her a logical reason to leave. She would have no choice but to yet again keep her feelings to herself in an attempt to not end up on the national news after being driven to criminality by a green and blue madness.

That’s what she expected, she anticipated the hurt. The grief as well.

She never anticipated the surprise. Enid’s answer made Wednesday feel as if she was inside an elevator falling down thirty floors.

The information was so life-altering that her whole body’s forbearance gave in and its inexpressiveness was killed. She turned dumbfounded and wide-eyed, well aware that the picture had just changed an awful lot. And then Enid looked at her with tenderness and truth and caution – looked at her as if she was the only person in the world – and said that she knew why the rupture had happened.

Wednesday would never recover from such thing. There was no moving on from that.

She left in a hurry, feeling guilty about her lack of ability – of preparation – to face what was happening head on; feeling breathless, feeling like she had forgotten she could feel things, feeling and feeling, the emotions came in god awful hurricanes.

Wednesday Addams didn’t recognize herself when it came to Enid Sinclair.

She didn’t fully register what happened next. She walked, ignored the greetings thrown her way, kept walking. Sometime between that and catching a glimpse of Bianca Barclay looking at her, she found Eugene.   

“Hey! I’ve been looking for you everywhere, where did you—”

“We need to leave.”

Her tone was as usual – cold, dry. But everything else was out of the ordinary, starting with the sweat on her forehead to the haunted look residing devastatingly in her eyes. Eugene took a step back in disbelief.

“Did something—”

“Now, Eugene. I’m serious.”

“Okay…uh—”

Wednesday dragged them out of there.

Any bystander would jokingly say that she was running away from something.

—

March 6^th, 1970

Manhattan, New York

Wednesday had made a very poor decision five weeks ago. She had sat next to Enid at the library, and then the girl had talked to her and she had responded.

It’s not like she had been friendly, or even slightly cordial, in fact, their first conversation had had everything to also be their last, all the signs pointed to an exquisite culmination in disaster. Or so Wednesday had thought. Because for some godforsaken reason, Enid had really tried to talk to her, and she had been immune to the bluntness and the sharp back talk, always finding a way around it.

She hadn’t been offended or outraged or hurt. She hadn’t left the table in anger or sadness, on the contrary, she had chuckled.

And then she had winked, smirked gloriously and looked away with a bravado to make a point, to show how unbothered she was by Wednesday’s taunting. It was ridiculous, who did she think she was? Better yet, who was she?

Wednesday felt terrified when speechlessness made a fool of her, even worse when speechlessness was substituted by a horrifying curiosity to keep the dialogue going. Against overwhelming odds, their first conversation hadn’t been disastrous. At least not to Enid. It had been disastrous to Wednesday.

She noticed the blonde waving at her with a timid smile the following day. What a nerve. Wednesday didn’t wave back.

On a different occasion, it happened again. Unbelievable.

Two days later, Wednesday was browsing through the books in the Non-Fiction collection while Enid looked for one too in the adjacent aisle dedicated to Fine Arts. Enid caught her staring. Shit— Wednesday looked away. The blonde then walked by as she was leaving. A self-satisfied smile played on her lips when she whispered, "If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re too shy to say hello, Addams”.

Whatever those words possessed Wednesday with led her to commit the absurdity of waving back at the girl the next day. It was short, blank-faced and reluctant. But Enid seemed blissed out as she waved again. How ridiculous, Wednesday thought, repressing the intrusion of a lighten-up sensation.

Enid didn’t come that Saturday. Wednesday wasn’t bothered at all. How incredibly foolish that would’ve been.

On the start of the following week, Enid shyly asked Wednesday if she could join her – the Addams had never met someone who oscillated so heavily between bold moves and nervous stutters. She allowed it. She also swore it would be the last time.

Next day they sat together again. Wednesday simply didn’t want to start an argument inside a library. That was all.

A different day. Enid extensively explained the intentions behind her fashion choices after being criticized on her outfit. Torture.

One more day. Enid took two bagels to the library. One was for Wednesday.

Another week. They bickered about which one had done more for culture: baroque or pop.

And day after day it kept happening. They kept sitting together. Wednesday stopped justifying it to herself with ulterior motives. Enid stopped meeting Wednesday with hesitation. It became an unwritten rule as much as an unspoken mutual want.

Wednesday couldn’t explain what made her feel that way if she banged her head against a wall and studied her own brain for explanations.

During their time together, Enid always brought up something from time to time, they talked for a while and then they naturally fell back into silence. Enid also always respected it when Wednesday asked not to be interrupted, but she also always shook her head softly, humming tunes of songs lowly. It was disturbingly…okay.

Wednesday pretended not to notice just so she didn’t feel self-conscious about not complaining about it.

All of that because she had made one very poor decision five weeks ago.

“What instrument do you play?” Wednesday’s thoughts were set aside by Enid’s voice.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what you study, right? Music?” She pressed a pencil against her cheek and tilted her head. “So what do you play music with? I never asked before.”

“The cello.”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “That’s like the bigger version of a violin, right?”

Wednesday’s murderous look could’ve obliterated Enid from existence. Yet Enid was amused, smiling with more enthusiasm than anyone should be legally allowed to possess at any point throughout their lifetime.

“Joke. It was a joke, Wednesday.”

“Comedy isn’t your strong suit.”

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “So, you study music yet you come here every day. And I always find you reading about murder mysteries and whatnot. How come?”

“I could ask the same. You study fashion design yet you don’t come here to sew clothes.”

“But I don’t come here every day like I know you do, Addams.”

It was, in good truth, very frustrating when Enid didn’t go to the library.

Sometimes days in a row would go by without a sign of her. Even when she was there, she usually left early, earlier than Wednesday at least, who always let her go without further questions. And it just…deeply bugged her how someone’s everyday schedule could so casually lack basic consistency. Enid’s was as irregular as a startled heartbeat.

“Okay fine.” Enid rolled her eyes when Wednesday stayed silent. “I like the space. I like the ceiling murals. I like how everyone here is focused on something of their own. I like reading books casually, without spending money. I can do all types of research for free. I like to look at what people are wearing. And I get easily distracted at home.”

Wednesday would never admit it out loud – hardly even to herself – but she was coming to realize that Enid Sinclair was everything but all the things she initially expected her to be.

The dull, one-dimensional image she had once upheld of the blonde from afar was ripped to shreds every time she spoke, because admittedly or not, Wednesday always felt absorbed enough to willingly listen – when was the last time she had listened to anyone?

Nothing about Enid Sinclair was predictable.

Wednesday felt challenged by her in a certain way – by her wit and her boldness, both so different from her own. Whatever part of herself realized such things, however, was also buried underneath layers of oblivion. At times, that part tried to raise its voice, but lost a battle against Wednesday’s emotional deafness every time. Its echo reverberated faintly through her skin, as a feeling that crept up on her like an itch, like a shiver.

It should be telling enough, she never felt it around anyone else – because no one else interested her.

Enid fidgeted the pencil between her fingers. “Your turn.”

Unlike Wednesday, who was always quiet, Machiavellian, and scheming in secret, Enid couldn’t go by a long time without letting her curiosity and communicative ways get the best of her. She always had a question to make, an insatiable inquisitiveness to quench.

It wasn’t something Wednesday was used to. Sometimes her deadpan responses were too morbid. Sometimes her seriousness was too formal. But she began to find herself more and more comfortable with the openness Enid asked of her, encouraged from her.

“It’s deep-rooted into my routine. I come here to seek mental repose. I appreciate the silence, the organization, the isolation, the vast number of resources available. It’s a habit I dedicate precious time to because reading is my place of solace. Every other second of my day is spent on playing the cello.”

She usually didn’t tell people such things. Definitely never people outside her family. But regardless, her family didn’t count, they understood such things about each other naturally. They were also the only people she had extensive dialogues with.

Once more, Enid challenged that about her.

“Satisfied with my answer?”

“Very. I like to know things about you.”

—

Wednesday hadn’t spoken to Eugene since they had left the cocktail party in a hurry.

He had regarded her silently with concern throughout the entirety of the car ride to the theater. She could tell he wished to help on whatever the matter was but knew better than to force a hard conversation with an Addams.

She didn’t say a word to anyone. Couldn't.

The stage crew gave her last-minute indications, the other musicians asked her for last-minute words of advice. She managed to dismiss all of it as much as respond without using speech.

Her throat was as dry as dust. Her voice was a squeak waiting to happen.

There were 45 minutes left to the concert.

She knew that at such point everyone was running around backstage. The adrenaline was officially starting to kick in. The air was probably starting to cloud with smoke from all the anxious brains compulsively going over their music sheets and mantras of good luck. The technical crew staff sprinted from one place to another, shouting signals at each other, making sure all was in order.

It was a spectacle of cerebral mayhem. Wednesday always loved to watch it unfold, unaffected by its idiocy.

But today she stayed in her dressing room. Hugging her knees sitting in the chair of her makeup desk, ruminating miserably about Enid. She was in big, big trouble.

The most pathetic cerebral mayhem was the one happening inside her own brain.

Wednesday felt unease bubbling up in her heart. Felt as if her heart was crowded by gods and devils and they fought a vile war using her chest as the battlefield, pulling the strings of her emotions. Ridiculous, confusing emotions.

Her next move was as clear as it was terrifying.

She grabbed the telephone, indicated the number on the rotary dial, waited as the call rang, cleared her awfully dry throat.

“Wednesday, dear.” Morticia picked up. Sighed delighted.

“Hello mother.”

The cellist couldn’t tell if she felt relieve or regret at this decision.

“Calling again this week, darling? Oh, how wonderful!”

“I clearly must be mad.”

“Hm…strange.” She heard Morticia going over papers on the other end of the line. “I thought Paris was welcoming you tonight. Tell me, darling, you’re not calling before a concert, are you?”

Wednesday’s number one rule – now that her family, thank goodness, couldn’t attend all of her concerts – was that no Addams heard from her five hours prior to a musical performance and at least one hour afterwards. That time was to herself. Ideally, she’d hibernate longer, but that would be disastrous to her father’s heart.

Her point stood regardless. She thought reaching out to her blood on moments like these was as weak as a little kid reaching for a parental hug on the first day of school.

Wednesday Addams didn’t need her family’s godspeed. She didn’t need reassurance from her family before going on stage, she was the quintessence of professionalism—

“What do I owe the pleasure, Wednesday?”

The tone was curious. She sounded motherly, in the way mothers sometimes just know things. She had obviously figured this wasn’t a regular call.

Wednesday took a deep breath. Ruminating miserably.

“I came upon Enid.”

There was silence.

“I see.” Morticia seemed to straighten her sitting position. “How come?”

“I encountered her at a gathering related to tonight’s concert. She was essentially clueless that the performance she was attending was mine.”

Morticia chuckled, light-hearted.

“Always with her head in the clouds, that one.” Her mother’s voice smiled. Wednesday had to close her eyes for a moment. Her eyes couldn’t be trusted to hide strong emotions. “Tell me, dear. Have you two spoken?”

“Briskly.”

“Not nearly as much as you should have, I assume?”

“You assume correctly.”

“A gathering, you said. Was she escorted?”

“No. I most recently learned that Enid is separated. As of two years.”

“Oh. I see.” Morticia hummed. “Hence the brooding I hear in your voice, my darling?”

“I’m supposed to walk on stage in thirty minutes. I feel…uncapable.”

“What would you wish to do instead?”

The feeling overburdened Wednesday. The words were at the tip of her tongue, they came spilling out before she could stop it.

“Meet her.”

Morticia breathed out, calmly.

“And perhaps stay until the end of your conversation this time around?”

Fair enough.

She knew their dialogue had been brisk because Wednesday had fled the scene.

Her mother read her like a book. It was unfair to be known inside out by someone.

“I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t prepared.”

“You never gravitated towards Enid because she made you feel prepared. You challenge one another.”

The remark disarmed Wednesday, flooded her heart.

“Wednesday, dear.” Morticia called fondly. “Do you remember your first misunderstanding with her?”

“Yes.”

She would never forget.

What a stressful, enlightening experience it had been.

She and Enid had then been together for two months. Wednesday was overly immersed in learning a particularly demanding concerto. Throughout weeks, she dedicated day and night to an unbending routine of rehearsals. In the meantime, she failed to meet Enid halfway in their relationship, and carelessly took no notice of her downhearted spirit.

When Enid was sweetly outspoken about her feelings, Wednesday was terrible in communicating hers. She was defensive. Enid was hurt.

At the time, Wednesday did exactly what she found herself doing right now. She called her mother, puzzled about how to fix the situation.

“Shall I remind you of the words I said at the time?”

“You said apologies didn’t follow the same procedure as plotting or scheming, so I didn’t need to concoct a strategy. I only ought to be sincere with her and inquire into my own actions. Comprehend both of our sides in equal measure.”

Morticia concurred with a pleased murmur – might one even say, proudly.

“So I believe you’ve answered your own dilemma, my raven.”

Oh. Well, yes.

Her mother concluded, “Different situation, same approach.”

It was unfortunate how all things in life were tied to communication.

Wednesday had always been quite behind on that department. Only when Enid came into her life, so intriguing and riveting, so alive, did the glass of her solipsism begin to truly shatter.

She learned an awful lot with the other girl, and then she buried down all of it when she no longer felt it was safe to keep on being that version of herself - that version which was more human and less cunning.

But now it was pointless to deny it – she wanted to see Enid, put it all on the table, they deserved it, didn’t they?

“I’m not sure how to find her again.”

“Fear not, for I know you’ll find a way.” A grin likely grew on the corner of Morticia’s mouth. Usually, the mere thought of it annoyed Wednesday, but that time it didn’t. “How are you feeling now about the thirty minutes you’ve got left?”

“My disposition has significantly improved, mother.”

“I would love to be there with you, my darling! Oh, how do they say it there? Ma chéri.”

“I’ll feel unwell again with another word of your French.”

Morticia laughed warmly. “It has been a fruitful conversation, dear. I’ll leave you to your final arrangements, if you’re indeed feeling better.”

“Yes. I ought to get in the right mindset to play.”

“Very well. I’m sure you’ll be terrific.”

Her tone was knowing, as if what she really meant to say was ‘your performance will make jaws drop because you’ll be playing for her’.

“I wish you a dreadful evening, mother.”

“Impress them all, little raven. I know you will.”

Wednesday didn’t hang up right away.

“Remember, I’m always a phone call away. And please— tell Enid that the mansion grounds have missed her, will you?”

—

March 10^th, 1970

Manhattan, New York

“Are you leaving?” Wednesday asked when Enid closed her sketchbook with a sigh.

“Sorry, Willa. Duty calls.”

“Call me that again and you’ll regret being born.”

“Wends, then?” She teased daringly with a – goddamn – smirk.

“I’m more than capable of tracking down your place of residence. I’d sleep with one eye open tonight if I were you.”

“Why? Are you going to sneak in? Addams…how indecent. Take a girl to dinner first.”

Wednesday didn’t know what hit her when her skin began to burn up beyond control once she caught up with the meaning behind the joke casually thrown her way.

A hot flush spread from her cheeks to her neck, reaching her abdomen with a twirl. The heat worsened under Enid’s scrutiny. She could only look away and bury her head inside her book, decided on entirely avoiding and denying her reaction if it was ever brought up later.

If Enid knew she had made Wednesday blush, and why, she didn’t say anything.

“What duty calls you, anyhow?”

“Uh, work.” Enid said, packing up her pencil case. “I’ve been picking up extra shifts.”

Wednesday took a moment before lifting her head up again. The embarrassment luckily vanished as her attention on this new matter skyrocketed. Was that why she was always leaving early?

“I wasn’t aware. Where do you work?”

“At a diner.”

“I thought you studied fashion.”

“And I do, silly.” Enid chuckled. “But I moved here from San Francisco, remember? I’m not rich, I need to work to pay rent. Or do my best at trying. I’ve spent a lot of money on my assignments recently.”

“At what time will your shift end?”

“Late. You’ll miss me terribly, Addams.”

There it was again. Wednesday felt herself turn scarlet. It was as catastrophic as it was absurd. The flush was irrepressible, and she felt slightly dizzy bouncing back and forth between this newly found shyness and her characteristic apathy.

“I’ll just see you Monday, then?”

“Actually, I’m not so sure.” Enid prepared to stand up and leave, holding her bag swung over one shoulder. “I need to finish a dress until next Friday. Plus, my schedule’s insane and I’m picking up more extra shifts on Tuesday and Thursday.” Enid grimaced. “I don’t think I can make it anytime next week now that I think about it. I’m already super behind on everything I have to do. Sorry.”

Wednesday was, at the very least, extremely upset by that information. Not with Enid. Just upset. Upset with the professor who had given her that deadline, with the city’s rent prices and with the material costs regarding garment production. She was upset because something was keeping Enid from spending time with her.

And then she was panic-struck because she realized that if she didn’t act – in some way, in any way – that’d be it for the next several days, which could turn into another pile of several days. She wouldn’t see Enid. Which wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it felt stupid to let it happen when she didn’t want it to.

It was part of her routine now. That was it.

And what if Enid accidentally left behind one of her colored pencils? How would Wednesday give it back? How would Wednesday find her? She couldn’t just be left in the dark about something like that.

So she did what she did best – perhaps all that up to that point she knew how to do. She maneuvered their last minutes of conversation in her favor like the prideful mastermind of inconspicuous manipulation she was, getting Enid to answer two crucial questions without ever asking them directly, without ever seeming interested: where the diner was and the time it was less busy. The answers: right off Washington Square Park, and 2:30-5PM.

Yet, if you asked Wednesday, of course, she would tell you she had done no such thing. What reasons would she have to fish for information regarding Enid’s life? In such a stealthy approach too at that? As if she had what…second intentions? Beyond knowing things for the sake of rest assuring nothing escaped her radar? To suggest something like that was to blatantly disrespect her name. She obviously didn’t care to know about the other girl’s workplace.

So to explain how she ended up at a diner called Weathervane a few days later, on a Tuesday afternoon after classes, many unproductive attempts of reading at the library without her usual kaleidoscope-colored company later, at the exact time she had been described to as “only having two to three costumers around”, with a backpack full of books and a spying gaze? Well, she was merely taking a break. Obviously.

The Weathervane’s walls and seats were teal blue. The decorations fluctuated visually within a color scheme that ranged from burnt orange to mustard yellow. The patterns all over the restaurant’s light-wood floor were abstract geometrical shapes full of color. There was a blue jukebox next to the counter and posters allusive to pop and rock music everywhere.

Wednesday feared for her life as her retina endured a pigmentary attack. It was as if a whole diner had been built based on Enid’s personality and wardrobe choices. It was outrageous.

At least the windows were big and the space was clean.

“Good afternoon. What can I do for you today?” Wednesday rubbed the shock off her eyes one last time as she headed towards the counter, where stood a waitress talking to her.

She was going to speak, but then her gaze fully recovered, and she just stood silent in response, staring dubiously at the girl in front of her – tall, long black hair, dark purple lipstick, and…

“You’re wearing sunglasses inside.”

Wednesday felt that the girl scanned her from head to toe behind the shades, but couldn’t tell for sure. Oh…was that the purpose of the accessory? Fascinating.

“You’re half-dead.”

They examined one another. Somewhat mistrustingly, somewhat intriguingly.

“No need for flattery. Is Enid here?”

The girl leaned on her elbows over the counter. “You’re her library friend with the weird name, aren’t you?”

“It’s Wednesday. I don’t know who you are.”

“The name tag’s there for a reason.”

Wednesday had obviously already glanced down at the name tag on the girl’s apron – so quickly it had been unnoticeable. She didn’t like to not know who she was talking to. ‘Yoko’, it said. But she made the point of not looking down again upon request. 

“Or you could use your mouth to speak.”

And then fast steps erupted from the backroom into the space behind the counter. Wednesday’s heartbeat leapt when she recognized a familiar scent of vanilla breaking in waves through the air. “Yoko, oh my god, since when do we keep—”

It was Enid, holding a jar of peanut butter and wearing a cute teal blue apron full of pins with funny catchphrases, pop culture references and social justice symbols that made Wednesday try to swallow down the beat of her own heart through a suddenly dry throat. When their eyes met, Enid almost dropped down the object she was holding.

“Enid, your off-putting friend is here.”

The blonde put the jar down on the counter and ran next to Yoko with sparkly eyes.

“Wednesday!” She beamed, jumping slightly with excitement – the living embodiment of a golden retriever wagging its tail hysterically. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you always that confused when a new costumer comes in?”

Yoko chuckled. Enid hit her arm. “Quiet.”

“What? She’s creepy but I respect satire aimed at you.”

Enid rolled her eyes and pressed her lips together as she looked over Wednesday’s shoulder before gazing her co-worker. “Yoko, they’re done eating at table six.” Her head turned back to Wednesday. “I got this one. Don’t worry.” And then she winked.

God would she ever stop doing that?

When Yoko left after making a snarky comment about doing all the real work, Enid leaned over the counter. The genuine happiness plastered all over her face started to blend into a smug smile. There was only one word to describe it, infuriating.

“Let’s try again, Addams. What are you doing here?”

“I’m taking a break.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m doing no such thing.”

“You’re taking a break at the diner I coincidentally happen to work at? Didn’t I just tell you about it the other day?”

“Unlucky accident. I wished to take a break elsewhere but I’m sensing high levels of precipitation soon and I don’t have my umbrella. This is the first suitable place for a drink I encountered.”

“I’ve never seen you take a break before.”

“That’s only natural if you’re daydreaming at all times, don’t you think?”

“Careful.” Enid straightened her back. "I’ll do terrible things to whatever you’re ordering.”

“I want coffee.”

Enid nodded, biting her lip. She turned around to get the coffee pot. “How do you take it?”

“Put cream or sugar in it and I’ll haunt your bloodline for generations.”

“There are nicer ways to ask for a black coffee, Wends.”

Wednesday stiffened at the nickname but had no guts to correct Enid on it when she recalled what had happened last time.

The blonde crouched down to rummage through the diner’s selection of cups and plates hidden behind the counter. When she stood back up, there was a black mug in her hands.

“I think I got the color right.” Enid smiled, tilted the coffee pot and poured the liquid onto the large-sized cup. “You know, yet again, you and I are complete opposites.”

“Let me guess, you take your coffee sweet?”

“Can’t drink it otherwise. Oh! And ideally it’s flavored! Have you ever tried it like that? Tell you, it’s going to be huge, huge one day!”

“You’re despicable. Refrain from saying that to me ever again.”

“Yeah, yeah. Here’s your soulless coffee.” Enid passed the mug over the counter. “Anything else?”

“No.”

She looked around.

Yoko walked by and disappeared into the kitchen with dirty dishes. Wednesday caught the glimpse of a young couple leaving the diner and noticed that the only clientele left was just a single elderly man silently reading the newspaper and two friends chatting over cheese fries.

It was quiet and the diner’s big windows offered the dismally stunning view of New York’s cloudy sky ready to burst into rain. Wednesday figured that was a good enough contrast to the place’s glaring surroundings.

She wouldn’t be caught dead there any other day.

“I’ll take a seat while I drink. Do you mind?”

“Are you gonna watch me work?”

“Forget I asked.”

Wednesday sat at a booth by the window, reading The Brothers Karamazov while taking sips from her coffee – which was flawlessly at her liking, Enid be damned.

And then time passed. Other customers came and went. Wednesday stayed.

The first time Enid came by to ask if she wanted a refill, Wednesday accepted with hesitation. The blonde stayed for a while after. She asked Wednesday about her day and made a joke about her gloomy, overly complex choices of literature.

The second time was quick. Wednesday hesitated less. Enid had to go take an order.

The third time didn’t offer room for hesitation as Enid took the liberty of refilling Wednesday’s drink as she was walking by on her way to deliver a costumer their milkshake. Wednesday watched her go after pretending not to notice the gesture. But against her prediction, Enid looked back, and blushed.

And so came a fourth, and fifth, and perhaps sixth time.

Later, a heavy sound was heard as something was put down in front of her. Wednesday looked up from her book to see a plate stacked with pancakes on the table and Enid next to her with her hands behind her back.

“I didn’t order this.”

“I know. I made it for you.”

The heaviness of Dostoevsky’s novel must’ve suddenly caught up with Wednesday because her hands trembled under the book’s weight.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been here for two hours straight drinking coffee on an empty stomach, silly!” Enid said, concerningly. “That cannot be healthy. Eat up.”

Wednesday sighed, unable to argue back over the howling sound coming from her stomach.

She looked at the pancakes – genuinely this time. There were five, each on top of the other, all big and fluffy. They smelled warm, slightly sweet, of bananas and red fruits. They were embellished with raspberries, but the very first one had a face carved with blueberries. Instead of an abominable smiley face, however, it was a neutral expression with a straight-lined mouth.

“You made this?”

“Sure did. I make excellent pancakes, you’ll thank me later. And it’s on the house!” She leaned forward, slightly covering her mouth to whisper secretively, “Just don’t tell my boss.”

It was a remarkable gesture, even Wednesday had to admit.

(When her mother had once told her that the eyes were “the windows to the soul”, Wednesday had felt quite proud of herself; after all, people avoided looking at her, fearful they’d disappear into thin air. Her stare was one with her soul – inscrutable and unsettling.

Except for that instant. At that instant, they betrayed her reputation.

God, her mother better never know.)

“I think the blank, sociopathic kind of face suits you better than a smiley one.”

Wednesday couldn’t for the life of her figure out why but everything in her relaxed, tendered, as Enid said that and pointed at the stupid poker-faced pancake.

Wednesday stayed focused on Enid, on the rising and falling of her chest, on her god-graced breath, on her heart-winning smile. And as if struck by an epiphany, she understood that this was someone who saw her, solely and wholly, for who she was.

“I didn’t use vanilla extract or anything really sweet on the dough either. I figured you wouldn’t like it. And I chose the raspberries and blueberries because you always smell like raspberries and blueberries to me." She shied away. "I thought you’d like those, maybe.”

If it was anyone else, those words would have incited a war. But for Enid Sinclair, inexplicably, Wednesday’s eyes softened beyond description.

—

Wednesday thought Winter was Vivaldi’s most intricate, disconcerting composition. It painted a miserable picture of loneliness. She loved it. There were little things as relaxing.

And what a perfect way it was to end the concerto.

When the last chord from her cello resonated dauntingly through the theater, the audience jumped from their seats to incite a standing ovation. She bowed in response, with an impeccable posture and an unmoving face.

But a slight spark in her chest lit a fuel that quickly set her heart on fire. Not because Paris had fallen head over heels with her performance. But because Enid had. Wednesday could tell, looking up, eyes trained on the designer, her seat memorized since the show had begun.

Wednesday’s heart sang.

How badly she had missed to spot Enid in the crowd of her concerts, joyous like no one else. She had always been the loudest cheerer Wednesday had ever known. Her oozing claps of support and thrilled shouts of praise had at times before outshined even her father’s – which wasn’t a statement to take lightly, after all, Gomez was very passionate about showering his daughter with a dramatic amount of encouragement.

She was so lost to the sight of Enid applauding and whistling for her that she failed to notice the tiny curve of a smile growing on her lips.

The photographs taken of the moment would prompt amazed headlines the next day. The world would regard to it as a miracle!

Wednesday Addams had never been seen smiling in public before. Not even remotely. Most believed it to be an impossible feat to manage out of her. Others theorized that her detachment from such a mundane behavior was an expression of her genius, she was but the art she made, without the cello in her hands she just wasn’t bound to feel any emotion.

There was truth to those guesses.

They were quite spot-on, even.

But yet again.

Enid Sinclair turned everything about Wednesday Addams upside down.

*

Wednesday welcomed Eugene in her dressing room moments later.

“This was one of our best performances ever! Wednesday, you were unbelievable!”

“I’m quite satisfied myself.”

“Did you see how long they were clapping for? And the noise! I had never heard anything like it!”

“Everyone was at their best on stage. Recognition’s only natural.”

“We should come here more often.”

“Perhaps we should.”

Her mind drifted to Enid.

She had to see her again. It was now or never.

The conversation with her mother had made it crystal clear.

(For the first time in her life, Wednesday regretted making it imperative in her hospitality rider to the theater to not have any gifts or letters delivered to her dressing room anytime during the day. Or to demand to not be bothered by spectators who wished to come backstage to tell her that she had played well.

If Enid wanted to talk to her, she surely would’ve tried both of those things).

“Hey.” Eugene spoke. “You’re better, yes? From before? You don’t need to tell me what happened.”

Wednesday blinked.

“Parties make me ill. Eye me with concern one more time and I’ll gut you.”

A knock on the door was heard and Wednesday’s heart jumped in dumb expectation before she was disappointed by the sight of Pascal. The concert producer.

“Excusez-moi.” [Pardon me]

“Qu'est-ce que tu veux?” [What do you want?]

“I was expecting to tell you my goodbyes, mademoiselle, before heading to the dinner party.”

The dinner party.

Oh, the dinner party.

It was an event so irrelevant to Wednesday that she had neglected thinking twice about it. She had forgotten completely.

Another private gathering, exclusive to the most important people attending the theater night.

The cellist had been invited, of course. Her name was the show's grand attraction and by extension she’d also ideally be the dinner’s centerpiece. But Wednesday Addams had no interest in idle adulation from high society. Status-quo was never her thing. What a waste of time it was. So she had declined the invitation as soon as it had arrived.

Yet, she now suspected the guest list could change her mind.

Enid never backed down from social events. And she was well known for her gregarious personality. She was invited to everything.

“Eugene, give us a minute.”

The violinist left. Wednesday crossed her arms.

“It was a terrific experience to work with you, mademoiselle.” He said. She didn’t take his hand to shake. “It’s unfortunate you won’t join us for the night's grand meal.”

“I might’ve reconsidered. I was too quick to dismiss the invite.”

His eyed widened. “Oh. You’re serious?”

“I’m always serious.”

He took a moment to answer and half-smiled. “In that case, I wish you would’ve told me sooner. Everything’s put together now. The number of guests, the seating arrangement, the food quantities…all down to the last detail. Maybe there’s something else I can do for you? Je suis très désolé…” [I’m very sorry]

Wednesday’s nature was what some would call…obsessive. When she wanted something, oh, she would get it.

Right now, her thoughts were one-track minded – Enid, Enid, Enid – Wednesday would go mad if kept from her. The want in her chest was past bearing.

She was sure the dinner was the place to find her.

It was now or never, the words ticked back and forth in her mind like a clock’s hand.

“I will rephrase.” She took a step closer. “I am attending that dinner party.” He flinched under the sharpness of her gaze. “I’m the reason you had a full house tonight. Without me, you would be devoid of reason to parade your ego around to your guests. You owe me a seat at whatever table I decide to sit at.” She was monotone, looming. “You’re aware of how unwise it is to get on my bad side, no? I don’t joke. Tell your people that changes have been made. Or I’ll tell them myself.”

If looks could kill, he would be a body on Wednesday’s rap sheet.

Pascal clenched his jaw, embarrassed about feeling noticeably startled. They had known each other for months and this was the first time she looked him in the eyes. There were no more words left to say. At least not for him.

Everyone knew better than to give an Addams reason to rage. They weren’t known for their patience.

“Dépêchez-vous et vas travailler.” [Hurry up and get to work]

Pascal blinked once, twice, and then chuckled nervously.

“You’re right! I’m sure it can all be arranged. Is there anything else you need?”

She sat at the makeup desk to touch up her dark lipstick. “Unless you have something of importance to tell me, you’re excused.”

He uttered a quick “très bien” [very well] under his breath and put his hand on the doorknob to leave with his tail between his legs, but was shaken up by a rash recollection.

“Oh! This might be of importance.” He turned around. “Enid Sinclair just told me she tried to get a message delivered to you, but couldn’t. It seemed urgent, she was quite nervous. You two must've met?”

Wednesday froze.

She didn’t notice when he left moments later, interpreting her unresponsiveness as disinterest.

Chapter Text

1970

Manhattan, New York

Enid saw Wednesday practically every day now.

She wasn’t sure of the labelled details – of the how and when the routine they had going on had become a thing. All of it had been built over time and togetherness; instancy had nothing to do with the evolution of their bond, after all, one couldn’t just barge into a friendship with Wednesday Addams, one couldn’t just be tolerated by her, much less outright liked. It had been a process.

Enid wondered if there was a start date to it that she had forgotten to write down – and was unfortunately missing out on – or if it was all just something that they had been building since they had met.

Whatever the case, between them had grown something organic.

Their relationship was as complex as it was simple – they were poles apart from being anything alike, each other’s living discrepancies, yet they found a sense of balance in their differences.

One’s soft springiness fitted the other’s rough edges.

And as organic things tended to do, they flowed. Things moved to and fro, like waves breaking on a shore, like systole and diastole. Life between them blew hot and cold. It acted reciprocally.

It just…worked.

The alliance they kindled, founded in library meetings where each would just do their thing, was rooted in far-flung stares and easy silences and curious dialogues. It left the library to move into the Weathervane, and then it moved from there into their day-to-day lives. Week after week, month after month.

Wednesday started going to the diner Enid worked at in March.

Once a week, then twice, then three times.

Enid started to have her coffee order ready before she arrived.

It wasn’t lost on Enid how exceptional it was that Wednesday Addams was willingly trying out new routines, adjusting to new company. Chosen company. Her company.

She started to notice that Wednesday simply forgot to eat, it was an everyday thing – she was too busy in her own bubble and stubborn enough to think she was above wasting time on occasional snacks. So Enid always went by her table with something meticulously crafted to suit her palate.

It also wasn’t lost on Enid how Yoko – for some reason yet to be unearthed – smothered a teasing laugh watching these interactions, and then looked at Enid like a complete smartass, as if she possessed knowledge of something the other didn’t.

Speaking of Yoko, she managed to develop her own weird little dynamic with Wednesday over time as well: they were dramatically hostile towards one another, but in a friendly way. It was a curious oxymoron to observe.

Enid suspected their frenemy anomaly of a bond was cathartic to Wednesday, who could finally chop logic and verbally spar with someone who put up a fight in return.

And honestly, her chest swelled lovingly whenever she watched Yoko and Wednesday’s back and forth – absurd – altercations. There was just something about the two getting along in their own bizarre way, about watching it unfold before her eyes, knowing that they were both increasingly important, present people in her life.

It was something to be grateful for.

(“Do you possess a fascination for vampires of some sort?”

“Are you trying to criticize my shades again, Addams?”

“I’m assessing how your idiocy works, Tanaka.”

“Fuck off. If I was a vampire I’d rip your throat out.”

“Your failure would be delightful to witness. I’ve been maneuvering silver stakes since I was 3.”

“Guys— enough, oh my god. Neither of you are that scary.”)

It was so picturesque, in fact, that if Enid had to pinpoint one of her first ever remarkable memories involving Wednesday Addams – an early key date in the history of building what they had – she would immediately think of the late night Wednesday came by the diner because Yoko and her were closing up, saying she couldn’t miss a first-row seat to their miserably tired faces after a whole day of work finally losing energy to the idea of sleep.

Unfortunately to Wednesday, Enid’s battery was recharged by the sight of her walking through the door. And Yoko, well…she just liked the idea of one-upping someone who was trying to annoy her.

As they mopped the floor and cleaned the tables, Wednesday lurked in the shadows, reading a book in the dark like she had scotopic vision, waiting for them to finish.

“Addams, did you get that book surgically glued to your hands or what?”

“Is that what you should be focused on right now, Tanaka?”

“Yoko’s got a point, though, Wends. I’ve never seen you not read.”

It felt inevitable when one of Wednesday’s deadpan comebacks was finally cut short by Enid running to the counter and slipping a coin into the jukebox with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, I know what will shut you up.”

Wednesday turned google-eyed with despair when she heard the joyous piano chords of I Want You Back come out of the machine.

Enid and Yoko danced to the tune and singed at each other, carefree as Wednesday’s face contorted in annoyance, the book immediately lost on her.

“Turn that off.”

“Oh, baby! Give me one more chance—”

“You two are deplorable.”

"Won't you please let me— back to your heart!"

And honestly, they really did put on a show, just to spite her – affectionately, of course. From Enid using the broom as a microphone, to Yoko laying on her back on top of a table she was supposedly cleaning, to Enid chasing after Yoko as if she was the woman the lovesick singer begged to be forgiven by, to Enid imitating Jackson’s high-pitched screams – which earned a tiny, barely perceptible puff of air from Wednesday’s nose.

The blonde almost patted herself on the back when they were done, caught off guard because Wednesday’s eyes softened meeting hers.

That night, after they dropped off Yoko at her nearby dorm, Wednesday walked Enid home, all twenty minutes of it.

("Wends, I have enough for a taxi. Don't worry, I mean it."

"Taxis are parasites. They'll rob you and get away with it."

"You're so dramatic, Addams."

"Will you just keep walking and stop protesting?"

"You're more concerned about me safely taking a cab to my doorstep than walking all the way across the city at night?  Don't you think that's what might actually get us robbed?"

"Nonsense."

"Oh my god, do you have a death-wish?"

"That's personal."

"For the love of— ugh. Okay. Fine. Give me one good reason to keep going with you."

"I'll give you three. First, I know how to use the knives concealed in my boots. Second, I unfortunately won't have an excuse to since the so-called outlaws you perceive as threats cross the street when they spot me. Third, Manhattan's at its best late at night. The decay stands out much more obviously. Enjoy the view."

"I swear sometimes I hear you talk and wonder where did you come from."

"New Jersey."

"It wasn't— literal...wait really?"

"Yes."

"Huh. You're close to home."

"My mother won't let me forget."

"I wonder how the parents who raised a five-feet-tall danger to society are like. Are you guys similar?"

"I believe myself to be much less embarrassing."

"You're too tiny for such a big ego, did you know that?"

"Next time you speak, recall the knives I'm carrying. Watch out crossing the road.")

They still met each other at the library every so often, but since Enid couldn’t always find time to show up there, the rhythm of their encounters ebbed and flowed until they naturally fell on a more solid routine.

Time moved as they learned to be part of each other’s existence.

Wednesday started going to the Weathervane nearly every day of the week, either for whole afternoons or short coffee breaks. And Enid started finding herself hanging around Lincoln Center every time her morning classes ended earlier than Wednesday’s so they could have lunch together as soon as she left Juilliard.

Eventually, Enid visited Wednesday’s place for the first time.  

She lived at a rented apartment near Columbus Circle, within borders of Hell’s Kitchen – the neighborhood was proceeded by its gritty reputation, and for good reason, but obviously, that was no issue to Wednesday Addams; she was attracted to the city’s degeneracy and fascinated by its ungodly crime rates.

Still, her place was spacious and neat.

Unlike many New York apartments, including Enid’s very own, it wasn’t completely falling to pieces. It had an incredible potential for homeyness even, blocked merely by Wednesday’s choice in raven colors and ominous furniture.

At first, Enid started spending time there with caution.

She was conscious not to touch anything unless specifically asked to. She didn’t walk into rooms unless Wednesday was in them. She didn’t get too comfortable; was even hesitant of being her usual chatty, lively, chaotic self.

To her, the dilemma was obvious: how far could she truly implicate herself into Wednesday’s life – her literal life, in her very own space – before it was too much?

How actually acceptable was it to be Enid Sinclair in someone else’s home? How tolerable was she really, once all the diversions of the exterior world were stripped away and she was just a person standing in another person’s space?

The quandary came to her with dread.

Entering Wednesday’s space was already a serious thing on its own. It was being warranted a privilege, like freely walking around a villain’s clandestine lair. It was the two of them between four walls, over by the spot in the living room where the aspiring cellist practiced her instrument. And Enid was afraid that she was doomed to fuck it up, because she always did – she was too much, everyone would tell you so, from her family to old school peers.

But Wednesday Addams wasn’t everyone.

(“You’re too quiet. I can tell you’re holding back a comment about the typewriter I keep in my room. Just out with it.”)

She took in Enid’s feisty rants and bad jokes. Even when the setting was the sanctity of her own ill-lit cold apartment.

Then in a sudden flash of insight that made Enid feel stupid for not putting two and two together faster, she realized that Wednesday was new to what was happening too: letting someone get to know her, holding out the door for someone to come inside. She was just as hesitant about what to do or where to go as the new guest in her home - if not more.

Wednesday was scared as well, she didn’t have to confess it in order for Enid to comprehend.

And maybe that was where the beauty and inevitability of their relationship rose once more; in challenging each other without competition, in getting new results out of things they judged could only lead to same old bullshit.

Coexisting in a more private and personal space turned out to be stupidly easy once the initial jumpscare wore off. Wednesday’s skeptical stance and Enid’s reluctant limbs were outdated before they were even a thing.

(They sat on the fire escape moongazing, and just talked and talked and talked, track of time unapologetically lost. Shoulder on shoulder. Foreheads almost touching when their heads turned so their eyes could meet. In front of a beautiful glowing moon.

“The Greeks didn’t build her any temple sites.”

“Rude. She was the goodness of the moon! How could they not?”

“Because one could worship her from anywhere in the world. Selene was admired whenever people looked at the night sky.”

“Oh, shit. Like we’re doing right now?”

“I suppose you could say so, yes, Enid.”

“I wish I knew more about Greek mythology. My dad taught me some, but like, the basics. Well, at least I know the language.”

“You know the language?”

“Yes, dummy. My family’s Greek. I have to talk to my relatives somehow.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Hm. Hey, wait…does that mean that, like, I officially know something, linguistically, that you don’t?”

Wednesday blinked.

Enid chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.” And met a pair of eyes rolling.

“Your immaturity is concerning.”

“Shut up. You like it.”

“I dislike everything about this life. You’re overconfident.”

“Oh, look at you lying through your teeth. You can’t fool— wait! Shit, I just remembered! I also had a fish as a kid!”

Their last topic of conversation about pets made its way back to her mind.

“The rainbow fish, you know? The guppy one? I had one! He was so colorful. I was obsessed with him! His name was Bubbles.”

“I had a scorpion.”

“You had a what?”

“His name was Nero.”

“You’re weird as shit.” A smile came to her easily. “I want to hear all about him.”)

It became a ritual for Enid to go over there most nights.

They cooked together and squabbled about different opinions on which condiments to use or what dishes tasted better. But Wednesday was always the one cutting the onions and Enid was always the one coming up with a dessert.

It worked. Was it even a surprise anymore? It just did.

When the Spring faded to welcome New York’s burning Summer, Enid and Yoko hit dive bars and clubs and street festivals and spontaneous block parties all the goddamn time – which was whenever they weren’t working.

Yoko found cheap tickets to art galleries in SoHo lofts, Enid discovered places with live music and obsessed over movie premieres.

Wednesday rolled her eyes at the invites to join their things, although she’d sometimes give in – more times than she’d like to admit (either because the plans indeed appealed to her interests or because Enid found a way for them to).

And Wednesday asked Enid to join her in visiting all sorts of weird museums and dying bookstores and abandoned areas of the city one usually wouldn’t ever want to be caught dead in. Or they simply hung out at her place – each doing their thing in each other’s company.

What they had going on…it was a good thing.

(“I’m sorry— you wanna do what?”

“Break into the cemetery of Woodlawn.”

“Wednesday, what— why am I even— do I wanna know why?”

“It’s been a while since my last séance.”

“Oh, god.”

“Does that mean you’re not coming?”

“It means that I— You’re just— You— Wednesday— Ugh! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you so much.”

“Perfect. Meet me at my place at 7PM sharp.”)

And maybe the obvious should finally be stated, right?

This wasn’t any friendship.

Stupid joy was like a vine of lilac flowers spreading through and inside Enid’s chest whenever she was around Wednesday. Her presence brought forth a haze of gentle emotions; Enid could never quite put it into words – but she would do anything for that girl, she knew it like she knew bubblegum pink was her color.

Sometimes she had to catch her breath, fight the lump obstructing her voice, because she looked at Wednesday and suddenly her heart was too small and vulnerable. And one day she would fully figure it out, but so far, it was a work in progress; she stood in limbo between understanding and accepting.

Because you see, Enid Sinclair couldn’t bottle up feelings for too long – at least theoretically.

She was mindful to look into herself with honesty, mostly because she was too sensitive to lie to herself. She preferred staying on top of all-things emotional before she was overflowing.

That’s exactly how she tried to approach Wednesday.

And on that note, it was probably also important to mention that Enid Sinclair was used to not getting what she wanted.

So whatever she nursed in her heart regarding the other girl wasn’t getting out. She knew it was there, there was something there, but she wouldn’t delve into it. The expense would just come too pricey. She told herself whatever it was it would die down too, because for whatever was worth, her feelings were always hopeless, hence why they never lasted.

But God help Enid Sinclair because Wednesday Addams made her understand why kingdoms turned into ruins and why poets wrote all that gibberish from the bottom of their hearts.

So the feelings soared and nestled in her chest; the feelings streamed down her bare skin like clear water of a small town river; the feelings lingered like long-drawn-out twilights coming through the window when she was waiting for sleep to cast her.

And the feelings were harmless but sterling and she felt safe.

So she broke her own rule of self-contemplation and just…let it be.

Wednesday’s eyes were arresting and her mind was pretty. And Enid just let it be. They were friends, nothing more, and she was okay with it. The pent-up intentions sloshed around the back of her brain, never reaching the surface, and there was nothing she could or would do. But oh, her eyes were so arresting and her mind was so pretty.

Some things changed one certain June afternoon, when Enid and Yoko were near the Village eating ice cream as they walked down the street and a march made itself heard at a close distance – this, Enid would reminisce a lot about this.

The crowds of people they saw, purely by chance, protesting – and celebrating – were themselves proudly. They waved placards and signs. The biggest of all read: «Christopher Street Gay Liberation Day 1970».

And Enid felt caught – not by others, much more by herself. Because in front of her suddenly stood an openly (openly!) queer march, and the people were fearless and exhilarated and god there were so, so many people.

It felt deeply, vertiginously personal. She was only half-aware why.

But then when Yoko grinned and grabbed her hand to boldly drag them into the crowd—

“No way in hell we’re missing this shit!”

—the glass shattered. The worrying and the holding back broke into a million pieces to be stomped on the floor, and she felt like herself in a way so purely spiritual it was adequate to call it a revival.

She lived.

For the rest of that day, of that week, of that goddamn month, the shadows of her fears no longer sneaked up on her shoulder whenever she saw her own reflection or thought a little harder with her heart.

Or most bluntly, whenever she looked at Wednesday.

The feelings she vaguely allowed herself to be aware of were a little easier to bear, to touch even, almost, almost breaching through the surface.

Enid and Yoko didn’t talk about the pride parade again. They didn’t have to.

They didn’t mention it to Wednesday either, who was visiting her parents when it happened.

It stayed between them, like some sort of unspoken code. And from that day on, they looked at each other with sweet, fresh, knowing eyes.

So yes…it was a wonderful Summer.

She didn’t even have to put up with her mother’s patronizing bullshit – not once, for the first time in her life.

Enid didn’t look back at what she had left in San Francisco with homesickness. She loved the city, sure, but it was more complicated than that.

Even when her two friends were sometimes out of town, one in New Jersey and the other in Vermont, Enid was happy to roam up and down the streets alone.

With a mother like hers, she had grown to be self-sufficient, it had been mandatory to her well-being’s survival. To think for herself and face the world on her own were her specialties. But it wasn’t until then, strolling around Flower District with no one else, staying at home by herself, that she found peace in her own company.

She didn’t feel lonely anymore, or left behind.

She remembered who she was before – just a year prior – and it felt like a version of herself from a decade ago.

Things were finally going well for Enid Sinclair.    

And then it was mid-August.

And a slight stumble in the way happened – Enid’s landlord happened.

“I can’t believe that jerk can just double up my rent like this! I can’t afford to pay him this much, he knows it! I’ve fucking told him before. I’m basically being kicked out!”

“I’m sure you’ll find a new place with an affordable rent soon enough. We’ll look everywhere!”

Yoko took the paper from Enid’s hands across their table at the bakery shop. «For Rent», it read at the top.

More than a dozen ads were circled in blue ink. Not because they were exactly cheap – most passable places in Manhattan surpassed Enid’s budget – but circling something was better than to admit how her chances of finding a fair rent were far away.

Yoko caressed Enid’s hand. “Brooklyn has nice prices, right? I’ll help you! There are lots of cheap studios in the Village too!”

“Classes start next month, what if I haven’t found a place by then? I literally can’t pay him any longer.”

“Enid, I’ll knock on every single one of these doors myself and negotiate rent prices if I have to. You’re finding a place this month.”

“What’s the matter?”

Wednesday Addams had a perfected talent for showing up without making noise, it didn’t matter how thick her boots were.

Yoko brought a hand to her chest. “For fuck's sake— I've told you to announce yourself, Addams. You keep scaring me.”

Wednesday took her usual seat – the one next to Enid.

Their legs brushed together, as they often did in a fortunate accident.

The touch brought an ease to Enid’s bad mood, but just barely. She was too keyed up to linger on the warm feeling. Instead, she sighed with a frown – chin resting on the palm of her hand, thoughts diving back into apprehension.

Wednesday stopped breathing, watched it happen as if she didn’t recognize the person in front of her.

“What’s wrong?” 

Enid groaned. “My landlord doubled up my rent out of the blue. I can’t afford it anymore. I’ll have to pack up my things and go before next month’s due or I’m setting myself up to get evicted.”

“What?”

It was much more of a bristled statement gritted between molars than an actual question.

Wednesday had heard her perfectly, Enid could tell by the way her knuckles whitened as her hands suddenly clutched the side of the table. Her gaze was death-dealing. Protective. Enid gulped, and couldn’t look away.

“Wow, there.” Yoko said. “Don’t break the table, big guy.”

Wednesday ignored it completely. Didn’t even roll her eyes as she always loved to do whenever Yoko addressed her.

“Do you want me to kill him?”

Enid’s eyes widened, Wednesday’s darkened.

One glimpse of her gaze could’ve killed God himself. Enid’s abdomen felt feverish beyond bearing. Oh, she was an idiot.

“I don’t think that would…legally end my lease.”

“What’s his name?”

“Wends…I don’t wanna have to visit you in prison.”

“It’s insulting you think I’d get caught.”

“I’d prefer not finding out.”

Her hands were getting redder. “I’m unfailingly persuasive. At least, allow me to talk to him.”

“Manslaughter, death threats. Tomayto, tomahto.”

Yoko sighed. “Please let go of the table.”

Wednesday did. A little.

“Good God with you two…”

Enid raised an eyebrow at Yoko’s murmured remark. As much as she was able to. Her body felt too…weak.

“Here.” Yoko threw the paper at Wednesday. “Help us look. Two weeks from now if we haven’t found anything, I’ll help you kill the guy myself.”

*

“Enid.” Wednesday approached her a certain afternoon, a week later.

To no one’s surprise, they were hanging out at her apartment – Enid laid on the couch, legs swung over its arms, reading a magazine; Wednesday came over from the kitchen island, a black folder with pages in her hands.

To no one’s surprise either, Enid still hadn’t resolved the issue of Manhattan’s above-national-average rents.

“I believe I’ve found a solution to your housing situation.”

“Oh, shit. Are you about to confess to my landlord’s murder?”

“I’d like to propose for you to move in with me.”

What.

“What?”

Enid tried to stand up but ended up tripping over her own frantic movements and fell on the floor, knocking the coffee table out of place. And she didn’t even have time to feel embarrassed because— what?

“I’ll proceed to explain.”

Wednesday was perfectly placid and Enid’s heart was starting to beat louder than New York’s subway trains.

“My parents know the property owners quite well, they’re old family friends. Therefore, my rent’s stabilized, comfortably well within means. We’d split all the expenses. I’ve estimated the numbers according to each of our incomes. Everything seems perfectly doable to me. In fact, it would be an exceptionally economic deal to us both. Take a look.”

And Wednesday just— handed her a folder that stored pages full of math calculations. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

And Enid took it with parted lips and shell-shocked eyes because she was an idiot who suddenly couldn’t remember the alphabet.

“You’re familiar with the space. You know your way around the house. If the measures I took are correct, my bedroom is big enough for a second bed. But perhaps I should take advantage of the fact you’re so fond of my couch and assign it to your sleep.”

Enid Sinclair wasn’t left aghast. Enid Sinclair didn’t turn speechless. Even when she didn’t know what to say, she pretended incredibly that she did. She had the natural-born gift of quick-witted sociability.

So what the fuck was happening?

“Needless to say, my apartment is also a much more suitable place to live in than another claustrophobic graffitied habitation. Like the one you’re currently residing in. Of course, this arrangement may be only temporary if you still wish to find an accommodation of your own.”

Enid was too perplexed to blink. She was tongue-tied and the universe was laughing.

But the truth sat in her stomach, expanding like a balloon – ready to pop due to overinflation and her body’s burning temperature.

“I admit it is an odd thing for me to voluntarily propose. After all, the materialization of this offer would be torturous to my sanity. But I’ve thought it through. Perhaps I’m experiencing a short-term chemical imbalance, perhaps I inherited my uncle’s lunacy in bigger portions than I had anticipated. But I believe this is the best offer you’ll find. I’m willing to…be of assistance.”

The ability to speak played hide and seek inside Enid’s brain as images of getting home to Wednesday flashed through her brain. Heaven itself wasn’t big enough to harbor the size of her happiness at the thought.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.”

“Wednesday, I—”

Yes. With a little effort, Enid could pretend that she didn’t know any better.

Restraint and reflection are blasphemous. Yes, the answer is yes.

But Wednesday wasn’t just anyone, and Enid did know better.

“You don’t have to do this. I mean— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. You take your personal space so seriously, and— and rightfully so! I wouldn’t ever want to, like, overstep your boundaries, or intrude! Like— I don’t want you to force yourself into such a drastic change of pace if you’re not ready for that, but I mean I’m— I’m also completely shocked and impressed because this is such a fucking cool proposition, and— and—”

“Your spiraling will give me a headache.”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry.”

“You offend me by thinking I would ever be as weak as to force myself into doing something I don’t truthfully want to do. I always mean what I say. I always mean what I do.”

Of course Wednesday Addams would be at the root of Enid losing it.

This was stupid. The internal conflict she was struggling with told her as much.

Who in their right mind would agree to become roommates with the best friend they might be kind of crushing on?

What kind of tremendous idiot would fall for such an obvious-placed trap?

Yes, it would probably save her life. Yes, Wednesday’s sole proposition plus the fact that she had done math to ensure it was a workable idea was absurdly thoughtful – something definitely dug up from the depths of her heart. But oh, she wasn’t that foolish, how unbelievably crazy would it— 

“Move in with me.”

Wednesday said. Unblinking. Unmoving. Enid’s eyes closed to the rest of the world. Powerlessly. Sacredly.

“Officially, I should add. Since you already spend all of your time in here.”

Fuck it. Enid was an idiot. Sue her.

“Final offer, Sinclair.”

Enid paid attention to all of it – Wednesday’s pretty lips and somehow prettier words.

She had no way of paying attention to anything else.

Her gaze flickered – up and down, up and down, down, down – the sight had her undivided focus. Maybe that’s why she didn’t think, didn’t raise the question ‘when had Wednesday Addams ever spoken like that to anyone else before?’. She simply accepted it and sunk in it because it was her God-given right to.

Gratefulness and fondness came flaming up all the way from her heart to her limbs. A hug.

She threw herself at Wednesday with the same intensity one fell at their knees at a shrine.

Enid was so suddenly bad with words that she didn’t know how else to express what she was feeling – because Wednesday had just offered sharing her space, extending it for Enid to make it hers as well, so she could help her; well aware that she'd get nothing but her bubbly company in return.

She wrapped her arms around Wednesday’s waist before she could fully recall that the other girl preferred to steer clear of physical touch. And Wednesday did pull away, softly, slightly irked, keeping their faces at a cruel proximity, sighing, making Enid want to die.

“Don’t even fathom getting used to this.”

And then Wednesday dived back into her body, arms reached Enid’s neck, enveloped it, and stayed there, as her head rested against Enid’s shoulder.

A brave gesture for a girl who didn’t shake hands.

A bombshell of an event tending how many of the blonde’s hugs she had escaped from before.

If Enid felt that fever again – how did a cold girl’s embrace feel so goddamn warm? – she didn’t mind, it was a lovely way to burn.

In a way, that was how they sealed it.

Not with a contract or a signature on a paper or a moving truck. But with a hug. Chest to chest. Breathing in, breathing out. Black clothes against colorful clothes. Each of their space’s becoming one.

If fluttering hearts could be heard, Enid thought, the entirety of Manhattan would know.

—

“I don’t know what’s going on but you need to get your shit together.”

“Can you not, Bianca?”

“What are you so nervous about?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Oh, really? You just won’t stop shaking your leg for fun? That’s your everyday face too?”

Enid rolled her eyes. “Yoko is late.”

“Is she? Who would ever guess…”

Enid wasn’t sure how much strength she had left in her.

If you asked her how she had managed to get out of the theater after some imbecile refused to both deliver her note to Wednesday’s dressing room and let her backstage so she could give Wednesday a word herself, she wouldn’t know what to tell you, only that she now stood within boundaries of the Bois de Boulogne, catastrophically away from the Opera, in front of the gigantic bucolic manor of Le Pré Catelan, one of France’s finest restaurants, Lord knows doing what.

Oh, she was waiting for Yoko.

Yeah, that’s what she was doing.

She was waiting for Yoko, who was her plus-one.

She definitely wasn’t ripping her own heart to pieces, or violently mulling over the last few hours inside her own head, or putting together a very good excuse to abruptly bail the dinner party, or preparing herself to turn into a madwoman looking for Wednesday Addams in the streets of Paris.

And she absolutely wasn’t doing all of the above at once.

(Because Wednesday Addams, being Wednesday Addams, wasn’t attending that goddamn stupid dinner and Enid was losing time she would never get back – that seemed to be a common mistake of hers, she was eager to rectify it).

Only when Yoko got out of a car and was finally standing in front of her – sunglasses stylishly resting on top of her hair, black suit on, arms wide open to wrap her in a hug, lips pulled into a devilish grin – did she squint and blink awake, only then that intolerable pointless hard-thinking was dismantled.

“Enid, love of my life! Why do you look like someone just drove you up a wall?”

“That's what I keep asking. Maybe you can get it out of her.” Bianca said and fake-smiled at a couple who greeted her while walking by, murmuring ‘I hate them’ as soon as they were distant enough.

(It was funny how there were certain qualities to Bianca that made Enid think that, if put together in the same room for longer than a fleeting gone wrong attempt at a conversation, she and Wednesday would either be the cause of each other’s violent death or develop a convoluted partnership based on mutual front stabbing. They were just the type to.

And everything circled back to Wednesday Addams).

“Isn’t it fucking freezing out here? Let's get inside. Enid, why are you just standing there? Bianca, why is she—”

“First,” Enid sighed. “About what you said before, I don’t look like someone just drove me up a wall. But I sure as hell will if you two don’t stop.” Yoko raised her hands up in surrender but shared a look with Bianca that was all but remorseful.

“I just got—”

“And second— how could you even know it's so cold, Yoko? You literally just got here. By the way. You’re late.”

“I’m fashionably late. Is that your elaborate way of saying you missed me?”

“It’s my way of saying you’re on thin ice.”

“I love you too.”

The three women started walking towards the entrance together, each beside the blonde.

Yoko didn’t bother to smooth down her typical devious little smile, so very fond of bickering, as she intertwined arms with Enid tenderly, who immediately pulled her even closer, softening into her best friend’s familiar embrace.

It was an action born out of instinct – to fall, to be caught on the way down, to confide her feelings with someone she trusted, to rely on a shoulder to cry on; and oh, if there wasn’t a sea waiting to be uncovered within those blue eyes.

She couldn’t wait to tell Yoko everything. There was salt all over her ripped out, bleeding heart.

“Are you okay?” Yoko whispered against Enid’s hair, close to her ear.

Whatever way of subtly responding ‘fuck no, you won't believe what I have to tell you’ Enid was working on conveying with her eyes was interposed by Bianca’s voice.

“Yoko, how was work?”

“What work?”

“Weren’t you working just now?”

“Oh, yes!” She was one enthusiastic liar.

Whatever memories she had from spending the day with Divina prompted a broad smirk to thrive on her lips.

“I accomplished some of my finest work this afternoon. Truly.” Oh, she was so gross. Bianca nodded, oblivious to the bold-faced lie, miles away from catching up with the joke. “And how was that concert-thing? Sorry I couldn’t go.”

Two well-dressed doormen greeted them as they stepped inside the pavilion. Its comfortable heat system immediately eased the exterior sensation of November’s cold air. Their coats were taken as Bianca answered, Enid was only mentally present to catch bits of it – “...good…intense…actually…Enid too…clapped immensely”.

The women were guided towards an enormous lounge with white pillars, lush friezes, green lacquered woodwork and elegant brushed cotton sofas. There was jazz music softly playing and the space was full of chatting upper-class society, all who waited to be directed to the dinner room at the host’s sign.

“I wonder if I can get through this without getting drunk.”

Bianca rolled her eyes at Yoko’s clockwork catchphrase. “Must we keep repeating this dance? Go get yourself a martini.” And excused herself to go snatch compliments from a group of movie moguls.

Enid’s head started to buzz.

She couldn’t really feel herself grounded to reality, the world seemed nothing but barely tangible at the moment, yet at the same time reality swallowed her like she was a space rock at the mercy of a black hole’s gravity. She was tired and restless and her chest flickered with electrical shocks.

The leaded windows of the lounge were slightly blurry due to the night’s humidity. Enid looked at the glass. Outside was cold and murky, but to stare at the mistiness of the moon brought her closer to Wednesday – how she longed to be brought closer to Wednesday.

She tugged Yoko’s sleeve, grabbed her hand, dragged her away, and got the words out quickly, quietly, seconds away from losing her mind.

“I really need to talk to you about something.”

Chapter Text

September 15^th, 1976

My Dear Wednesday,

As I write to you on this day, it’s a day named after you. I think of you every time the middle of the week comes.

We haven’t talked in so long. It’s been almost a year since I received your last letter.

Again, I know you told me that I should keep my distance, I know that you have nothing left to say to me anymore, and although it doesn’t come easy to accept it, although I want to track you down and get on a plane to meet you, wherever you are, I could never be so reckless as to disrespect your wishes, disrespect your space – I know you’re serious about it.

I’m staying away. I won’t go after you. I promise. And I’m sorry.

These letters are all that I’ve got. I cannot give up on them just yet. Again, I hope you understand.

Burn them, rip them, toss them away. It’s a fair point.

But I need to hang onto them a little bit longer.

You’re with me everywhere, Wednesday. I listen to my favorite songs and think of all the adjectives you’d use to describe them, one worse than the other. Always, always, always. I have so much new music I wish to tell you about. Oh, you are going to loathe ABBA! Have you listened to Dancing Queen? It’s totally my song! You’d despise it so much you’d descend to purgatory after the opening.

I’ve been travelling a lot too. I think of you in every new city. I read about you everywhere I go. It’s frankly all I read about these days.

The critics and columnists describe all your performances so beautifully, it makes me feel like I’m there. You should’ve seen my face when I read that The New York Times said you were soon to be known as “one of the greatest cellists of all time”. I didn’t shut up for days, Yoko wanted to sedate me; I still rant about you to her all the time.

You took the world by storm, Wednesday Addams. The world is enthralled by you and so am I – although I am a little bit more; will always be.

I’m sorry I didn’t know how to stay. I miss your freckles, that you so wholeheartedly pretend don’t exist because you believe they don’t mirror your morbid personality. I miss our silly inconsequential arguments about colors and clothes and music.

At times, I’m so tired. Pretending and hiding and losing. How very hypocritical of me. I wish I was stronger. I should’ve been.

Given how much I hear you move around lately, it’s a miracle if this letter even reaches you. But the sun is setting right now. I find myself thinking of you.

I always think of you, Wednesday.

For whatever it’s worth, that will forever remain my truth.

Always yours,

E.S

—

“Wednesday.”

Was all that Enid could bring herself to utter after she dragged Yoko into a hallway on the second floor. 

“No, babe. Today’s Sunday, actually.”

“No—” Enid waved her hands around aimlessly, trying desperately to gather her thoughts. “Wednesday— Wednesday. I saw Wednesday.”

She watched as the stages of realization hit Yoko one by one – first confusion whilst her eyebrows attempted to incarnate an interrogation point; then wide-eyed incredulity as the word abruptly rang a bell, as a name, not a day of the week; then panic as she put together the puzzle pieces, understanding the implications of that sentence.

“Wednesday, as in…our Wednesday? Your Wednesday? Wednesday Addams?” And finally, full blown awareness as her mouth hung open when Enid nodded her head rapidly.

Yoko pushed her by the arm even further into the corridor, not taking any chances of having their conversation disrupted or eavesdropped by anyone who happened to be close enough to the stairs.

“Holy fuck— When? How?”

“At the cocktail party because she was the concert’s lead musician and I didn’t fucking know.” Enid recognized the surprise in her friend’s eyes as the same striking feeling that had taken over her very own hours prior. “I’m so stupid, why didn’t I—”

“Read that pamphlet?” Yoko might had been on the phone with Enid when she was delivered the booklet with the performance’s details and then proceeded to audibly ruffle it and hide it underneath other things she wasn’t going to read. “Bet you really wished you had, huh?”

“Are you serious?” Enid slapped her shoulder. “You were supposed to come with me and you didn’t either!”

(During the weeks Divina was away Yoko basically moped around from one place to another because she was the epitome of a drama queen. Outside time spent with her best friend, she was out of touch with anything but her melodramatic reality, burying herself in work to compensate. So that made two of them absent-minded to life outside their jobs).

“Whatever, leave my reasons alone.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s not what matters. What matters is, have you two talked?”

“We have, but we haven’t.”

“What the fuck does that mean, Enid?”

“We’ve talked! Just…” She couldn’t stop still with her hands. “I think I fucked up.”

“Girl, I’m not trying to be rude or anything, but I don’t think you could’ve possibly fucked it up more than you already have.”

Yoko really did have a way of keeping her humble.

“She didn’t know about my divorce.” Her friend let an oh slip. “I just dropped the huge bomb and she left.”

“That couldn’t have possibly just been it…” Yoko tilted her head and challenged Enid with observing eyes. “C’mon. Wednesday might be rustier about dealing with emotions, sure, but that girl has never once in her life managed to keep her cool next to you. She just left? Nothing more, nothing less? After being given those earth-shaking news? Like, for starters, she had to feel something! Ajax must be in the top three of her hitlist—”

“—She said she never actually stopped writing me back.”

“See, there you go!” Yoko beamed and slapped her hands together. “What else? Oh my god, tell me everything!”

Enid did.

In extensive detail, not in little words.

Her speech was like a bullet out of a gun or a wildfire escalating through a forest – fast and out of control. Yoko listened carefully, hanging on every word, hawk-eyed as she read Enid’s lips in an attempt to understand what her ears couldn’t, not wanting to miss out on a single syllable, on a single information.

When Enid’s shuffling hands slapped against her legs as her shoulders relaxed, and her lips crashed shut as she took a deep breath, Yoko was thrown off balance with raised eyebrows.

The blonde concluded with a whisper, “I’m in deep shit. I just want to find her.”

And just as quickly, Yoko was fuming.

“Oh, absolutely, you will be in deep shit if you just stand there in front of me with those puppy eyes because I’ll personally take it into my own hands to strangle you.”

(Don’t let the hostility fool you. Enid melted shyly into a dumb smile, blushing all the more).

She knew exactly what those words meant – go after her! – and she was, body and soul, committed to making them happen.

“I knew you’d say that.”

“So? What are you waiting for? Get out of here!”

“But come with me.” Enid took her hand and started to walk them across the hallway. “I’ll need your help. She could be half-way to the airport as far as I know.”

“Oh, darling, don’t say you miss me being the third wheel.”

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

“Finally taking vengeance at my three-year relationship?”

“I pity Divina.”

“She definitely doesn’t feel that way.”

“Awful. You’re awful.”

Yoko let go of the physical contact once they reached the stairs so she could jumpstart her way into one of the steps.

“Okay, gay ass, here’s what we’re gonna do.”

She said, looking back and forth between her accelerated feet and Enid behind her, walking down the stairs as a regular person.

“You’re gonna sneak outside and wait for me. Just get out of here. I’ll go find Bianca and pretend that I’m starting to feel sick,” when she was close enough to make a safe jump, her feet landed on the floor with a heavy sound. “Because I mixed, I don’t know, like—”

She half-spined her body to face the lounge they were about to soon make a run from and was bizarrely rendered speechless, flabbergasted beggaring description whilst her communicative hands fell down.

“Holy fucking shit.”

“What?” Enid questioned in adorable oblivion, still midway through the stairs.

She could nearly make out the sound coming from the room below. The echo of a single voice. 

“Change of plans.”

Yoko grinned at her own words – a smile so full of mirth yet so deeply obnoxious that it could only mean one thing.

Enid stopped moving. Her heart galloped inside her chest at the hypothesis. Drummed violently against her ribcage. Roared. Trembled. Screamed. The thrill of adrenaline was vertiginous. She remained paralyzed in bated breath for precious seconds before she rushed down the stairs once and for all, stunned before she was even witnessing the sight herself.

And there she was. Déjà vu. Wednesday Addams.

Enid looked at her, at her bored yet probing gaze, at her hands clasped together in front of her body, at her trademark sepulchral poise. And as if she had been asleep since deprived of laying eyes on that woman, every goddamn emotion within realms of possibility flooded her now, with urgency, with delirium, with sane insanity.

Wednesday breathed in shakingly when her seeking eyes finally found who they had been looking for. As though their chests were tied to one another across the room by some phantom harmony, Enid breathed out at that very same second, on the verge of pathetically falling at her knees.

Yoko, in all her unseriousness, saluted Wednesday in military mannerisms, moving her fingers to her temple while smiling widely and amusedly with the corner of her lips. The cellist seemed to take a whole new wide-eyed minute to process her presence there too.

It was something memorable. A moment for the history books, indeed. Enid Sinclair, Wednesday Addams and Yoko Tanaka together in the same room after how many years again?

Pascal’s voice was just background noise.

He made a speech in French with Wednesday by his side.

Enid was too out of it to link the foreign words that she was loosely hearing to construct entire sentences. She merely caught bits. He was in a very good mood, something about how Wednesday must’ve enjoyed playing for that crowd so much that she was joining the soirée after all.

Which was a laughable justification.

Like Wednesday would ever care about that.

Enid knew it, thus why the shade of pink flushing her cheeks immediately worsened. Yoko knew it too, thus why she chuckled, and then leaned closer to her friend.

“She came here for you.” Yoko whispered. Her shameless smirk was enough to try the patience of a saint. “Aren’t you kids cute?”

*

Whatever cosmic force was out there really hated Enid Sinclair. Or maybe it fucking loved her. Definitely something within those realms.

Each of the restaurant’s elegant round tables served five people. The palatial dining room was filled to capacity, there were so many people that Enid kept spotting new faces every time she looked around. And the problem before her was simple: the seating chart.

As soon as Pascal had finished his speech, Enid, Bianca and Yoko had been guided to their table by a polite waiter that kept not so subtly hinting at being an enthusiast of Enid’s designs. Their seats were well-centered, close to the host’s very own, certainly a privileged position if you cared about the etiquette of the rich. But Bianca had noticed something weird. So far, it was just the three of them and the other two names on the table were missing. She questioned the boy about it.

“The seating chart has suffered some last-minute changes, madam. Nothing to worry about. It’s being taken care of as we speak. I’ll be right back!”

Now, Enid had no idea how Wednesday had orchestrated such a thing in short notice – who she had threatened or manipulated or what all-mighty devils she had contacted – and it was all so improvised that it was painfully charming. But five minutes later or so, the cellist was sitting down in front of her, accompanied by the curly-haired violinist from before.

So, you see, what followed was worthy of a photo in a picture-book – Enid looking like a deer caught in the headlights, Yoko choking on the wine she was sipping, Bianca cluelessly flashing a scheming grin like the perfect business opportunity had just fallen into her lap, and the boy they’d soon find was called Eugene completely moon-eyed and lovey-dovey staring at Enid for the first time. Wednesday, of course, above it all. Poker-faced like she hadn’t just knowingly wreaked utter havoc through the table.

Bianca smiled, “Wednesday Addams! What a surprise. It is good to see you again.”

So yes, whatever the universe felt about Enid Sinclair was for certain a very strong emotion.

Both in that crowded room and in that table of five, only three people could read the subtext of what was truly taking place, undeceived by the enchanted stares and the fights for breath. Everyone else was blind to the eclipse happening. So in good truth, what a weirdly private experience it was.

There were some instants spent on introductions, throughout which Yoko’s duplicity was inspiring. She greeted Wednesday full of energy, playing pretend to the maximum extent, as if they hadn’t been a constant in each other’s life once. And although Wednesday’s treacherous skills of dissimulation weren’t at all news to Enid either, the blonde was left disoriented witnessing them arise, listening her say flatly, “I most definitely can’t say I share the same honor of meeting you, Tanaka. Why the sunglasses in your hair? Has no one ever told you that’s bad etiquette?”.

Because if Wednesday Addams lied, then the lie was a means to an end.

What was her end here? What was she doing there? Were they okay? Could Enid interrupt the conversation and ask? She longed for answers without filter.

Were they just supposed to do the whole dinner thing while pretending they weren’t hiding a thing? Cool. Great. Enid could totally do that. She totally trusted herself not to lose control of the situation. She definitely wasn’t already envisioning at least eight different ways in which she ended up going ape and spilling her guts out to the entire room.

And then Bianca just went on and on about something. Enid paid the monologue no mind. She was too busy trying not to take a leave of her senses, her chest surrendered in heat and revolt, wallowing in the moment, she was so close to Wednesday yet so far away.

They observed one another quietly – one barely hanging onto a train of thought, one barely hanging onto stoicism. Wednesday almost looked…concerned, as though she was searching for reassurance that what she was doing was okay, that she hadn’t somehow fucked up – but didn’t she understand that Enid wanted to go after her as well? Didn’t she see the longing in Enid’s eyes? The regret from leaving all those years ago? Didn’t it vibrate through the table? Didn’t Wednesday now know that Enid had fucked up her sham marriage because she knew better than before?

Red began to spread through the blonde’s cheeks. Her composure was melting away, eyes were drifting, dreaming, lost in expectation and yearning and a thousand years of thirst.

“Blink twice if you need help.” Yoko whispered into her ear, entertained, because of course she was finding this hilarious.

“I hope you choke on your food.”

“Nervous, are we?”

“—Right, Yoko?” Bianca suddenly called, finishing some sentence.

“Huh?”

“I was telling Addams…you know…the art exhibitions you’ve been putting together…”

“Oh! Yes, well—” Yoko sat up straight. “I’ve been working for the Near Eastern Antiquities department of the Louvre for some time. Uh— right now I’m organizing a painting collection, though.”

Wednesday tried to look unimpressed, because generally she would be, other people’s successes were insignificant in her book. But this wasn’t just anyone. This was Yoko, a true friend if ever there was one, whom she couldn’t lie and say she hadn’t missed. They had their own bond beyond Enid. They were friends and their friendship had suffered too. So in the midst of all the acting, Wednesday titled her head slightly.

“Not bad, Tanaka.”

Yoko leaned with her elbows on the table. “I could say the same, Addams.”

“Save your flattery.”

“If you wish.”

“Good.”

“Tell me, though. Do you like art?” 

“Isn’t that a stupid question to ask a musician?”

Yoko clenched her jaw at the deadpan offense, grinning slightly. She clearly had a snappy retort ready to shoot back but domesticated the urge to hurl it because it would be totally inappropriate to do it in the current setting, where she was expected to behave reasonably, which the other was cockily aware of – and because unlike other people, everybody anticipated Wednesday Addams to be out for blood whenever she opened her mouth, she could say whatever she wanted.

“Not necessarily.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Different arts, aren’t they?”

“Such an obtuse way to see the world.”

Yoko bit her tongue. Wednesday smirked. Enid felt like she had walked into a time machine that had taken her back five years in time. Bianca looked between the two as if she feared something very alarming was about to happen. And Eugene was mostly transfixed on Enid still.

“Will you answer my question?”

“Yes. That’s my answer.” A waiter came by to serve them with more appetizers and refill their wine glasses. “The Baroque period, obviously, was the epitome of excellence. Caravaggio is my favorite painter.”

Yoko hummed, annoying smile threatening to come into view. She was satisfied with the response, although it wasn’t by any means news to her knowledge. Enid began to wonder where Yoko was going with this perhaps way too late for her own good.

“What a coincidence…” The annoying smile revealed its full glory with a hint of artificial surprise. Oh no— “Have you met Enid?” Oh no, no, no. “Enid Sinclair.” She pointed at the blonde, simulating naivety worthy of an acting award. “It’s funny, y’know? She feels the exact opposite! Big Pop Art fan. What do you think is so good about it, Enid?”

And just like that, the ball was in Enid’s court. All eyes fell on her.

Yoko innocently relaxed into her seat, sipping on red wine to neutralize her expression, patting her friend’s leg encouragingly under the table as if saying it was okay, it was better to bite the bullet than let it end you.

She knew where Yoko was coming from with this, but God have mercy…Enid was an inarticulate mess. Whatever words she wished to utter were dropping lifeless at the tip of her tongue. Her voice was somehow expected to find a way out of her throat but she was choking on anxiety.

“I like…the bold colors.” She said meekly, barely mustering strength to rise above shyness, prey to an abnormal nervousness that ate away her usual energy. Her voice was foreign to her own ears.

Her heartbeat was a storm. She felt flushed and nearly aphonic. Wednesday raised an eyebrow faintly, finding Enid’s introversion odd, not right, as if questioning it, as if missing her liveliness. But Enid was snowed under truths she couldn’t speak.

Her heart was like a tinier version of herself screaming within her ribcage, begging to be set free by honesty. Fucking honesty, once and for all.

She wetted her lips, breath caught in her throat, hands trembled under the table, tension collapsed her from all sides. Wednesday frowned, analyzed all of it in silence, then looked down, eyes set on red lips. She clenched her jaw, swallowed dryly. Collarbone outlined by the rigid gulp.

(Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.)

“Don’t you think they’re redundant?”

“I think they’re…not boring.”

“Does that make them good?”

“Well, of course…”

“I don’t believe it works that way.”

Enid needed a second of confused grimacing to get the hang of what Wednesday was doing. When it finally hit her, she felt an immense urge to giggle. Or goddamn it just hug her.

It was quite simple, actually. Enid was a clear bundle of nerves, light-headed from their pent-up tension, from the unsaid words sitting between them, from the way it all so naturally tangled around her lungs. She was timid. Even a little scared. Fine, a lot. And that wouldn’t do. So Wednesday was pushing them into familiar territory – just as if they were meeting for the first time, just as if they were back in their apartment, safe and sound, going back and forth between different opinions with all their mutual defensiveness and trivial affront which passion hid behind.

She was diverting Enid’s focus from all that counterproductive overthinking turmoil, assuring her that they knew this choreography. This was something just between the two of them. This conversation was solely theirs. Nobody else was going to see through its nuances, and it wasn’t their business to.

And because Enid trusted Wednesday, her next words flew out of her mouth much more easily. “It’s meant to be kitschy and eccentric because its goal is to mock fine art traditions.”

“It mocks itself.”

“Don’t you think that’s pretentious?”

“Not at all.”

Her intonation was nonchalant, her apathy was slightly arrogant, and her gaze was maddeningly daring. Like she was shameless. Like she didn’t know that Enid could bicker about these things with her for days on end. Like that wasn’t the backbone of their relationship. The brute weight in Enid’s heart was dispelled, substituted by the openness and the simplicity of their familiarity with each other. That was honesty too, she thought.

“Can you not handle fun, is that it?”

“Pop Art is a vile sight at best.”

“Oh, please! It was a complete turning point in this century. It’s a style that is glamorous and witty and still manages to accomplish social commentary.”

Enid swore that Wednesday fought a smile for a split second. Her eyes gave it away.

“Doesn’t deserve the praise if it’s done poorly.”

“It’s very much well-constructed.”

“I disagree. To look at anything made by Andy Warhol is offensive. Besides, it’s just as dangerous to my allergy.”

Enid held back a chuckle. “There’s no such thing as a color allergy, though, is there?”

“I see why you’d say that.”

Wednesday ran her eyes over Enid as if she didn’t have a single drop of shame in her – it was unflinching and provocative. The average observer would surely believe it to be an effort at insulting her bright clothes, but Enid wanted to run away hand in hand with her and then pull her by the bones of her jaw, because the two of them knew what was happening.

They were doing their dance in a room full of people who didn’t know music was playing.

Enid could tell that it was working from the way Bianca watched them like one watched a car-crash happen – open-mouthed, nonplussed, unable to interfere, unsure if she even should. Taking all things into consideration, she probably thought they couldn’t stand each other’s guts. The mere idea was risible. Yoko must’ve read Enid’s mind because she chuckled lowly.

Wednesday’s eyes tried to conceal mischief – she always took pride in knowing that she was fooling an audience.

Oh, breath-taking cunning Wednesday Addams.

“I— I agree with Enid.”

The blonde beamed at Eugene’s input.

The cellist side-glanced him. “I don’t recall asking you to weight in.”

Yoko turned her neck to her friend’s ear. “You totally got this. That was, like, a complete flashback.” She hushed. “Adorable, you two—”

Enid kicked her leg under the table – she had it coming. But then Yoko’s playful little “oh-oh” made her realize that she had also accidentally hit the tip of Wednesday’s feet in the process. Enid’s eyes flew wide open self-incriminatingly when the woman on the other side of the table tilted her head at the duo.

Bianca cleared her voice. “Well, personally, I think that—”

Enid rested her chin on her hand, using her palm to conceal her flushed cheeks and her mouth. “Sorry. Hate Yoko.” She mimed, looking at the cellist.

“—Plus, those are just such different styles, don’t you agree? If you take Impressionism into consideration, for example—”

Wednesday’s eyes softened around the edges, finally letting go, sealing the doom of Enid’s ability to think clearly. She barely held back a sigh.

*

The rest of the evening moved.

As time passed, little by little, so did Enid’s twitchiness.

Her ability to engage in conversations naturally – that is, without mentally bathing herself in a dumb haze of pinning thinking about how Wednesday’s gaze was on her – was much more under control. Even though her hands still shook a ridiculous amount.

She still sort of wished she had been faster, found Wednesday first, because that would excuse the both of them from that dinner party and all that goddamn acting and waiting. So much waiting. But Enid also didn’t like to dwell. She was okay with how the situation they found themselves in was poetic in its own way.

First, they had come face to face by accident. Then, by circumstance. Ultimately, by choice. Both going after each other. Both – Enid really hoped – with the same end-goal.

The three old friends shared looks of complicity every now and then, speaking in their own secret language, familiarity hidden in plain sight. Enid giggled away the meaning of it all, deciding at certain point that a fourth glass of wine would be the detriment of her self-control.

Her heart also took a leap of faith to fly out of her chest into Wednesday’s hand every time they so much as looked at each other – years and years of longing pounding against her ribcage; right under her skin, palpitating, holding out hope, pleading; it was love that was sanctitude and desire that was ungodly.

She paid attention to everything the other said and did, like her mere presence was air to breathe. Enid wondered if Wednesday felt the same, essentially just wondered how she was feeling. How had she ended up at an event she had previously declined to step a foot in? Enid wanted to hear her say it.

Meanwhile, Bianca was doing the most at being social – reading all the existing dynamics at the table, adapting to them, occasionally initiating boldfaced business discussions, sometimes passive-aggressively responding to Wednesday’s aloof taunting.

Eugene clearly seemed to think that Enid was too pretty for him to casually maintain eye contact with, but he was also just very sweet and acted like a little brother towards Wednesday. Whatever irrational jealously the blonde had felt before, watching them exchange a nice moment on stage, was long forgotten; their relationship was adorable – as adorable as anything involving Wednesday Addams could be – and made her think of Pugsley.

Enid found the tiniest, most gentle particles of peace in her chest while looking around the table from that seat of hers. She blended into the feeling of it, into Wednesday’s almost mythological-like beauty, into the witchery of her arresting eyes, dark like black diamonds; into the butterflies and the sweet uncertainty.

She had an awful lot to get out of her chest, and soon she would; somehow she would.

For now, she took a bite out of her dish and the evening kept moving.

*

Enid nodded at Eugene. “So, you’ve been playing the violin since you were seven?”

“Yes!”

“Such a young age.” Bianca observed.

“Well, many people start even earlier. Wednesday started playing the cello…I think at…”

“Three.” Enid muttered instinctively, her napkin was softly pressed to her mouth. She swore her voice was out of earshot but Wednesday’s head still tilted at the hushed sound.

“Oh, at three!”

“And you studied in America?”

“Mostly, yes. I spent two years abroad in London too.”  

“Who do we know that also studied in London for some time?” Bianca asked with a raised eyebrow, looking between Enid and Yoko, who didn’t let the blonde even open her mouth.

“That’d be Divina.”

“Who’s Divina?”

“One of my colleagues. We work together. Different teams, though. She takes care of the marketing.”

Enid felt herself grinning from ear to ear, full of fondness with the way Yoko’s physiognomy disposed of her usual sardonicism to privilege gentleness. Her brown eyes as calm as ever. All because of Divina’s name. God, did anyone who was in love have any brains at all?

She looked at Wednesday and thought of how she would likely get a cynical ‘I told you so’ kind of pleasure out of knowing that Yoko had finally succumbed to relationship commitment. She would mock her infinitely, using that frightening memory of hers to recall all the times Yoko pledged to never end up like them – nauseously smitten and enamored with someone else. They both most definitely knew that she had been a fan of being single and available throughout college.

Well, maybe then this was just a heaven-sent opportunity to discreetly inform Wednesday of it whilst finally teasing her best friend back. God knew that Yoko’s karma scale needed to be balanced out since they had sat down at that table, even if her teasing sometimes only came from a place of ‘you’re good, just keep it casual, talk to her’.

“She’s a sweetheart.” Bianca added.

“Yes, she is.”

Yoko tried to supress the lovesome glow in her eyes, the sugary smile surging on her lips. It would’ve been adorable if Enid wasn’t feeling so suddenly sanguine about having the perfect opportunity to bite back.

Wednesday’s gaze sharpened. She knew Yoko well enough to read between the lines, Enid expected no less. She eyed the blonde, her brows knitted carefully, raising an unvoiced question that the other girl heard perfectly. Enid raised both eyebrows two speedy suggestive times in return, concealing her expression well enough that only the tip of a sly smile was in view. Wednesday’s chin dropped the smallest amount.

But just in case it wasn’t clear enough. “You and Divina are actually in very similar teams when you think about it.”

Yoko choked on the wine she was sipping, coughing as red alcohol slid down the back of her hand. Poetic justice. “Not quite…Enid.”

“Oh, I think you’re wrong.” She feigned innocence. “You have to work so closely, don’t you? I mean, you’re responsible for structuring the exhibitions she later promotes to the public. I can only imagine it requires a lot of intimacy.”

Judging by Yoko’s fake smile, she disliked the taste of her own medicine. Cathartic.

Wednesday hid a foul smirk by wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin. Black lipstick left on the white tissue. Yoko’s annoyance was suddenly unimportant. Enid drifted off to stare at the dark mark of Wednesday’s lips absent-mindedly.

“…Addams, I don’t think I’ve mentioned how that dress of yours is just stunningly scary.”

“I’ve been told, Barclay.”

“Who designed it? I must know.”

“Can’t recall.”

“It’s funny…I’ve been precisely telling Enid that she should venture with darker tones.”

“Bianca—”

“So true!” Yoko intercepted with the speed of an arrow. Ah fuck. “I mean, Enid, there must lie some fascination with the obscure underneath all that color you wear.” She just couldn’t let Enid have a small stupid win, could she? “You should take inspiration from Wednesday over there.”

The cellist’s eyes warned Yoko Tanaka to count her days.

That was also the moment a waiter started approaching their table with a brand new wine bottle on a tray.

That was also the moment his hands trembled and the tray lost equilibrium.

He was close enough to cause mild damage to their surroundings, but far enough for the damage to be salvageable. The glass crashed against the floor, red liquid splashed messily onto the air, mostly tainting his own uniform, and then some drops hit Enid’s chair, the white silk of her pants, the skin of one of her arms.

“What the—” She jumped out of her seat, more scared about the suddenness of the shattering noise than mad about the stains on her outfit.

“Oh my god.”

“Shit.”

The bottle’s blast turned the spotlight to where the five of them were sitting. Everyone in the dining room suddenly stared at the scene as if it was some horrific fatal accident.

After two or three seconds of speechlessness, every table broke into whispering blabber, watching as the waiter apologized vehemently to the designer while awkwardly trying to clean the glass pieces off the floor.

“No, no, no— it’s totally fine! I’m okay! I have a million more clothes at home, it’s not a big deal. Are you okay, though? Please don’t hurt yourself with that!” She rather pleaded, even though she also crouched down to help him pick up the sharp fragments.

The host came running to their table. “Enid! Oh mon Dieu, are you unharmed? Please— someone come clean this!”. Staff members came to rescue with proper utensils to get that mess off the floor, with a towel for their colleague as well as one for the designer, moving fast under the entire room’s scrutiny.

Bianca and Yoko stood up to make sure everything was okay, promptly ignoring the obvious stares thrown their way and the even more obvious chatter about what was happening. Eugene was about to get up and do the same before Enid reassured him that he didn’t have to. Yoko excused herself to go instruct someone to bring her club soda – she had once heard it soaked up the crimson pigments rapidly. In a matter of seconds, a couple other people came closer, probably feeling like it was the polite thing to do, gathering around Enid to express concern, to ask if she was bleeding or if her clothes were forever ruined. “Oh, how unfortunate! Such a rich attire that was!”. She could barely hear her own voice over everyone else’s.

For God’s sake it was just a wine stain. Were these people that bored?

In the disarray of it all, she didn’t notice Wednesday leaving her seat, mostly because her eyesight was blocked by people encroaching her space.

Pascal and Bianca insisted that everyone retreated to their respective seats. The host civilly assured that the situation was rightfully being attended to by the workers of the establishment. And then a voice as phlegmatic as warm crept up Enid’s ear rapidly.

“I apologize about the commotion.”

She shuddered. Predictably. Because she could’ve recognized that voice anywhere.

She was given no time to process it. Once she turned around, she only caught a glimpse of a black dress disappearing. Oh what the fuck.

“Wait—!” She impulsively reached forward with her arm, closing her fist around nothing but air to call for Wednesday. Yet her skin shivered, unexpectedly grasping hold of something unknown and smooth in her hand.

Enid looked down to find a crumpled napkin sitting on her palm. Had Wednesday—?

Around her, the people started to walk away, slowly, one by one, finally allowing her room to breathe. She unravelled the napkin, split between tearing it open impatiently and treating it with the utmost care.

“Do you wanna go to the restroom to try to clean that off?”

“Just a moment.”

Enid hid the napkin from view, slightly leaning her torso over it as she dismissed Bianca’s enquiry.

“Did anyone see where Wednesday Addams go?”

Eugene scratched his head. “She said she could do well without dessert. I don’t think she liked all those people prying around the table. I think it was a bit…too much.”

At last, Enid looked at the napkin’s insides. Her life flashed before her eyes at the black lipstick mark on the cloth. Wednesday had…definitely. And her heart stopped at the message below, written carefully and in cursive, dark pen ink perfectly touching the paper.

“Don’t waste time. Meet me on the roof. WA.”

Chapter Text

December 5^th, 1970

Manhattan, New York

Wednesday Addams was in so much shit.

She was such a fool that it was too scandalous for description. If word of it ever got out, her name would be blackened for all of eternity. Her entire credibility would be demolished.

Was this who she had become? Someone who couldn’t focus on reading? Someone who was impatient? Someone who kept glancing at the door as if that would trigger it to be opened from the outside by a set of loud keys? God help her.

Wednesday Addams was in so much shit.

Wednesday Addams missed Enid Sinclair.

The worst part of it was that she couldn’t even just shake it off by claiming that Enid was the one to blame. It’d be the perfect alibi, what a shame it was full of holes. Any judge would laugh in her face if presented with all the evidence and then declare her dignity long-lost.

The pointiest piece of evidence against Wednesday was perhaps the moment she nearly implored Enid to move in with her. That was her death knell.

At the time it was an easy thing to justify to herself, no matter how bold and unexpected it so clearly was. First off, at the time Wednesday didn’t have the luxury of slowing down to scrutinize what was going on through her head. She had acted. She had stopped rationalizing everything for once and done something because Enid needed someone to do just that. And if no one else was going to step up – if the renters weren’t going to be a bit more benevolent with their leases and if her parents were so unreliable that she wasn’t even going to try to reach out for their financial support – then screw it, Wednesday was going to do it herself. And time was ticking for all of those who had denied their help.

She had done something painfully uncharacteristic, sure. But at least Enid was no longer falling apart at the seams because she couldn’t pay for her studies while keeping a roof over her head.

They had been living together for almost three months now.

Wednesday had never slept better. Wednesday had never cooked better. Wednesday had never played the cello better. Wednesday had never felt better.

It was awful.

Sometimes things just snapped, they just came undone and jumped down one’s throat. This wasn’t a long-standing knowledge in Wednesday’s book, it was a concept she had become acquainted with fairly recently. It took living in the same space as Enid to know it, learn it, be cursed by it. The way she couldn’t ignore it now was almost violent. It felt like reaching inside her guts and crushing, pulping, then digging out all its mold, all its blood. It was a truth so torturous.

She wasn’t even repulsed taking in the sight of their bedroom – one side all prickly, bleak bareness; one side all rainbow flare and cozy stuffed toys. Each of their beds well pushed against opposite walls in an attempt to make the most of the room’s space. And yet again, Wednesday would be caught red-handed if anyone ever looked deeper into the matter. Because wouldn’t you know it, the kaleidoscopic madness on Enid’s part of the bedroom was kickstarted by Wednesday herself.

“This is your space.” Enid had said. “It feels wrong to even think of decorating it with stuff I know you don’t like. I’m really grateful to be here, okay? I’m not pushing it.” Enid had argued.

Well, Wednesday had disagreed.

What felt truly wrong was seeing the blonde waking up and going to sleep in a side of the room that was just as empty and devoid of color as her own. It wasn’t Enid. Wednesday couldn’t just stand by and watch it.

So she tossed away any further reasoning and bought the blonde three plush toys, each more stupid-looking than the other, maybe that’d get her point across. They were twenty times more frightening than anything Wednesday could ever do against someone who got on the worst of her bad sides. Enid loved them. And little by little, her collection grew. And then came hanged up string lights and even more colorful bed sheets and a pink sewing machine. It was hideous to look at. Wednesday was much more pleased by it.

Enid had done a number on her. She had let it happen. She was in so much shit. God hadn’t even had enough pity to let her say goodbye to her mind before it was gone. Maybe it was lost somewhere in Enid’s constellation of stuffed toys. Maybe she’d find it there. But the question remained, did she want to?

Fast forward to the present, she was waiting for Enid to get home from her shift. She very self-consciously refused to show up at the Weathervane one more time that week, but even that little effort to keep control of her composure was a spell that turned against her. She didn’t want to seem desperate, but desperate she for sure was achingly wishing to see her roommate walking through the door.

When Enid finally arrived, Wednesday remained still in the living room’s window seat, impersonating someone who was utterly absorbed by the book in her hands. But her breathing came cleaner, it was something to be pitied by. Enid told her all about her day while moving around the apartment, getting rid of her winter clothes and preparing herself a nauseatingly sweet feast of chocolate-chip cookies.

She was dangerously pretty, flashing one of those heart-winning smiles. “I saw a black cat today!”

Wednesday deadpanned, “Elating.”

A pillow – one of their new ones, velvety and pink – was thrown at her face. She hissed. Some sick, sick shade of pink that was. “It made me think of you, dummy!” Enid whined. “He was literally looking at me! There I was zoning out to my professor’s voice, then I looked around and boom! Cute black kitty sitting at the window, watching me all along.”

“Perhaps he was fascinated by your complete lack of chromatic discretion.”

“Are you saying I fascinate you?”

Wednesday tried not to feel anything about Enid’s stupid insinuating voice and Enid’s stupid joking grin. Anything but annoyance. A cold-blooded grudge would be acceptable too. But she failed, and failing in that regard was starting to become way too familiar. She was clearly doing something extraordinarily wrong if a small fragile animal seen as “cute” was what Enid associated her with.

This was a serious problem. This was a cross to bear. This was bad news.

But could Wednesday even blame Enid for reducing her name to such a weak creature? Could Wednesday even stand up for her dignity when her dignity had so obviously fallen between cracks? When it was gone like a convict on the run?

This was a breach of peace. This was a thorn in the flesh. This was Wednesday blushing and knowing she shouldn’t push for honesty answering that question.

“I’m not a cat, Enid. Besides, all you do is unsettle me.”

“I really felt like he was watching over me, y’know? It was the cutest thing! Did you send him because you missed me so much?”

This was yet another low. This was masochist on Wednesday’s behalf. Staying there, sitting still, listening to those words, pretending to be oh-so-focused on her book, not doing something to remove herself from the situation, not tearing open the window she was leaning against, not flinging herself off of it. Did she have no self-respect at all?

“Number one,” Wednesday grumbled. “Any Addams would send a raven. Although I didn’t and I won’t, of course.” Self-respect. Dignity. Yes. She could cage those fugitives. “Number two…” She could do it. “Stop trying to get me to say I missed you.” Good God. Forget it, she wasn’t even able to bring herself to refute it. Pathetic. She should change her name before she wronged it any further.

“But did you?”

Wednesday stared. Enid’s smile was all kinds of beguiling. Wednesday narrowed her eyes. Yes, that could work. Mean eyes. She looked bothered now, didn’t she? The blonde eventually groaned in defeat. Excellent.

“One of these days I’m gonna get you to stop being so shy, Addams.”

No one should dare to call her an Addams right now. Truthfully. What if her ancestors were summoned by the call? What if their ghosts saw through the walls? No one from her family should ever take a look inside that apartment. But what if their souls could just sense it? They most certainly would be able to tell that their offspring was dragging their name through the mud. Oh God, what if they told her mother?

“Also,” Enid’s voice pulled the plug on Wednesday’s crisis. “I’m absolutely having waffles and hot chocolate for dinner tonight. There’s no stopping me this time. You’ve been warned.”

*

Another thing worth mentioning was that their routine was also different now. It started earlier – between breakfast, between Enid walking to the subway and Wednesday walking to Lincoln Center. And it ended later – after dinner, between movie binges, conversations on the fire escape, hushes across the room as they laid on their beds awaiting sleep.

Enid was thoughtful and tender. She slipped little snacks inside Wednesday’s backpack. She left post-it notes around the house. She was mindful about how Wednesday valued organization. She remembered the little things they talked about.

The apartment was a ghost of the bone-chilling dungeon it once used to be. Now there was a unicorn mug next to Wednesday’s pitch black one in the kitchen shelf. There was a pink toothbrush in the bathroom besides a tube of strawberry toothpaste. There was vanilla incense at the door. There were candies in the food pantry. And none of those things instigated a murderous viciousness within Wednesday.

She was in so much trouble. She’d be in less trouble if she had been caught burying a corpse.

But Enid, being Enid, didn’t comprehend just how critical the situation was. Didn’t comprehend it at all, perhaps. The girl who was more in touch with her emotions than nearly all the remaining global population somehow couldn't read right through Wednesday's melting eyes. Enid wasn’t afraid to call a spade a spade, but she couldn’t extend the same courtesy to plain evidence of being needed.

So that left Wednesday swirling around a whirlwind of intimacy with her, helpless as she was shaped into a Greek tragedy, as her sanity brutally slipped away, as she struggled to manage the sudden pieces of humanity in her chest. And Enid didn’t have a clue. No one did.

(Funny enough, what she didn’t know at the time, however, was that Yoko had coincidentally cornered Enid long-ago into a conversation that bluntly started with ‘Do you ever intend to address your crush on your soon-to-be roommate or not?’).

*

On the Friday a week before Christmas, there was a tough thunderstorm in New York.

The wind hurled strongly. It rained at a jarring rate as the night sky was covered in monstrous clouds. There were loud roars as lightning bolts hit the ground. It was nowhere near the worst tempest Wednesday had ever seen, it wouldn’t even make it to the top ten, but it was still a delightful experience.

She even dared to smile a little as the broadcast news went over all the damages already produced throughout the city. But then Enid came out of the bedroom grimacing uncomfortably, hugging a blanket, and Wednesday’s smile flunked.

“Can you turn that off, please? It’s kinda freaking me out.”

Say no more.

“Thanks, Wends.”

“What’s wrong?”

Enid tilted her head, incredulous, as if asking Wednesday if she was joking, and then chuckled weakly, doing the math. “Of course you like thunderstorms.”

“It’s nature doing its best to put the world out of its misery. How could I not?”

“Oh my god, you’re worse than the news guy.”

Enid dragged her feet to the kitchen island and sat at a barstool, tightening the blanket around her shoulders as another thunder rumbled like it was an enraged wild animal. Wednesday sat down next to her, watching her pout in agony.

Oh no. The hollow of her chest contorted. She felt it coming. Oh no, no, no— Wednesday’s eyes wrenched out of their piercing shape, rendering to a mellow woeful expression, for the lack of better words, like she was some kind of dejected idiot.

God should take pity in her and order the storm to eat her alive. 

The next growl that came from the sky made her feel different. It made her feel bitter. It had her gnashing her teeth resentfully. It hit her like the matter was personal. Because now it was. Enid shuddered. Wednesday was going to make God bite the dust if that storm didn’t cease immediately.

“Shit.” Enid hissed. “Do you think we’re gonna die?”

Wednesday would kill death before it laid a finger on her.

“It’s just a storm.”

“Just?”

Help, Wednesday. Be helpful. “We’re indoors.”

“Still sounds demonic.”

Be useful, for fuck’s sake. Comfort her. Use your goddamn brain.

“You’d hate the Addams mansion.” Enid sent her a questioning look, still grimacing fearfully. “It attracts microbursts.”

“In other words…”

“They are much worse than this. Radical downdrafts. Highly centralized, very destructive, deadly if you’re lucky. So a thunderstorm, but only—”

“—Okay, no. Stop, stop, stop. I can’t hear fun facts about creepy stuff right now.”

Shit.

Wednesday’s brain was going to collapse from so much inefficient flustered thinking. She didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t used to not knowing what to do. Hearing about disastrous phenomena had been incredibly soothing to her as a child. Those were her favorite bedtime stories. She wasn’t trying to make things worse.

She was unable to get a word out for a seemingly endless minute. Should she go away? Should she pretend nothing was happening? Should she spit out another interesting piece of information about nature’s wrath and see if it earned a better reaction?

But none of those things mirrored Enid, did they? They were so awfully different from each other, Wednesday couldn’t write that off. No, no, she couldn’t. Enid liked warmth and maple syrup and romantic comedies and physical comfort and open communication.

“I’m sorry.” Wednesday’s heart felt like it was falling off her chest.

“It’s fine, Wends. It’s just…I’m not very used to thunderstorms. There was a really bad one in San Francisco when I was, like, eight. I stayed up all night alone because my mother got really upset that I wanted to talk to her to calm myself down. I don’t know. It’s a bit stupid, isn’t it? I just— I guess you could say I never had someone helping me out at times like these. The memory stuck.”

Esther Sinclair was playing with fire by still being a living creature. She had pissed off the wrong person. Wednesday couldn’t imagine what it felt like for one to think of their childhood and have vipers attached to the memories of it, twisting and writhing, poisoning everything, destroying chests and lungs and hearts. The many vipers attached to the recollections of her childhood were glorious. They were nowhere near like Enid’s.

“It’s not stupid.”

“You’d probably be having a blast right now if it wasn’t for me stressing myself out. I’m sor—”

“—Don’t finish that.” The blonde blinked as she was cut off. “Your mother isn’t here. It’s just me.”

Enid smiled weakly, nodded. “Thank God.”

Wednesday’s eyes softened, and then she tried, very cautiously, “Would hot chocolate help?”

Enid nodded again. But this time it was much more eager. Her heavy-hearted eyes were starry. “And like…one of my stuffed toys? Could you go get one for me?” She added, slightly sheepish. “I just need something to hug.”

Wednesday fought some foreign, childish urge to protest. To ask for something she didn’t have the courage to name. To say something she shouldn’t. The feeling was so unreasonably feral, so idiotically envious. God rest her goddamn senses. She needed to get a grip.

“Which—”

“—The avocado you got me.”

Wednesday took a shaky breath.

Yes. The avocado. She could do that. The avocado she had gotten Enid. That was the next best thing.

“Okay.” Wednesday assured, softly. “Why don’t we watch a movie too?” Enid’s eyes curled warmly at the proposal. The pure softness in them only lasted for some fleeting seconds before she suddenly seemed afraid of being too enthusiastic about it, perhaps fearful that would make Wednesday change her mind. Wednesday wouldn’t. She was finally doing something right. “The most insulting thing to human intelligence that you can find will do just fine.”

She got up. She grabbed the fluffy, smiley avocado with ridiculous small legs from Enid’s bed. She walked over to the sofa. She watched as Enid caressed it. Stupid avocado. She got the milk, the chocolate, the cocoa powder, the sugar. She got all things with a life-threatening level of sweetness she could find in that apartment. Even some godforsaken marshmallows.

She was bound and determined. She was going to make Enid the world’s most nauseating hot chocolate. Because she would adore it. Weird girl. 

Wednesday prepared it carefully with very generous quantities. She stirred the brownish mixture together in a bowl, lighted the stove to heat the milk and waited a little before starting to merge the two things together. She heard the rain, the thunderbolts and Enid changing television channels, saying hm and oh at the programs she found.

And then— shit.

The sound of people talking on the TV was cut off dramatically as the entire apartment fell into a pit of darkness with the quiet noise of the switchboard giving out.

Shit.

Outside, the neighboring houses blacked out too.

Wednesday usually loved this. It wasn’t scary enough to really thrill her, but it was enough to justify a minimal splint of entertainment. But Enid’s misery, oh, that decidedly wasn’t entertaining at all. “What the fuck happened?”

“Power’s out.”

“Oh my god.”

“This is an old building and it’s a strong storm.”

“That’s not of any consolation.”

Wednesday clenched her jaw, brooding in guilt and in a stomach-turning feeling that made her feel nothing but helpless.

She lowered the heat and left the stove behind, walking by the living room window and around the sofa to meet Enid, guiding her steps according to habit, robotically knowing where she could go without hitting the furniture.

“Can you see me?” Wednesday kneeled down in front of her. Enid’s expression was full of torment, her eyes were glassy, disoriented, trying to grasp onto what was around her. She just nodded in response. Wednesday was too focused on her face to keep sending death threats to God – and Esther – inside her head. “The entire block is out as well. It’s not just us.” She spoke as softly as she knew how. “You’ll be fine. You’re not alone. I promise. Grab my hand.”

Enid did. Her hands were warm, maybe as warm as they’d ever been. Wednesday’s were freezing. The contact was an electrical shock. Enid’s palms dived inside the long sleeves of Wednesday’s black hoodie.

This was something beyond her ken. This was something entirely new, a road completely unmapped. This was worse than the hug by a tenfold, somehow so much more intimate. Not a step but a full-on jump towards her own demise. She only processed strength to stand back up and get moving because she really had to.

“Where are we going?”

“Bedroom.” They walked. Her hands were so soft. “I have a flashlight in my bag and a few more in my desk’s drawer.” Enid’s fingers caressed Wednesday’s skin delicately. She nearly tripped. Everything bubbled up inside her chest, the unfamiliarity of the touch melting into the comfort it hopelessly discharged anyways. She took a profanely deep breath of self-control. “Light up your candles. I know you’ve hoarded an unspeakable amount of them.”

Wednesday was just doing things. She didn’t know when she had grabbed her flashlight or when she had given Enid one too. But there they were, illuminated torches in hand. Suddenly, no longer touching hands. Maybe she should look for her mind in Enid’s collection of stuffed toys now.

Enid was jumpy, oscillating between outright showing that she was anxious and attempting to conceal it. She rummaged through her things as the flashlight in her hand trembled faintly, as she breathed in deeply. Would it help if Wednesday held her hand again?

“Let’s take some of your candles to the kitchen.”

Enid asked absent-mindedly, “Why?”

“Did you forget? I’m not done with that hot chocolate of yours.”

*

They waited.

Wednesday kept whisking the mixture every so often, it was almost steaming.

Enid faced the stove with her back against the kitchen island, observing the other girl. It was silent except for the sound of the rain coming down in torrents, lavishing the windows. And the occasional rolls of thunders. It was ill-lit. Enid hanged onto her flashlight – and the idiotic avocado – for dear life, while humming songs to fill the gaps of her own nerves. Wednesday used her flashlight to check the hot chocolate. There were three small vanilla candles lit around them.

Enid still looked distressed, a bit more than before even. The power outage had really freaked her out.

Wednesday was aware that most people were uncomfortable in the dark. She couldn’t say she comprehended it, but it was a fact, nonetheless. People terrorized themselves with the speculative hypotheses of what could be lurking in the unknown, in the unseen. Apparently Enid was one of those people. Wednesday made a mental note to ask her about it later, when the time was less tense – to further comprehend it, to know what to do better next time. But mix that panic with the storm. It was too much. She wanted to make it better, and the hot chocolate wasn’t enough. Enid deserved more.

Wednesday felt her chest flutter when she looked down at her own hands. They didn’t feel like they had some minutes before. They were cold, lonely, and for once in her life, she felt that was unfair.    

She turned her head around in time to see Enid grimacing because of the brash howl of another thunder.

Ah, fuck it. She could find her mind later.

“You can hug me, you know?”

“No…I didn’t…know.”

Wednesday fully turned her body around. “It helps you when you’re scared.”

“Well…yes. But I still didn’t know.”

Wednesday sighed faintly. She looked at the avocado in Enid’s arms. He smiled back at her in the low light without a care in the world. What an affront. Avocados didn’t even smile. Stupid anthropomorphism.

She tried really hard not to be awkward, but nothing about the situation was easy. Everything about the situation was human – understanding fears, figuring out why the dark was so scary, offering comfort, dealing with the warmth of someone’s hand, dealing with a bit more than that.

So Wednesday, being Wednesday, was awkward. Lacking the skills to know how to do the right thing right away, very tentative with her approach.

“I take it you know now.”

Enid shifted her body’s weight from one foot to another, put the plushie down. She studied the other girl as she came closer slowly, expectantly, giving her a thousand chances to back off, none which were taken.

Do it, Wednesday thought. Prove me what I already know. Go on. Hug me. Make me miss it when it’s over. Send me into the abyss past no return.

She nearly sighed when Enid wrapped her arms around her waist. Oh, she was in so much shit. Suddenly, it was all so real, as real as the limbs that encompassed her whole. The feelings were ungovernable yet peaceful, such peculiar contradictions. They soaked her chest like the rain soaked the streets outside.

Wednesday was sure Enid’s arms would be the cause of her death.

The moment made a mess of her common sense until there was nothing left to do but trap herself in Enid’s perfume. Feel it. It was salvation and damnation altogether. Terrifying for the same reasons it was precious. She had lived to see the day she wrapped arms around Enid’s neck for a second time, sank in the skin of its curve again, knowing that she had never conceded another soul the privilege of that same touch. And God help her, but it felt right to think that this side of her was meant for no one else’s eyes but hers.

They didn’t pull away – not even during the silences lacking thunders. The warmth made a puppet out of Wednesday. The intimacy fluttering between their bodies made her grave dryness a relic of a bygone age. Heartless truths and hard-boiled realism were the grounds of her modus operandi, but her modus operandi felt obsolete right now. She felt her carotid pounding like a drum, which was a telling contrast to her pulse’s usual inertia.

“It’s done.” Wednesday whispered, burying herself in the comfort of Enid’s skin one profound good last time.

She slowly moved her head from the crook of her neck, resting her chin on the blonde’s shoulder. The hot chocolate she had forgotten about was steaming with small bubbles, she didn’t want to pull away, but she didn’t want it to boil. Enid loosened her arms around Wednesday’s waist, not saying a thing, unable to get a word out.

Wednesday turned around softly. She reached for the pink unicorn mug she had put aside on the counter. Her hands trembled illogically, they burned. And she tried really hard to stop thinking about how Enid was still there – with her chest slightly pressed against her back, fingertips gently touching her shirt, breathing like a living goddess - and instead concentrate all her brainpower on pouring the hot chocolate into the cup without letting it all spill.

She then dropped three marshmallows inside the drink, slowly, watching its sugar melt.

Wednesday didn’t completely turn around as she gave Enid the mug. Her head rotated, her body stayed still – too afraid that moving it too decidedly would send the wrong idea, that Enid would take it as a sign that she wished to break the contact. She would surely beg for her to come back if that happened. It would be embarrassing and she wouldn’t really care.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t. I’m increasing your likelihood of having diabetes.”

Another thunder. Enid shivered, but nothing about her face seemed fearful this time. Wednesday couldn’t be sure – because who knew, maybe she was seeing things, people often saw things in the dark – but Enid’s eyes fluttered down to her mouth. Her gaze lingered for a while.

“It’s for a good cause.”

*

They shared Wednesday’s bed.

Wednesday didn’t have it in her to care about the rest if it meant she was helping. She could handle the torment of wanting for one night if it meant Enid rested better.

The rain thrummed against the building. Enid sank in Wednesday’s black sheets with the hot chocolate mug between her hands, drinking it with shy mirth. The bedroom was just them and small little candles on the nightstands while the moon sat by the window.

“Music?”

“Those Italian concertos from six centuries ago will freak me out beyond repair right now, Wends.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I meant your music. Do you want to listen to it?”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Just take the win.”

Enid giggled quietly. The sound was Wednesday’s weak spot. “Go ahead.” She smiled softly. “Choose whatever seems more tolerable to you. Anything’s fine by me.”

Wednesday walked over to Enid’s bed. There was a small table next to it with her portable record player. It was a fairly tiny device, colored in red and white – because she couldn’t find one that was pink.

Enid lived attached to that thing, it was practically a third limb of hers. She nearly always played music while doing house chores, so she placed down that annoying machine as close to her as possible and danced, full of energy working on things she’d otherwise find tremendously boring. Wednesday never knew which songs or artists were which, but she would remember the chords of a tune if she saw Enid smile to it.

She ran her fingers over the collection of records, bringing each closer to her face to properly read the words under the dim fires of light. The Beach Boys. Bee Gees. Stevie Wonder. Fleetwood Mac. Who were any of these people? David Bowie. What?

“Enid.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t recognize a single name in here.”

“You’re a disgrace of a musician.”

“I knew how to play the entirety of Prokofiev’s Symphony Concertante at the age of seven.”

“Humble.”

“I’m stating a fact.”

“My point still stands.”

“I simply have no desire to waste time on music beneath my trained ear.”

“You’re so pretentious it makes me physically ill.”

“Does it? Delightful.”

Enid groaned, rolling her eyes despite the way her mouth broke into a smile. Wednesday liked her like that. “Just choose anything. It’s okay. Don’t think too much about it.”

Wednesday inhaled sharply. She touched a dark yellow album cover. Frank Sinatra. Oh, was that Italian? The World We Knew. Maybe he inherited the spirit of a Renascence music master.

“Did you just put Frank Sinatra on?” Enid blinked when the record started playing. Wednesday rotated the buttons to get the volume right, loud enough to be audible over the rain, and was immediately disappointed to realize that the lyrics were sentimental proclamations of unrequired love. Bad choice, bad choice, bad choice.

“I suppose.”

“I forgot I had that.”

Wednesday walked back to her bed, sitting down next to Enid again, feeling like the facade was threatening to fall with every one of her steps and every one of the song’s lines. Oh, what an immensely stupid bad choice. Enid’s hot chocolate was almost finished. Wednesday felt her stomach flutter stupidly at the sight, knowing damn well that she was a helpless fool who wouldn’t prepare such an awful beverage to anyone else.

There was a thunder.

“You didn’t pick this record because he’s Italian, did you?” Enid pulled her eyebrows together, mouth twisted in amusement. Wednesday’s silence said enough. The blonde laughed audibly in response. “You’re fucking insane.”

“I believe the word you used was pretentious.”

“Was that a non-dry, non-homicidal joke?” Enid smirked and patted Wednesday’s thigh quickly. A gesture of affection. Enough to drive her out of her mind. “Did I break you or what, Addams?”

You don’t know how much, she thought.

“Drink your hot chocolate and shut up.”

Enid finished it with a sip. “Done. I’m seriously gonna need you to make me one of these everyday now.” She put the mug down on the floor. Another thunder howled, abruptly illuminating the room with a beastly white flash. “Do you mind if I…” Enid pointed at the bed. At her pink pillow next to Wednesday’s black one. “Get in?”

“You’re sleeping here tonight. Of course I don’t mind.” She pushed the covers aside to emphasize her point. Enid smiled shyly and wrapped herself inside the shelter of Wednesday’s dark sheets.

“Y’know,” Wednesday followed her movements, joined her inside the bed. It wasn’t exactly a space designed for two people, so no matter how much she pushed her back against the wall, to bear the distance between their faces still required a type of bravery she felt too weak to call forth. “Still on the subject of Sinatra, I didn’t know love songs were your thing.”

“They aren’t.”

“Then you kinda shot yourself in the foot.”

“I’m awfully aware.”

The track changed. Thank God. Maybe this one would be less punishing.

“No way, it’s been an eternity since I last listened to this song.”

“Do you like it?”

“I do.”

“What’s it called?”

“Something Stupid.” Wednesday frowned. Enid chuckled, biting her tongue with her teeth. “Literally. That’s the title, dummy.”

“Something stupid, indeed.”

And then Sinatra started singing—

I know I stand in line until you think you have the time

To spend an evening with me

—with that terrible soft guitar and that even more terrible enamored melody—

And if we go someplace to dance

I know that there’s a chance you won’t be leaving with me

—and that was the point of no return.

“Hey, by the way,” Enid said, slowly, moving forward slightly to readjust her head on the pillow. Wednesday was so shocked about the lyrics coming out of the record player that she hardly had the capacity to process that they had gotten closer.

“I owe you a big thank you for what you’re doing.” Enid’s voice mixed with the music, which mixed with the rain, which mixed with Wednesday’s own heartbeat. “You’re gonna hate it if I say you’re being sweet, so I won’t.”

Wednesday drank in the sight of her – cheek pressed against the pillow, angelic blue eyes, parted lips. She was a gate to temptation.

Then afterwards we drop into a quiet little place

And have a drink or two

“But like, you’ve done a lot for me. The hot chocolate, now the music.” She whispered as her hand surged from under the pillow to rest on the space between their faces. Wednesday looked at the movement, lingering between the insanity of wanting and the insanity of just doing it.

“And I’m not forgetting about the movie we never got to watch because the power went out. And…the hug. Just— I won’t forget about any of it. This has been a very likable storm.”

And then I go and spoil it all

By saying something stupid, like ‘I love you’

Okay, enough.

Who the fuck put this song on?

Wednesday was grateful when another thunder rumbled, echoing loudly through the air, postponing her answer for the following seconds. “You…” Their legs brushed together faintly. God have mercy. “…smell like hot chocolate.”

“Idiot. I’m being serious.” Enid hit her shoulder softly while chuckling. Her hand lingered cautiously. She didn’t take it off, and Wednesday didn’t tell her to. “It was this girl who made it for me. You should probably blame her.”

“You’re quite unbearable, did you know?”

“Yet you bear me, Addams.”

“Proofless claim.”

“I’ll prove it one day.”

“Shut up.”

“Shut up?” She reiterated with a smirk. “That’s all you’ve got?”

For once in her life, Wednesday opened her mouth and closed it before anything came out.

This was dangerous. Whatever game this was, it was deadlier than the Russian Roulette.

White flashed through the window again. The sky thundered. Enid was casted a light upon. Her hair shined, and so did her eyes, and her hands. It was gone the next second. Wednesday wanted to move nearer, closer, muse about all the little details in her face again. All of it was breaking open - the memory of holding hands, hugging.

Enid imitated the violin sounds that filled the room with her mouth. Against her better judgment, Wednesday thought it was adorable.

This, the proximity and the privacy, the pleading in her eyes, the insanity of wanting. This was the seed of something. This was Eve’s apple – dripping gold and promises. It was pivotal, it was inviting. It was temptation materialized in front of Wednesday’s eyes. And she would fall from grace.

The hand on her shoulder moved to touch her jaw – slowly, fingertips tenderly flying over skin. Wednesday’s breath trapped in her throat. She wanted to flutter her eyes shut, melt and lean into the touch like the absolute idiot she tried so hard to pretend she wasn’t.

“Are you okay?”

“Far from it.”

“Tell me.”

“I think I hate this song.”

“Oh. Is that it?” She pulled her hand away. What. She sat up on the bed. Wednesday followed after, if only out of distress to make her stop. No, no, no. “Do you want me to—”

Wednesday didn’t tilt— Wednesday threw herself into Enid. Lost her mind to the unknown, tumbled forward. She was a woman consumed by the worst of despairs, spellbound by the tenderest of irrationalities. Her hands shook while holding the other girl’s cheek. Enid gasped, breaking the draw of their lips, panting and staring and sighing and— crashing back into it to kiss her.

Wednesday’s hands pressed against her waist with a delicacy she didn’t know she possessed in her. She gently gripped skin over the cloth of a shirt. Enid held her face, grasping her jaw firmly, pulling her closer every time their lips dared to part ways for a split second. Enid was raring, sighing into her mouth like it was an altar to pray at, like all the built-up craving was finally unveiled, finally released, and because it had been a desire so suddenly liberated out of its repression it couldn’t help but leave them both in ruins of want.

Enid caressed the back of her neck. Enid touched her shoulders softly. Enid meant every little grasp. Enid meant every obvious sigh. Enid meant everything. Wednesday was a goner. The material of the blonde’s shirt was thin enough for skin to burn under her trembling fingertips, and as if they had a mind of their own, they disposed of their feather-light touch to hold Enid tightly. She couldn’t stop to weigh up options or think twice about what was happening, better yet, she didn’t want to.

Everything about Enid was as inevitable as the sunrise. She wasn’t attempting to fight the inevitable anymore, after all, she was only human, and this was something beyond what a human could naturally stand against.

She memorized the moment down to its smallest details, its warmest sensations, its strongest marks, and then floated mindlessly in the cherry-flavored haze of her lips. Honest to God, mindlessly.

It was official, print it on the news if you’d like, Wednesday Addams had lost it.

When Enid slowed down, experimentally, tentatively, to capture Wednesday’s lower lip with her teeth before freeing it with a scratch and a noise, Wednesday did the unthinkable – she whimpered. And then Enid kissed her deeply, tipsy with tenderness and joy, and Wednesday did something way worse – she smiled. Not a know-it-all smirk or a malicious grin, but a fully-fledged smile that bloomed with the sensation of every passing moment. And she kissed Enid again, familiar and secure, as if they had kissed so many other times before. And she kissed Enid again, like it was the first time, precious and satiating in all its dazed exploration.

Their foreheads eventually knocked together. Enid’s hands wrapped the lapels of Wednesday’s hoodie. “Oh my god.” She breathed out, eyes shut.

Their noses brushed. Their lips brushed.

They stayed in silence until their heartbeats were one tempo, rising and falling as harmoniously as if it were a singing duet.

The sight of Wednesday’s bliss greeted the blonde as she opened her eyes.

“Wednesday Addams, did I break you?” Enid murmured breathlessly against her lips. Her voice was sunshine. Wednesday swore that it could stop the storm outside and beam rays of light all over the whole city. “You’re smiling.”

“You’re seeing things.”

“Oh, I’m seeing things?”

“Absolutely.”

“Huh.” Enid hummed, regaining enough posture to sound teasing. She tilted forward slightly and caressed Wednesday’s jaw as if she was about to pull her in again. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I just…” Her voice was lower than usual and Wednesday chased after it, shamelessly smitten with want, pathetically unable to speak. She was just want.

And then Enid only made it all ten times worse by blocking the touch of their mouths with a fingertip pressed against her lips. Dangerous girl. She grinned smugly but barely concealed that her craving was very much just as disastrous.

“Because you know, I’m definitely seeing things, right? I should probably go rest if that’s the case. Who knows maybe I imagined all of—”

Whatever came over Wednesday in that moment was demonic. She couldn’t stop wanting more – and she wasn’t one to not get what she wanted.

Everything happening was so obscenely foreign to her, so intense it was wicked, so joyful it made her hazy and dumb with a smile she couldn’t for the life of her tone down. But she didn’t want to be weighed down by the newness of the path this night was taking, so she gave it all up, fuck dignity. She fell back into the mattress and pulled Enid with her by the collar of her shirt.

“Fine. You win.” She was ruined. “Just don’t go tell other people what you saw.”

“Fuck other people.” Enid beamed broadly. One of her burnings hands left the sheets to tug Wednesday’s waist. She giggled against Wednesday’s lips, high on a happiness so sincere that it made her beauty a thousand times more irresistible. “You’re smiling and you have cute dimples.”

“Tell a soul and I’ll kill you.”

“You might be rubbing off on me ‘cause that just sounds super romantic.”

Wednesday sighed. In a dash of madness, she thought that she could get used to it, to Enid and romantic in the same sentence. Fuck dignity and fuck God’s help, she was doing fine just like this.

Her hands found the back of Enid’s neck, her fingers ran up to her hair, she felt it all over her skin, wrapped it gently, and then pulled her closer, meeting her mouth with a gasp like not even knowing that it was going to happen could make the contact feel any less surprising. It was so brutal of a real feeling that she needed to steady herself by clenching one of her hands to Enid’s shoulders, it didn’t matter that she was the one laying down.

And naturally, as things between them tended to do, it just worked.

The downpour and the cracks of thunder were long-lost in the background, faintly present to their senses. But sometimes they remembered, and the crashes and lightning and raindrops served as excuses for them to pull each other even harder, closer, with so much will that it was begging to set the air on fire and jolt it with life.

Wednesday’s forehead dropped to Enid’s neck, who in response sat up on her lap, pulling her torso up with arms wrapped around her neck, embracing her.

And that was how they stayed.

Rain cascading in their hearts, sun shining through their flesh. Shafts of light flaming the walls and roofs of the room. Safe in a nest. A hug. And something more. And it was written all over them that this was something they both had been wanting for a long time.

Wednesday suddenly realized that Sinatra was still playing too. Yes, there he was. Deep voice and calm instruments and a tone of romance underneath it all.

“Not afraid of the storm anymore?”

“There’s a storm going on?” Enid joked.

“Apparently so.”

“Who knew.”

“It’s probably about to turn into just some mild rain soon.”

“Interesting.”

“I can tell it’s moving further away.”

“Yeah?” Enid sometimes had a devilish smirk, when she wanted to. It was maddening. “What else can you tell?”

Everything choked on Wednesday’s throat. So many words. So many sentences. So many adjectives. So many descriptions and remarks. Yet no power to voice any of them. She was held motionless, speechless by the sight of Enid – Enid, Enid, Enid – gorgeous, life-changing Enid. Everything rushed inside her chest. She wished she could scrape out her heart and just show what she was feeling.

“Wednesday.” Enid whispered. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“And is this okay?”

“Yes.” She said, fingers skimming over Enid’s clothes to pull her closer reassuringly. She sounded as if she was begging. “Yes.”

Enid smiled.

She was tender. She was caring. And Wednesday found that she didn’t mind being cared for by her.

Wednesday’s eyes were a self-accusing honeyed mess. She didn’t care. She fought against the tide, against the lump in her throat barricading words, getting in the way of the moment.

“You’re beautiful.”

—

It was a cold night. Nights in Europe throughout the month of November definitely tended to be, and Paris was a winter wonderland of chilly winds. Wednesday liked it.

It was a thick night too - in the way nights always were when one had something on their mind.

It was dense and dusky. The moon was ambrosial. She looked down and around, surrounded by a darkened landscape of trees, water-features and little plants; with a first-row seat to the city horizon from the heights of secluded Bois de Boulogne. The world from up there was a sight to see. It was so penetrating that it was risky, because it made her think of doing something stupid. Because that’s what nights were designed by the devil to do. They were as potent as wine.

There, in the roof of Le Pré Catelan, as she leaned over the balcony, the night was one of a kind. The mistiness of the air shared parallels with the truths rippling around her stomach. The horizon was wide and green despite incredibly murky, and the outlying lights of Paris claimed life at a distance. There was a similar-looking meadow taking hold of her chest.

And she was waiting for Enid, with no more fight left in her.   

“I should’ve known you had a trick up your sleeve.” Wednesday turned towards a voice she had spent too many years thinking about not to instantly recognize.

They were alone. Out in the open of the night, but alone. The prospect could’ve killed Wednesday, but the prospect was also medicinal with its healing properties.

“You didn’t?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

Enid took a step closer. Then another. Then another. Slowly but surely. Her hands were clasped behind her back, she hummed quietly as she pushed her legs forward one at a time. Because of course she did. The nervous habit was so Enid that Wednesday had predicted it was going to happen before it actually did.

Wednesday pointed at the wine stains, “I’m sorry about that.”

“What, this?” Enid looked down at her own legs, at her own arm, and then shrugged. “Red is a beautiful color.”

“There are certainly worse ones.”

Enid joined her, leaning over the balcony too. Their bodies were far enough for the distance to be considered appropriate tending the circumstances, but not so far that the empty space between their heartbeats was a distracting fuel for frustration, for repressed craving.

“How did you get the poor guy to do it?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

“Not really.” Enid bit her lip, chuckling softly. “I know you’ll always be an evil mastermind.”

“I don’t lower myself to anything less.”

It really hadn’t been that hard to strike terror into the first waiter she had come across at the restaurant – obviously also offering a suitable monetary incentive along with her petrifying words, after all, it’d be his job on the line. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary in her day, she subdued people into submission with the threat of her gaze every waking moment. But in this scenario it was different. She did it for Enid. For herself and Enid. It was different. Heartlessness had nothing to do with it this time.

“I was about to bolt with Yoko to look for you when you showed up here.” Enid disclosed.

The words hit like an arrow – a blue, yellow, godforsaken pink arrow – that punctured her chest and sapped the strength out of her knees.

Wednesday drew a profound breath. It was of a depth so pure that it reached the abysm of her bloodied heart. “I didn’t expect her to be here.” She chose to say. “Does she know you’re with me right now?”

Enid shook her head but quickly seemed to rectify the gesture. “Well, I mean— we ran into each other when I was on my way up here. I was losing it a bit too much to stop walking and explain where I was going, but I think my inability to articulate words plus the fact that you left the table too will venture her into a good guess.”

“She’s more annoying.” Wednesday deadpanned. Enid laughed gently. “And has a girlfriend?”

“Right?!” Enid waved her hands in rapid motion of enthusiasm and shock. “You have to see it to believe it. I swear Divina has totally managed to bring out the softie underneath all those ‘your mom’ jokes.”

“I might have an idea of the type.”

They eyed each other knowingly. Enid seemed surprised, unsure if she had heard the remark correctly, if she had understood it correctly, and then relaxed, because yes, she had, and blushed. The flush was somewhat protected from Wednesday’s perception by the all-consuming dimness of the night.

Enid chewed on her next words, hesitant but eager as she fidgeted her fingertips. “Yoko said she missed you.” She hushed – like the phrase was clandestine, like it wasn’t exactly what she meant.

Wednesday braced herself, taking a deep breath, parting her lips slowly. “I did too.” She said, every word hung in the air between them.

It was ridiculous how much they felt like kids.

There was a beat of silence. Wednesday got the feeling they were both getting ready to plummet, to rattle their hearts, to open the cages sculpted into their insides and let the locked birds just fly. Whatever happened, happened.

Their voices were synchronized when they unintentionally spoke at the same time, “We should talk.”

Enid laughed lightly at the unison, like she could’ve almost seen it coming. “I feel like I’ve made your night a mess.”

“No. We were just foolish to think it wasn’t a mess waiting to happen to us both.”

“It wouldn’t have been if I had— if I had done something. Read about tonight, or let anyone tell me two words about it.”

“You wouldn’t have come if you knew?”

“Would you have wanted me to?”

The question sat between them long enough for Wednesday to feel like a small animal bleeding out in the dirt. The quiet remained. She found it hard to look at Enid, whose chest seemed to pummel with so much ache that it was like the pain was going to take her out. Enid, who was mistaken by the silence. Enid, who blamed herself. Enid, who didn’t know it at all but Wednesday was so close to answering yes, of course, I don’t care, yes.

But Enid was a big girl too. And she had also changed.

She polished the hurt off her face not long after it settled. She did it with a mature look of self-meditation that was so much more grown than the one she owned before. It was new and it dismissed sugar-coating and it said, ‘it’s okay I can handle it’.  

“I don’t know, Enid.”

“Well,” The blonde breathed. “I said it a lot in my letters, I’m still…not sure you read them but— I don’t want to disrespect your space. I didn’t and I don’t. I couldn’t just…ambush you, y’know?” She said. “I don’t think I would have come. Although that seems pretty useless to think about right now. But my mind was always set on…she will reach out to me if she ever wishes to do so again. I couldn’t have showed up here in good conscience when every sign pointed that you didn’t wish for me to.”

God damn Enid Sinclair and her selflessness.

“I read them.” Wednesday blurted out. “All of them. All of your letters. Always.”

It was at that moment – looking into wide-awake, softening blue eyes – that Wednesday fully felt the weight of how, as far as Enid knew, she hadn’t read anything. Not a single word. Much less thousands of accumulated paragraphs. Enid had spent years and years sending whistles into the dark. Not a sign of life in return. But the void was a charade, because the letters always fell safely into the recipient’s hands.

“And I’m here right now. I think I’ve made it clear that I didn’t come for the food.”

The look of Enid’s perplexity nearly knocked off the barricades of Wednesday’s self-discipline to provoke a noticeable wave of vulnerability. It was brief, which perhaps was what made it so much more powerful than it had any right to be.

And as Enid pressed her hips against the marble stone of the balcony, taking only half a step forward, approaching ever so slightly, she looked a bit more confident in all their unanchored sea drifting.

“Would it be really stupid if I said I want to change your answer?” Wednesday felt her pulse leap right in the center of her palm, against the handrail. “I don’t want you to think of me and follow it up with uncertainty.”

“What do you want?”

Enid didn’t stutter, “Right now I want to tell you about Ajax.”

It was probably for the best to get the elephant out of the room. “Okay…” The cellist exhaled quietly, slowly, like she was carefully gathering her thoughts or summoning enough sanity not to storm off. “Two years ago, you said? What happened?”

“You really didn’t take a look at a single magazine cover in ’77, did you?”

“You could say I was busy.”

Enid raised an eyebrow a bit too playfully to match the seriousness of the current environment, and then chuckled light-heartedly like she was about to tell a joke.

“I kicked him out into the street and sent his things flying out the window.”

Wednesday stayed still.

Enid what?

She didn’t move an inch. Appalled, forehead creased.

She blinked. Blinked again.

The words had to echo down her ears for her to believe they were real.

For an instant, time went by slowly, torpidly, like someone had just found evidence that the Earth was flat. Like the most basic universal truth had just been pulled to bits in front of her eyes without a chance of refutation. Except she then pictured the moment in her head – a very angry Enid shoving Ajax’s shoulders, proceeding to throw his belongings out into the pavement, hopefully breaking his stupid camera in the process, messing up his stupid beanie too – and time was suddenly unshackled and she cracked a little laugh that broke into a mocking giggle.

Enid what?

The blonde smiled at the rare sight, “What? You don’t believe me?”

Wednesday managed to utter under her scoffing breath, a little bit content about knowing she sounded mean, “No, I do.”

“You better, Addams.” Enid teased without giving it much thought and Wednesday felt her strength dwindle. “I was seen partying at Studio 54 some hours later.” She continued, still smiling as her gaze absorbed the woman in front of her. “The tabloids loved to hate me, and hated to love me. That was June. The divorce came through officially in July.”

Wednesday never thought she would live to see the day she nearly regretted not following gossip columns, but God damn her if that day hadn’t arrived. The thought stood out like a sore thumb in her mind.

(Perhaps she had been a bit too quick to stop taking peaks at magazines on the street in the eventuality Enid would pop up in front of her eyes and plant the seed of a heart attack inside her chest – because these news would’ve been, at the very least, quite pleasant to know sooner. Oh, and were there pictures? She needed to see those pictures).

“What did Ajax do?”

The blonde shrugged tranquilly. “Nothing.”

It came out of her mouth so nonchalantly that Wednesday was only able to think about how she truly had to be careful or Enid would one day surpass her in the field of deviousness. They had spent too many years together, she had learned too much.

“Do people know that?”

“No.” Very, very careful. “But they have their many speculations about what happened.”

“Was it staged?”

“The big fight? Yes. Going out to celebrate afterwards? No.”

“What speculations were there?”

“First, the press kinda settled on the assumption he cheated on me with one of the models he was working with.”

“Did he?”

Enid shrugged as if to say she didn’t know but didn’t care. “Maybe? I never asked, but I assumed.”

“Classy.”

“He knew what he signed up for when he married the lesbian. So did I.”

She wasn’t trying to stand up for him. There was no protection in her voice. There were stabs of conscience and regret.

“But well,” Enid continued. “What the press really bought was that we fell into rivalry.”

Oh.

“You know how the saying goes, right? Don’t mix pleasure with business. Couples who work together in the industry turn against each other all the time.”

She explained.

“Long story short, back then he shot a campaign ad that was a really big deal. Everyone was talking about it. It was on billboards everywhere. The models were in beautiful poses, the designs were in beautiful presentation, the shot technique was one of his best work ever. But it was for an opponent fashion house, which he had been doing a lot of stuff for lately. And you know how every season is a competitive bloodbath. Their sells boosted amid the peak of our dispute, making mine fall behind. So every magazine made a huge fucking fuss about it just to see if it was a resentment of mine. If I thought he had betrayed me. By that time, we had been in fact drifting apart, even in public appearances. People thought the two things were connected.”

“Were they?”

Enid shook her head. “I had more important things on my mind.” Wednesday swallowed thickly. “So yeah, to the media we were a fashion designer and a fashion photographer settling scores after getting too tragically close to remain professional when things took a turn.”

And, to the public, that ended with Enid throwing his things out the window for dramatic effect. Yeah. Theatrical. It suited her.

But this wasn’t all.

This was the version that everyone had gulped down – poor Enid Sinclair and Ajax Petropolus, the couple who couldn’t survive the pressure of stardom, a marriage crushed by the viciousness of their line of work – but Wednesday wouldn’t gulp it down.

The veiled reality sat right there between them. The innuendos were like embers to step on. It was right there. The burden of lying in wait, of butterflies in the stomach. A million little things torn asunder at once.

There, under the moon’s scrutiny, in the thick of the night.

Wednesday’s gut curled. “And the full truth?”

Enid sighed, and spoke unwaveringly, as resolute as Wednesday had ever heard her, “I wanted him out of my life. I told him I didn’t need a beard anymore. He had fame and an established name, plus he was still my friend, so it didn’t take much convincing. Our deal was done there. It was my idea to take advantage of what they had been speculating about our relationship. I used the gossip and suggested we went out with a blast.”

She ran her fingers softly over the balcony’s handrail, looking down at the gardens for a brief moment before locking their eyes again.

“Mostly because, well…I might be putting my heart on my sleeve here, but I wanted you to see it, Wednesday.”

Chapter Text

March 4^th, 1971

Manhattan, New York

Wednesday had learned to relax into Enid’s kisses by now.

She had learned to relax into being knocked off her feet, into being deprived of the basic ability to call coherency for her mind’s rescue, into bowing down to the other girl’s halo.

The last few months since the storm had been a divine tragedy poured down onto her hands from the treasure trove of Enid’s heart. It was wild blue yonder. It was everything coming out of hiding. It was being learned like cello chords. It was – and no one was more shocked than Wednesday Addams herself to realize she had come this far – evolving for the betterment of life with someone.

Some months ago, still trapped in the torment of holding back, she would tell you that had everything to be nothing short of horrendous. A self-inflicted bullet to the head. Misery. But instead, in palpable reality, it resembled a blissful uproar. Wednesday woke up now and was unfailingly washed over by the type of blurred excitement only ever previously reserved to dates like Halloween and the anniversary of Machiavelli’s Prince. She would feel it before she was even conscious, still too slumberous to remember why, only half-awake enough to bear in mind that no…none of those celebrations were taking place yet. But the confusion was short-lived, because Enid was right next to her, and that was immediately enlightening enough.

Wednesday had learned to relax into what it all meant. Even in its complexity, it was quite simple – it was intoxicating, they were at each other’s mercy, wasn’t that enough?

She knew that was enough, same way she knew there wasn’t a single explanation she owed the world. Despite how, to the world, they were a secret. She really didn’t owe anyone anything. She knew it in the way their palms touched and their lifelines crossed paths. Or in the way everything Enid did was so full of care. The Earth revolved on its axis, and day after day, they kept learning more about what it meant to be each other’s.

And those were all just a few things that flashed across her mind with the discharge of Enid’s kiss.

Enid kissed her. Everywhere.

Lips. Cheeks. Nose. Jaw. Neck. Shoulder. Hands.

Right now. Literally.

Her soft mouth was a well of righteousness to dive into. She was on top of Wednesday on the couch, and Wednesday would kill to never retract from her touch. As a matter of fact, Wednesday would kill to never be put through the agony of feeling anyone else’s touch ever again, simple as it may be, for what an offense that’d be.

Every kiss opened up a Pandora’s box. Out swarmed all rationality. Gone. Never to be recovered.

Wednesday was in deep. Falling deeper by the second. Letting herself devour how much she enjoyed it. It was the most sinful of heavens. It was walking through the Garden of Eden and proudly biting the forbidden fruit in defiance of God, watching in contentment as its juice ran down the skin of her throat.

Wednesday kissed her deeper.

Both of their nerves pounded, rising against the tissue of their skins. It was warm and hot and still so new and—

“Yeah, please, don’t mind me.”

—fucking Christ.

Enid jolted abruptly from Wednesday’s lap with a yelp at the unanticipated voice.

Wednesday reached for her boot knife and flung her body in front of Enid’s protectively.

They both looked at the intruder standing in the living room. Wednesday thought it had to be a joke. God help her if it wasn’t. Enid was wide-eyed in disbelief.

“Yoko, what the fuck?!” She exclaimed, flush spreading down her neck.

Wednesday groaned and her head fell back into the pillows as her hands stored the knife away. Unbelievable.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Oh my god, how did you get in?”

“Bad timing, huh.” Yoko said, appearing a bit bashful, which was an anomaly in her demeanor. She waved keys in the air as an explanation with an apologetic grimace, which only further puzzled Enid.

Awful timing.

“I knocked first, though…not that you two heard me.”

“How did you—”

“—I gave her the keys.”

“You what?”

Enid turned to Wednesday astonishingly.

The dark-haired girl sighed heavily and resigned from her laid down position to sit with crossed legs, taking her time to assimilate how…yeah, well, this was the situation she currently found herself in…and admittedly she was at fault for it…her heart could stop beating so fast now…Enid was no longer on top of her.

Yet the blonde was just as much of a mess, with her swollen lip and rushing blood flow causing her chest to pant.

“Your girlfriend likes me, Enid.” Yoko tried to tease, slightly less sheepish as she eyed her surprised friend with amusement. “I’d be careful.”

“You be careful.” Enid narrowed her eyes threateningly, although she was fully aware it was a joke. The back of her throat let out an annoyed sound before she turned to Wednesday again. “Why did you give a demon the keys to our house?”

“You said you wanted Yoko to have a spare key.”

“Ah, fuck— I said that, didn’t I?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have listened.”

“Wait, regardless— when was this?” Enid asked, pouting. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I gave them to her last night.”

She had stopped by Yoko’s dorm room yesterday, believe it or not, to give her feedback on a book suggestion. Because they did a lot of that now. They as in, mutually. Mutual book suggestions. And they’d mutually deny it in a conversation if it ever came up. Nevertheless, Yoko had convinced her to stay a bit longer and they improvised dinner by ordering Thai food.

Wednesday made the mistake of relaxing into it enough to end up throwing the ‘emergency only’ keys at Yoko’s possession. When she got home, Enid was asleep with the TV on.

But why hadn’t she told Enid about it today yet? Well. The answer to that couldn’t reach Yoko’s ears or she’d be mocked for a lifetime.

Wednesday clenched her jaw. “I tried, Enid.” She could get away with hinting at it, right? Yoko wouldn’t know what she was talking about, right? “Fifteen minutes ago.”

“Hold on, you two have been making out for fifteen minutes?”

She couldn’t. Yoko would.

Wednesday and Enid both glared her as their voices synchronized. “None of your business.” The former with deadpan harshness, the latter with nervous defensiveness.

Yoko, who up to that point had been looking quite self-conscious with a sorry expression for accidentally evading that kind of privacy, suddenly couldn’t hold it together anymore and burst out laughing. Wednesday felt the urge to shut her up with the sharp object concealed near her ankle.

“For the sake of my own eyes, I promise I won’t drop by unannounced again.”

“I’ll murder you before you get another chance to.”

“They’re ‘emergency only’ keys, I get it! I won’t misuse them again. Swear. Probably. Maybe.”

Wednesday sighed. Very deeply. Very annoyed.

Yoko was, without the shadow of a doubt, Enid’s best friend. They were each other’s platonic support network through and through – where one went the other followed, it was utterly sisterly. Unfortunately to Wednesday, she feared that she had somehow developed a strangely intimate level of intimacy with Yoko too.

To spend time with her wasn’t at all a rare occasion – it wasn’t before and it certainly wasn’t now. Worst of all, since long ago they could interact naturally and nimbly without the common glue of Enid’s presence. They didn’t need her as a reinforcing piece to be held together without the risk of falling apart. Honestly, did they ever? She couldn’t believe it was true, but to some extent, talking one on one with Yoko was…an agreeable experience.

They were both dry (albeit one more than the other), both foxy, both observant, with an improbable shared like for art history and a less improbable like for spitting down on what other people thought of them. And discussions about spirits. It was an odd compatibility that only intensified under their common dedication to Enid’s wellbeing.

Yoko was also the first person to know about their relationship (on a list that only further included the Addams family), almost instantly even, because Enid was a bundle of joy on the morning after their first kiss – as well as really shocked that Wednesday wasn’t pacing around the room, presumably in emotional denial, and instead was still holding her securely in bed. And as Wednesday rapidly came to find out, the three of them could trust each other in that dimension of honesty.

They had spent New Year’s together, with Yoko drinking a toast to the midnight kiss Enid stole from Wednesday, and since January Yoko had been treating their place like a hotel, so Wednesday had taken the initiative to give her the spare keys to their apartment after Enid came up with the idea – it wasn’t like Wednesday would ever lose hers, but the same couldn’t be said about Enid, who had lost her keys two times in the last five months.

Wednesday’s old lonesome day-to-day norms had been taken by a rollercoaster, now she saw herself settling – and to some extent, settled – into new habits. Habits like Enid Sinclair calling her girlfriend, and habits like not minding having Yoko Tanaka around.

“There’s no going back now, and well, since I’m already here,” Yoko smiled. “There’s a new sushi restaurant on Commerce Street and I’m starving!”

“This is not what I gave you the keys for, Tanaka.”

“God, your bangs are a mess. Worry about that.”

Wednesday crossed arms, puffing angrily with a wooden face while staring daggers at the girl wearing sunglasses – Christ, why was she always wearing sunglasses? – Enid kissed her forehead, giving in to a little laugh amid the stern face she was aiming at her friend, as if saying “hate to break it to you but she’s right”, and then stood up.

“I can’t wait for the day you get a girlfriend so I can make your life a living hell too.”

Yoko chuckled humorously. “Yeah, right.”

Enid grabbed a pink sweater from the bedroom before joining them in the living room again. “Fair point. You’re too much of a pain in the ass.”

“You say that but I had the best night of my life yesterday with this gorgeous girl I met at Beach Haven Bar.”

“You went all the way to Staten Island to get laid?”

“Duh.”

“Spare us the details.”

“Excuse me? May I remind you of what I just walked here into?”

“And whose fault is that, Yoko?”

“She gave me the keys! What side are you on?”

Wednesday interfered, “Are you trying to turn Enid against me?”

“I’ll stop if you get your ass up, Addams.”

Wednesday narrowed her eyes sinisterly, slowly, not showing any intention of doing as asked. Yoko tried to look for moral support in Enid but the blonde was giving her a look just as dirty. She sighed.

“You two creep me the fuck out. Fine! Jesus, what do you want? Ugh…appetizers and drinks on me, there! Is that good enough of an apology for interrupting your little make out session?”

Enid’s mouth swiftly broke into a smirk so deceptively sweet that you’d think it was a smile devoid of smugness. “How kind of you.”

Wednesday stood up and walked towards the door as she straightened the dark sweater vest she was wearing. “I don’t second that. I’m still deeply repelled by you, Tanaka.”

Yoko iterated Wednesday’s words with a mocking tone, mimicking her deadpan exterior, and then grinned, wrapping an arm around Enid’s shoulder as they prepared to leave the apartment. “You know what? I’m happy. I heard this place has amazing temaki. This is exciting!”

Enid kissed Wednesday’s hair before they were outside the sanctity and secrecy of those four walls, whispering into her ear, “I’ll make it up to you later”. And Wednesday fell to pieces.

*

(Enid graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology in 1972. Wednesday graduated from Juilliard in 1973. They were together throughout the entirety of their college years, and afterwards too).

(As a second year student at FIT, Enid relentlessly chased opportunities in the Garment District, managing shorter shifts at the Weathervane while producing and selling her work for small stores after classes. She grew somewhat frustrated with her studies in the meantime, increasingly denoting that her electric ideas were considered too out of the box to match the rules professors asked of her.

Her pieces, however, were picked up by more important shops as time went by, and a year later, in the Summer of 1972, after she had her diploma, she disposed of her waitress apron to work in luxury department store Henri Bendel, whose owner, Geraldine Stutz, showed great interest in her stylistic vision.

The position proved to be rewarding as she became progressively closer with Stutz, who mentored her creatively and had a reputation for having the eye for new designers).

(Wednesday was Juilliard’s dark golden pearl.

Her genius was something to write and shout about, which the institution was well-aware of, thus why all bets were unanimously placed on her name since the minute she had joined the student panel.

She took masterclasses and triumphed in competitions like one blinked. She was this utterly bleak prodigy of antisocial rudeness who produced godly miracles of music. It was so deeply puzzling, she was a departure from the norm in every possible front.

As word of it inevitably spread, classical music events of royal reputation sought to know her, to have her playing alongside big orchestras, to have her challenging renowned experts, just to see her outdo their technique like it was an easy feat).

(It wasn’t fair. Because there was only so much one could preserve after striking gold.

Wednesday wanted her cello masterstrokes to go down in history as classical virtuosity at its prime. Enid wanted her creations to go down in history as the pioneering light of audacity against fashion traditions. And they supported one another wholly. However, it should’ve perhaps come as a hint of tragedy that neither of them had eyes for anonymity.

Still, the house they shared was an oasis, so they couldn’t feel the great divide initiating the threat to split the grounds of it yet).

*

May 15^th, 1973

Manhattan, New York

After almost three years dating Enid, Wednesday found the insanity of melting over her to be utterly liberating. She was convinced it would never cease to be insanity, but more than frenzied bliss, the feeling grounded her.

At long last, there was something quite like peace inside Wednesday’s heart. It was peace in the weirdest ways. Peace like the thrill of dying, and peace like reading an old book.

It was peaceful in the way it was domestic – waking up to fingers skimming across the expanse of her back, a cup of coffee, shared mornings, shared chores, getting home to Enid talking on the phone with Morticia. It felt deserved in all its patience, all its learning, seasons changing, things fitting together, working, because effort was put into them to work.

It was extraordinary still.

It was Wednesday feeling dazzled as she made out the emotions behind Enid’s eyes whenever there was a hard conversation to be had, all their shades of vulnerability and resolution, earnest to the point of unmistakable transparency – like looking right into her beating heart – and they were contagious, blending into her very own.

It was Wednesday feeling special to be allowed to give Enid a lingering kiss on the cheek when she had a tough day. Feeling, perhaps, even more endeared to see that it worked to make it better.

It was Wednesday feeling overwhelmed in enthrall as she was hit by the inherent summerly feeling there was to Enid. The baffling way she was the light of day. The wind of June and the sea of August. How she was full-bloomed flowers goldening an entire year.

Oh, it would be plaguing if it wasn’t Enid.

But it was Enid, and she could rip the mold from people.

It was Enid, who was infuriatingly beautiful, whose essence was the apex of life.

Everyone worshipped Summer. In her own murky world, Wednesday still preferred the onslaught weather of Winter and the petrichor emanating from dying grass that accompanied it. But she would admit, the charm of solstice had gotten to her. Perhaps an embarrassing amount. Summer wasn’t the best time of Wednesday’s whole year, but Enid was. And in the end, that was all the same.

“Wends, what do you think of this E.S?”

As of fairly recently, Enid had been figuring out the details of what she would like her own brand to look like. Now much more seriously than ever before. So far, the work she had attended in her field was based on freelancing services. But time was ticking and she wanted to properly expand her collections under the solidity of a company title. Her company title.

She was sitting on the living room’s armchair, in the most uncomfortable-looking position Wednesday had ever seen, with her sketchbook on her lap. Tons and tons of illustrations in every page. She showed Wednesday the stylized E.S she had most recently drawn.

She was designing the logo.

“You’re going merely for initials? Isn’t that quite predictable?”

“Ouch.”

“No. I mean,” Wednesday cleaned her cello bow with a soft black cloth as she approached the blonde. “Your stylistic intentions are quite avant-garde. I have seen your designs, and I have, against my will, seen shop windows on Fifth Avenue. Your ideas are so absurdly eccentric that there’s nothing like them on display yet.”

Enid’s gaze visibly softened. Of course she would always take that as a flattering remark.

“Initials are a cliché. Everything about your brand should stand out if you desire to do your work justice.”

“Your weird way of giving compliments is very charming.”

“If you take it as such, who am I to ruin your delusion?”

Wednesday made an effort to deadpan, yet the ghost of a smirk unfolded in her expression as she turned around to walk away and place the bow next to her cello.

“Ha-ha, now who’s being predictable?” Enid grinned (beautifully) and threw a pillow against her girlfriend’s back, eyes wrinkling with mirth in the corners. Wednesday tried to look upset in response, but it was Enid, so the false front of a threatening expression crumbled to give away a smile.

This was what life with her felt like – an irrepressible smile breaking through tough skin, the back and forth of sneaky eyes, fuzzy feelings that were hard to describe but nice to feel.

“But you’re right.” Enid sighed, rearranging her sitting position to face the ceiling upside down with feet held up in the air.

Wednesday feared for the future of her back, but decidedly wasn’t going to bite the bait and attempt to correct her on how to sit with a straight posture. Again.

“I give up. I admit it. I’m tired. I know this is a priority, but my mind’s blank. I’m tired, I— I haven’t woken up without being in a hurry and my first thought in the morning being get to work in, like, forever. Is this what a burnout feels like? Fuck, I’m tired. I need…I don’t know…chocolate and vacations.”

“You need to rest.” Wednesday advised, eyes wrenched, unique empathy within them. “I’m watching a documentary tonight. Join me. You’ll be fast asleep in no time.”

Enid’s hair hung down, colored tips almost touching the floor. It made her look silly, even after she had just admitted to exhaustion. “Depends. Is it about really creepy shit?”

“It’s about the Gods of Ancient Greece.”

“That’s not sleep inducing, I like that.” Her face was starting to turn red. “Besides, it’s so nostalgic. That’s literally so reminiscing to how I fell for you. Two years ago, on this very date, at this exact time, I was pining over you for knowing exactly who killed who in that whole gigantic mythological fucked up family tree.”

“While trying to impress me with your second language.”

“Jokes on you, babe, it worked.” It did.

“You still hate the pacing of documentaries.”

A chuckle. “True. They’re boring.”

A roll of eyes. Wednesday wasn’t going to argue over trivialities with Enid today. Wednesday was going to take care of her and reintroduce her to slow-wave sleep. “I’m making tea.” She walked to the kitchen side of the room. “Come here. Pick the one you prefer.”

Wednesday watched as Enid stood up and instead of sauntering, almost jumped on the way to join her. Wednesday watched it, and she was sure that her eyes said much more than her mouth ever could. The blonde kissed her on the lips, on the temple, then on the bridge of her nose, and with fingers touching her back, she chose a bag of rooibos tea.

They talked while drinking the hot, red-colored brew. Enid had her hips pressed against the counter as she tugged Wednesday’s waist close to hers.

They discussed her upcoming music recital and Wednesday addressed how Yoko wouldn’t be invited if she planned to show up to the theater with a cardboard sign saying “Go Wednesday!” again.

At some point after she started to prepare salmon rice for dinner, Enid left for a minute to change into an (eye-hurting) tie-dye yellow-blue shirt, and Wednesday’s black sweatpants, which she claimed as her own for that night. Again.

She hooked her chin over the dark-haired girl’s shoulder, watching her cook, planting soft kisses on the underside of her neck and on her braids, rolling eyes every time she was shied away from helping with the food, because Wednesday was very serious about wanting her to just sit back and take it easy. Which Enid didn’t really do. The closest she got to stopping still lasted around six minutes, when she picked up a telephone call from Pugsley and heard him describe the newest bear trap he had found hidden in the bushes of the Addams mansion – a courtesy left by Wednesday the last time they had been there, obviously, for some reason.

Wednesday reminded Enid of how the film adaptation of ‘The Exorcist’ was coming out by the end of the year, and Enid, who didn’t really want to talk about that – it was terrifying enough that said horror novel had been sitting on Wednesday’s nightstand since its release – changed the subject to the non-R-rated-for-disturbing-images program they were watching soon.

“Is the documentary really long?”

“Long enough for you to be asleep before they get to Zeus’ eldest.”

“You underestimate me.”

“I want you to rest.”

“But I’ll put up a fight first.”

“If you get to Aphrodite, consider the fight won.”

“Do you wanna make a bet so I can rub it in your face later?”

“Again, I want you to rest.”

“That’s—”

Enid suddenly shut up all at once. Her eyes stayed worryingly still, and then went scarily wide.

“…Enid?”

Wednesday’s eyebrows drew together. She watched Enid become paralyzed as if rooted to the spot, and then she started to repeat lightly, quietly, as if struck by an epiphany, “Aphrodite…Aphrodite…”

“Enid?”

“Wednesday Addams, I love you so much—”

Out of nowhere, Wednesday was irreversibly struck dumb when Enid cut off her own words by suddenly leaning forward and kissing her with both hands clutched around her face. Their bodies fell back slightly at the minor crash, throughout which Wednesday felt a rapturous smile flourishing against her mouth.

“You’re fucking brilliant.” Enid whispered before running over to her abandoned sketchbook, retrieving it with an absurdly eager joy that Wednesday couldn’t comprehend the genesis of. Only that it was somehow related to…a drawing? “I’m literally gonna kiss you so hard once I find this shit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tell me about the flower of Aphrodite again.”

What.

“The anemone?” Wednesday questioned, her forehead puckered for the glimpse of an instant. Enid nodded furiously, turning over the pages of her sketchbook as if someone was chasing her and a weapon was hidden there somewhere.

She wasn’t making any sense, but Wednesday drew nearer, intrigued.

“Well, it’s a sacred symbol of devotion. Of course, as well as love, tragic as it may be. The anemone was tinged red because it’s said to have emerged from the grounds that soaked the blood of her dying lover, Adonis. Many believed she metamorphosed him into it, refusing to lose his spirit, thus keeping him in the world as a flower.”

“Yes, yes, yes— exactly that one.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Okay, uhm, I— I drew it the first time you told me about it because I thought it was super— I don’t know, beautiful? Is beautiful the right word? It’s a bit of a fucked story, I mean, woah, dramatic… and, God, poor Adonis…anyways— the flower just really stuck with me! Hear me out— look, look, look.”

Enid turned the sketchbook around. Wednesday moved closer yet again, this time to get a better look, taking the object in her own hands, keeping her eyes peeled on the designated page.

Before her was a flower. It was drawn in Enid’s ornate style, full of curves and aversion to minimalism. A flower that wasn’t merely any flower, it was Aphrodite’s – there was a cobweb shape surrounding six petals, perfectly symmetric, truly beautiful with contours of blooming buds and enveloping small doodles of swirls, all of its delicacy placed in the center of a circular Meander pattern, interlocked Greek Lines, it was like looking at a red-figure cup.    

“I don’t know how I didn’t remember this sooner.” Enid mumbled, beaming. “I could totally use this! The flower of fucking Aphrodite!”

Wednesday was a bit slow – because there was seriously something about seeing Enid’s drawing work that never failed to make her feel like a toaster plugged to electricity being thrown a bucket of water at – so she didn’t put the puzzle pieces together. She was just enamored and dumb. Enid smiled at her. Like she knew.

“Wends, we just found my logo.”

Oh.

“Do you like it?”

Oh, that was glorious.

“Yes.” She smiled with the corner of her mouth, unable to stop her eyes from softening. “Quite the love letter to your heritage.” She whispered. “Smart. Aphrodite suits you.”

“Hm.” Enid regarded her with a funny look, approaching, taking the sketchbook off her hands and placing it down on the coffee table. “Homage to my heritage.” She corrected, putting her fingers through the loop of Wednesday’s jeans, pulling her closer by the hips. “I will only ever write love letters to you.”

Wednesday didn’t say anything for a minute, just stared.

“This doesn’t change what we discussed. You still need to re—”

And Enid shut her up with a kiss.

*

(Two months later, in July of 1973, came the first seed of change, as Enid met Ajax Petropolus on a trip to Los Angeles. Sunny city of angels.

Ajax was a starving artist.

An aspiring photographer whose interests heavily gravitated towards celebrity culture.

He spoke of wanting to do big things one day – work for Vogue, shoot album covers for popstars, direct music videos, have a front row seat at Fashion Week.

He had chosen to pay for a camera instead of rent. He claimed that wearing a beanie was his signature look. After graduating high school, he had been kicked out by his mother, who didn’t approve of his “bohemian lifestyle” – for a good while, Enid thought what he subliminally meant by that was that he was gay, but turns out he just smoked absurd amounts of weed.

He spoke Greek too. In fact, he had been born in Greece. His family was from Patras, while Enid’s was from Volos. He had moved to America as a kid and not been back since.

He was nice. Easy-going. Friendly. Good listener. Simple guy, yet fascinated by everything nonconformist and out there.

He was affiliated with a small gallery in Arts District and worked part-time at an unglamorous music bar where he served beers and took pictures of underground musicians. But his real goal was New York City, the capital of counterculture eccentrics. Yet, the financial aspect of it wasn’t of any help.

Those were all things Enid learned about Ajax in the first forty minutes of ever talking to him.

They met through the people Enid had gone to LA to look for business connections with – other fashion design workers and apprentices, small-scale store owners, all of whom worked in retail in LA’s Fashion District.

She loved the photographs he took of her designs.

Neither of them had the luxury of big resources yet, so the models were his aspiring friends and the photoshoot was held in the streets of LA, under the natural lighting of clear blue sky, near the city’s emblematic palm trees.

The pictures were great additions to her portfolio. His technique was color-popping and high-gloss, surrealist in its kitsch-ness. For a supposed amateur, he knew what he was doing.

Enid stayed in LA for three weeks. They hung out a lot. He was an easy friend to make.

They took each other’s number and decided to stay in contact).

*

(A few months later, in the fall of 1973, Enid Sinclair’s company was launched. The final logo was Aphrodite’s flower within a pattern of Greek Lines, E.S was stylized at the bottom.

Her first dress collection, intitled Renaissance, was a love arrow to the heart of many fashion aficionados, including her old boss and mentor. It was first introduced at Henri Bendel. But then at other major department stores of New York City too, such as Lord & Taylor and Bloomingdale's. It didn’t fly off the radar. The collection rapidly grew into a minor sensation due to how its luxurious-looking designs employed vibrant colors, daring cuts and eye-catching patterns.

Renaissance – Wednesday had helped her with the title.

It was appropriate, she had said).

*

(In January of 1974, Ajax called Enid with good news.

He had sent some of his photos as job applications to places that were looking for exactly what he had to offer.

He had gotten a position as a celebrity and fashion photographer within Andy Warhol’s Interview magazine. They had delivered the news along with the words, ‘Be here in a week, just be sure everybody looks good’.

He was moving to New York).

*

January 29^th, 1974

Manhattan, New York

Wednesday was with Enid when she met Ajax for the first time. It was at Stewart’s Cafeteria – which was quite ironic, came to think of it.

The location was a highly popular haunt of hippie and gay crowds in Greenwich Village. It had been since the 30s. Wednesday knew Enid loved it, even though she also avoided to be seen inside, especially because there were always people peeking through the windows to take a look at the cafeteria’s target demographics, whether out of curiosity or malice.

Wednesday and Enid didn’t introduce themselves as girlfriends but both got the feeling he wouldn’t have cared if they did.

Ajax was okay.

He behaved kindly, albeit impressionably, and shared the same interests as Enid, but was somehow vaguely boring…annoying, if ever given too much time to speak in dazed circles about something. A dime a dozen for all Wednesday cared, which was admittedly not a lot. But Enid liked his laid-back overtone and awkward sweet nature. Plus, there was his professional value in the grand scheme of things. So…eh, he was fine.

(And again, it was unfair. Because none of them guessed that in the span of a year Enid would be legally tied to his last name.

The clock was ticking. The hourglass had just turned upside down. There were beats warning them of time passing. Tick tack. Sand beginning to cram at the bottom of a pit. But that was unfair, and there was no way for them to know it).

*

Everything went about the same.

Enid and Yoko now had a new friend that joined them in partying and clubbing until sunrise. On those nights, Wednesday still religiously prepared a banquet of water and food and left it in the kitchen, ready for consumption as soon as Enid got home, clumsier and wobblier than usual with a developing headache. That is, if she wasn’t already awake, waiting to take care of her personally.

As Wednesday’s popularity within classical music society boomed, she went on to perform with America’s Big Five orchestras, one at a time. She even stepped the stage of New York’s legendary Carnegie Hall with The Philadelphia Orchestra. And was invited to fly to the United Kingdom to play with the London Symphony Orchestra for a second time. A big reputation ascending.

Enid controlled all the operations of her company still very much independently. Her designs kept enticing just as much acclaim as critique, but it was precisely that controversy stirred growingly by public opinion that began to throw the spotlight on her work. More and more, she was the talk of the city.

Yoko was almost done with her Master’s in Art History, planning her PhD, studying in evening classes while working as a curatorial assistant in MoMA during the day.

It wasn’t as easy for the three of them to get together collectively anymore, but they weren’t above clearing their schedules once in a while to just be in each other’s company. Yes. Even Wednesday. She called Yoko her friend barely without a drop of hesitation now. And it was also worth mentioning that Yoko still misused that spare key whenever she had the chance.

Meanwhile, Ajax pulled strings for Enid inside Interview magazine, and Enid pulled strings for Ajax by circulating his name through her expanding brand’s advertising, which he consistently shot images for. Amazing ones. He was incredibly dependable professionally. It was funny even, because the only times she ever truly saw him simultaneously stoned and focused were when he was giving feedback on her designs, or planning how to capture them in photographs.

And Wednesday and Enid had been dating for three years, going for four.

And every day, every month, there was still something to surprise each other with.

One day in April, after leaving a seven-hour long Mstislav Rostropovich masterclass – which only turned out to be that lengthy because Wednesday deemed the originally planned five hours to ‘not be intense enough’ – she instantly walked to the nearest payphone to call Enid at home. Even though she was a ten-minute walk away from their apartment. Yet she was tired enough for those ten minutes to turn into fifteen, and she missed Enid too much to wait that long to hear her voice.

One day in May, Wednesday wrote a poem about Aphrodite to her. Because it was only fair that Enid came to realize she was a goddess of love and beauty herself too. And because they should remember their own flowers. Theirs hadn't been sprung up nor from grief nor from blood, but still had been born out of something just as everlasting.

Being with her was natural.

Enid was inevitable. And that inevitability remained untouched. Always.

*

(In the start of June, a rambling and rather drunken Enid came out to Ajax in the most unceremoniously setting imaginable – outside a house party in Harlem, at 4AM, sitting on a dirty sidewalk, a bit irritated about a guy who had made the assumption they were a couple.

It wasn’t a planned thing. It was more like her inebriated brain slipping up.

As she came to try to analyze later, the way she so casually told him, “As if— what? Girls who like girls don’t exist? Nobody ever aks— asks you about that. I fucking exist. Are they trying to get on my nerves? It’s not that hard to just let me be. Fucking... fucking— straight people!” could only be logically explained by the increasing amount of time the two of them had been spending together as of lately.

That is, discarding the also very prominent fact that Enid was also an alcohol lightweight.

You see, she usually didn’t make male friends. It was never as easy as friendship, or godforsaken politeness, at least not for them. That was the case even with her own brothers. Four of them, all older, none she ever felt backed up by in anything. She didn’t think she had ever fully trusted a boy. Yet, she found herself trusting Ajax. It was a first. Almost surreal. It was a friendship like any other. A simple yet powerful concept.

He wasn’t a guy she needed to protect herself around.

So she didn’t.

And although she was horrified about her words immediately after they had left her mouth, almost knocked sober when she comprehended what she had done, he didn’t care.

He apologized when he fully realized she hadn’t meant to make that information known. But then he shrugged and softly hit her shoulder with his own, telling her “it was all good” and to “chill”. Because sometimes people just spoke their thoughts without a filter, “no worries”.

He just kept working on his joint. Not particularly focused on anything else. Not…reacting.

Enid dared to think…it was almost underwhelming.

She had never came out with words before – with Yoko, they had known through conviviality; with Wednesday, they had discovered through actions; and it was they because it had always been mutual, Yoko and Wednesday were just like her.

There hadn’t been silence to fill in anticipation, or fear of a negative response. There hadn’t been a conversation. And there were levels of seriousness to a conversation like that.

Yet, this would practically border underwhelming were it not for the already startled beat of her heart. It calmed down as she stared, and stared, and well…Ajax just kept not caring. She swore he had reacted just the same the other day after being told there was a new pastry shop near Union Square.

And then he looked at her.

“I don’t mean to pry. But like, so it is a crush that you have on your roommate, isn’t it?”

Oh God...was she that obvious?

“Wednesday?”

“Yeah.”

She probably was, because whatever apprehension she still had left clouding her lungs withered away as Wednesday’s name entered the picture. Very effective. Enid was insufferably sentimental when drunk.

“I love Wednesday.”

“Cool.” He smiled casually, nodding his head in approval. “I can talk you up to her.”

She held back a loud giggle, but grinned anyways whilst her eyes turned glossy with tears. “Yeah. You do that. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

“Gotcha! Hey, do you have my lighter? Or did I lose it?”).

*

Later in the month of June, Enid’s collection Sun-Kissed took over New York and went on to reach other major cities, such as Chicago, Boston, San Francisco, Miami, and elsewhere.

It was publicized all over Interview magazine with Ajax’s pictures. Enid gave an interview for the first time, small as it was, an exclusive breakdown of the creative process behind the collection, which had catalyzed a national rumpus due to its pieces: minidresses and jumpsuits that mixed theatrical colorfulness with brazen sensuality.

The art of it was so unheard of and trailblazing that Eleanor Lambert reached out a week later through the Council of Fashion Designers of America.

Enid nearly went into cardiac arrest. Wednesday fetched the smelling salts in case she fainted.

The CFDA had quite the once in a lifetime opportunity for her. They wanted to fund her business. More resources, more boutiques.

And she could be really lucky. With designs like that, Enid Sinclair could be looking at internationalization. With designs like that, they wanted to take the scandal she was impelling in America and drop it right in the center of the world’s fashion capital.

Milan. Italy.

Perhaps, she could be the face of American fashion in world economy. Perhaps.

She could have it all to make her debut in Europe by the end of the year. She just had to do well with the help she’d be given, prove her worth.

(And she would.

It would be simpler if it wasn’t unfair. But gold had been stricken. There was only so much one could preserve. And as Summer often did, it changed everything.

In October of 1974, Enid Sinclair would be leaving New York City with a one way ticket to Italy. Ready to immortalize her footprint in the world. Yet it was bittersweet. She cried when the plane took off, and the tears were like salt in one’s mouth before they drowned in the sea. With settled plans of a lavender marriage. Never to see Wednesday Addams again for the next five years.

The old tale said it best.

Adonis bled out. Aphrodite wept. The flower grew).

Chapter Text

October 15^th, 1977

Dear Enid,

In a few days, the calendar will mark three years since you moved away. October 27^th. What is that if not death by the memory of your goodbye kiss?

Today, I don’t feel particularly interested in writing. In fact, I’ve never felt this worn out in a long time. There’s dry rot tangled all around the veins of my chest, and this is my forlorn attempt at getting it out.

I’ll tell you shortly about my birthday – to hear about it is what you would’ve wanted.

I spent it in Switzerland, where I now reside. I bought a house close to the Alps; nobody bothers me up here, only the snow knows of my whereabouts, I find that this suits me much better than my previous habitation in godforsaken Belgium. But regarding my anniversary, well, I spent it with my parents and my brother.

I didn’t want to go back to New Jersey this year. I suppose you can imagine why; I’m always tortured by the view of Manhattan from the plane. Therefore, my family took the liberty of pestering me in my own space. Since it’s you I’m speaking to, I will confess, the day wasn’t detestable. I blame it on the mountains all around, they make everything seem much less suffocating.

My father gifted me a box of Gurkha HMR cigars, which was appreciated. My mother brought good wine, and was as over the top as ever. And Pugsley was mesmerized by the landscape. You’d smile widely if you knew he’s now taking Mathematics at Cornell.

But as the clock approached midnight, and the 13^th started to blend with the 14^th, I was irrevocably hammered by an overpowering existential dread. Suddenly, the snowy mountains were all but comforting. Better yet, their comfort hurt, because their beauty reminded me all too well of yours. And I missed spending a day that I turned out not to abhor next to you.

So today, I’m tired. I’ve been tired ever since. I haven’t found much solace in anything as of lately, for even the solace of the European peaks plagues me with melancholy. I see your image in them, and that’s far too intense. I think it’s because you’re not just the Summer, Enid. You’re a sun. Which makes you omnipresent and everlasting. You embroil me in warmth. But as lifesaving as that is, it also means that to look at you, blinds me. Talk about the fall of Icarus.

There was a time I used to think of how much worse I’d feel if you weren’t there. For instance, I’d wake up and I’d reach for your hand, and I’d think— ‘how miserable would I be if I wasn’t kissing her cheek today?’. How brutal of a feeling it is, to realize I am miserable today.

Perhaps I’ll move away. A shame really, the alps are remarkable. I might do it after a new letter from you finds its way into this address. Selfishly, I hope you never stop sending me your words.

I also hope that, somewhere deep down, you know that I keep writing odes to you – my distant, burning sun.

Forever yours,

WA

P.S – I recall that Yoko’s birthday takes place next month. I hope she has an awful celebration. I trust you to ensure it in my place.

—

They were no longer leaning over the balcony.

Between Wednesday’s current dust-covered ability to delve into hard conversations and her natural-born instinct to flee them, one could say she needed a pause for her mind to chew the food she had been given. She still hadn’t mastered the art of metabolizing emotionally challenging information immediately. Yet she was trying. In all sincerity, she was.

Hence why instead of shutting down after Enid had said her piece – essentially revealing that she had willingly offered herself to be crucified by the media in a divorce scandal with the hope Wednesday would see it from her hiding place – she simply gazed into the night as the engines in her brain worked, before eventually announcing that she was going to sit down.

Because this was going to take a while and she was much more comfortable taking the weight off her feet anyways. Who cared about getting a dress a bit dirty.

And Enid, because it appeared that she didn’t care either, had joined her.

Wednesday felt a bit bad, observing almost shockingly as the designer’s (already) wine-stained attire met the (inevitably) un-squeaky-clean floor. She wished she had brought a jacket. She would have put it on the ground. She would have much rather watched one of her own garments go through that than Enid’s gracious clothes. But Enid didn’t complain, and for some reason, she seemed content about what she was doing.

So there they were.

Side by side. Not quite touching shoulders. Not quite far apart. Wednesday had her legs crossed. Enid had her legs stretched. One encouraging push and one’s knee would bump the other’s thigh.

The night was all over them. The sky was slightly starry. The large body of the Eiffel Tower surmounted over the landscape at a perfect distance, close enough for many of its details to be in view, far enough for its grandiosity not to be all-consuming. Although it depended on the angle, because even from up there, the tall trees of the near gardens soared vaguely over the monument with their branches and leaves.

This was Paris, not New York. Yet the ambience felt familiar. Almost crazily so.

“Do you think they’ll find it weird that I’ve disappeared into the restroom for more than half an hour now?”

“Most likely. But they’ll live.”

Enid chuckled softly, in that way she always found a way to.

And then she was quiet for a moment. But Wednesday could tell there was something elbowing her tongue and swirling around in her mind from the way she was playing with her fingertips, twitching the corners of her mouth, quietly humming a melody to herself. Little nervous habits.

It was enough for Wednesday to conclude: Enid was only silent out of respect for her space, for her need to think.

Her rhythmic hums were bizarrely familiar as well; they rang a bell in Wednesday’s brain with annoying persistence, like a far-away sound you could weakly hear and thus not quite make out.

Oh— it was Sugar by Steve Wonder. No, wait— Stevie. Yes. That was his name. And that was the song that Enid was mumbling.

It all came back to Wednesday in an avalanche.

(She knew it was that godforsaken Sugar song because if there was a tune that Enid had been consistently obsessed with ever since they had met, it was that one. And like every other song Enid downright adored, it came a point where its title and chords became enshrined in Wednesday’s brain).

She remembered the trumpets and the falsettos and the repetitive lyricism in the span of seconds, like it was yesterday that she was being forced to listen to it in their kitchen as Enid made lunch on a Saturday. Oh. That was something.

So Wednesday realized— even if she needed a minute to reflect, she wasn’t fragile. Not to the point of needing utter seclusion to restore her rational balance. If anything, learning about the divorce from Enid’s mouth, from Enid’s perspective, had been restorative enough in that sense.

Now there was no more room for blind assumptions, there were no more darts to shoot in the dark to hit a new heart-breaking speculation. Just them and long-awaited confrontation, moved forward by their lips, told by their truths. To each other, no one else.

Wednesday wasn’t fragile. Not like she had been three hours ago. Perhaps what she was feeling right now still shared its similarities with emotional overstimulation, yet this time it didn’t wear her out. Maybe because, for what was worth, she knew they were pushing against the tide together.

So if Enid wanted to talk, Wednesday wanted to hear.

“Enid.”

Her gaze followed the cellist’s voice. Enid’s eyes were big and ethereal. Spellbinding too, especially when their pupils dilatated just the slightest bit when their stares met. Wednesday looked into the blue, feeling a bit like a sailor adrift at sea.

“Give Stevie Wonder a break.”

It took Enid by surprise, she went quiet.

There was something quite heart-melting about watching the blonde not know what to do, parting her lips to speak only to realize she didn’t know what to say. It made Wednesday feel special. Like she hadn’t in so long. It was something as pure as the driven snow. Because it wasn’t by any means an easy feat to turn Enid Sinclair speechless.

Eventually, the words broke out of her chest. “You remember it.” She nearly whispered. Her voice soft, yet low. Stars in her throat.

Please, Wednesday thought. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve been offended. In what world would she be crazy enough not to remember everything about Enid?

“Hard to forget a man screaming the word ‘sugar’ thirty one times in three minutes.”

Enid laughed.

Wednesday was fucked.

Enid laughed like real people did. It was open, relaxed and giggly. She hadn’t laughed like that at dinner. She hadn’t been carefree. The group socialization hadn’t done it, not even the wine had helped. Yet Wednesday’s deadpan attempt at a joke in an empty chilly roof had broken the spell.

The realization sent her into the abode of the damned. It was an apocalypse tearing everything apart.

“I can’t believe you still remember how many times he says it. But, hey, don’t be mean,” Enid was smiling, and her hand moved to poke Wednesday’s arm, like one did when they teasingly called someone out. She didn’t linger, and she was clearly still nervous, but oh, it was the first domino piece being knocked over to create a chain reaction. “There’s much more content to the lyrics.”

“If you insist.” Wednesday responded. There wasn’t. But she had already ripped Pop Art to shreds at dinner, so Enid could have this one. “Will you tell me what’s on your mind?”

“I thought you wanted some time…”

“Time’s over. Tell me.”

“Oh. You know… it’s not really anything. I just… I still haven’t had the chance to say I really liked to hear you play.”

One piece after the other. A butterfly flapped its wings and triggered a typhoon. The dominos fell.

“I played for you.”

This time, Enid didn’t act surprised. She acted shy, fighting the impulsive growth of a sweet smile, looking down at her hands in a cute but unsuccessful attempt at hiding the heart on her sleeve. Oh, what a bastard. She already knew… just didn’t expect Wednesday to come forward and reveal it outspokenly.

“Those words won’t ever not feel like an honor.” She said. “You’ve gotten really fast, like faster than before, which is just…mind-blowingly insane. Swear to God, it’s completely out of this world.”

In the spirit of honesty, Wednesday let the domino effect do its thing. She let a more candid part of herself draw open her mouth, and thus she responded, very much aware her answer was utterly unrelated to Enid’s statement.

“I called my mother before the concert.”

“Oh?”

“It baffled me too.” She disclosed. “I’ve never experienced even the mildest taste of stage fright. You know that.”

“…Yet this time… you did.”

Wednesday turned her head, fixating her gaze on the tip of the Eiffel Tower, looking away from blue eyes. They could kill.

“I was afraid to see you.” Wednesday professed, surprisingly calm all things considered. She spoke it like it was a secret burning her tongue and she had finally found the relief of cold water. “And I was afraid because if I went out there, I knew you’d see me too.”

It was an ugly truth, but it didn’t matter. The ugliness of it couldn’t distract her from how freeing it felt to finally not mince her words to that one person. To Enid.

“Wednesday.” Enid called softly, turning her body around, trying to reach forward with her hands but stopping herself halfway, unsure how to express that need to get closer that was just so Enid. “Please look at me.”

Somewhat reluctantly, somewhat earnestly, Wednesday did. Because who was she not to? When had she ever denied Enid anything?

“I know.”

And it was that simple recognition of pain, uttered with its own weight of sorrow, that at that moment singlehandedly hit more profoundly than another I’m sorry ever could’ve.

Before she said anything more, Enid studied Wednesday’s face, her heedful gaze absorbed everything attentively. She moved nearer, and the cellist could only think about how intimate it was – to stand before those eyes, knowing they read her expertly.

“You have more to say.”

Wednesday inhaled sharply and turned her body around too.

(They sat across from each other, and the words she had exchanged with her mother earlier echoed in her brain. What would you like to do instead? — meet her).

“I was terrified of what being near you would do to me again.” Wednesday repeated, if only for the sake of underlining its desolation one more time before throwing herself into the nether regions of open-hearted stupidity again. “Yet, at the same time, I found that there was nothing else I desired so badly. There isn’t.”

The drape fell.

The confession wormed its way out of Wednesday’s lips like blood spilling from a cut.

“And I believe you… about Ajax.” Which translated into her own way of saying she knew no part of that marriage had ever been easy to the designer either. “I suppose what I mean is… if we’re getting to the bottom of it, I need you to only say what you really mean. Whatever that may be.”

Wednesday felt naked under Enid’s scrutiny, her expression as serious as someone on the edge of their seat; yet so full of admiration.

The cellist opened her mouth to speak, afraid that perhaps she hadn’t been clear enough, but Enid beat her to it.

“I know— No more promises I can’t keep.”

Wednesday clenched her jaw. Her eyes followed the movement of Enid’s lips. She watched it in ruins. Watched it with misery. Because Enid was pretty and kind-hearted. So much so that if the devil were to ever lay eyes on her, he’d cry a river and see the error of his ways.

Enid was just Enid and when had that ever not made Wednesday’s heart flutter.

“You have my word, Wednesday.”

“Okay.” A whisper. “I know you already know this, but I want to make it clear. I don’t blame you for the way you left New York.”

“Well…still… I’m well aware those weren’t my brightest days.”

“They weren’t mine either. If I blame you for leaving, then I have to blame myself for allowing it.”

“I know you would’ve stopped it all if you could’ve.”

“Yes.” Wednesday’s eyes weakened. “I know you would’ve too.” She said. “But why didn’t you come back?”

“Honestly…” Enid sighed. She found it harder to hold Wednesday’s gaze, but that didn’t make her look away. “I was paranoid. There was so much pressure. Around me, around me and Ajax. I was scared because it was a mess, and it was a mess you didn’t deserve, and a mess I didn’t want for you— and being with you again would just remind me it was a mess I was much better off without as well. I know how unfair my logic was. God, I was just so scared of everything.” Enid admitted, revolted at her own words. “I wasn’t as brave as I thought. Not back then. I was afraid. And I thought being afraid was the smart thing to be.” 

“Would you say you’ve changed in that regard?”

“I changed a lot after the divorce.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you remain close with Ajax?”

“No. We speak little.” Enid shrugged with a sad frown. “Turns out that pretending to be married to one of your best friends during three years for the sake of increased fame and hiding your sexuality won’t do wonders for your friendship in the long run. We’re not on bad terms, it’s just— we share a lot of bad memories. Plus, it’s not like we can casually hang out and be friends without causing a pandemonium on the tabloids.”

“Didn’t those vultures you used to call your public relations team harshly disapprove of the divorce? How come they allowed it?”

“Oh, they didn’t.” The designer corrected. “Ajax and I just went behind their backs the whole time. We made our fights as public as possible so they couldn’t intervene and try to salvage it. Like, for real—” She let the sliest of smirks slip, “I was so intentionally dramatic about it, everyone thought I had lost it. I made their lives a living hell, it was PR crisis after PR crisis. They said do this and I did the exact opposite just to piss them off.”

“Did I miss your rebellious phase?”

“You're just in time, sweetheart. Not a phase.”

Wednesday short-circuited. Oh fuck, she felt eighteen again.

She was neck deep in a silent panic long enough for Enid’s worry – regarding the possibility of having accidentally crossed a line with her impulsive nickname calling – to morph into a less sly smirk when she realized the longing Wednesday eyed her with.

The cellist cleared her throat. “That’s quite vengeful of you.”

Enid grew a smile. “A girl’s gotta have claws.” She chuckled, and then looked at the moon. She stayed quiet and focused, and Wednesday took it as an opportunity to observe her. “You know what really gets on my nerves sometimes?” Enid asked, turning to meet her gaze. “I think Thornhill really made those pictures disappear. I looked so good in them, though!”

—

August 3^rd, 1974

Manhattan, New York

The moment that the CFDA had found the promise of American success in Enid’s name had been, in many ways, the moment that her life had irreversibly changed. It was a revolution overnight. Suddenly, she was sure she’d never have the space to feel small or slow down ever again. One of those changes was a publicist, naturally. Marilyn Thornhill.

She was a respected name in Fashion PR; not formally associated with the CFDA, but a close friend to many of its founding members. And thus they were driven towards each other.

Enid hired her, following the advice of many and the excited voice inside her own head, because any fashion house needed a publicist to manage its image – that was how you knew you were starting to turn into a big deal; by having your individuality develop into public domain like it was never solely yours in the first place.

But indeed, it was the right move. Besides the way Thornhill’s profile-raising arrangements jump-kicked Enid’s status through all sorts of marketing means, she was also a soothing figure. They clicked almost instantly, professionally and emotionally. Thornhill was so easily caregiving it could almost be perceived as motherly.

(However, Enid should’ve known, should’ve remembered— no daughter ever loved a mother without suffering to great extent in return).

Fast forward a month or so, and that was how Enid found herself sitting in Thornhill’s office on a Monday morning, called in for a meeting which the publicist had cryptically designated urgent over the phone, out of nowhere.

She stepped inside. The office’s door was closed, in telling contrast to how it was usually left ajar. The same could be said about the blinds. It was a crushing atmosphere of confidentiality. Seriousness. Even though, logically, it was quite unnecessary – they were already alone, given that Thornhill had also dismissed her own assistant out of the building.

That was how Enid came face to face with it – splattered across the auburn-haired woman’s desk: pictures.

(That was how everything started to go to shit).

And so Thornhill talked. Enid couldn’t hear a thing over the hostility with which her heart thundered against her own throat. Even so, she had a good guess of what the publicist was saying. She just cut the discourse short.

“—I don’t understand how that’s any of your business.”

“It’s not, darling.”

“Good. We’re done here.”

“Enid…”

She readjusted the glasses on her face, pushing them up the bridge of her nose, and looked down at her hands, uncomfortable, finding it hard to choose between sympathy and whatever she felt she had to say.

Enid prayed she didn’t.

Enid looked at the pictures in her desk – most she had never seen before, didn’t know existed at all, yet couldn’t misread if she tried; pictures of herself in organized marches and protests and youth meetings, some in which she was standing side by side with Yoko, all in which the matter at stake were campaigns for the gay rights movement – and she just prayed.

There was nothing but anxiety puncturing through her gut.

Lesbians and gay men fight back; Hands off our community; Gay pride is gay power – those were just three of the many slogans engraved in social justice signs that Enid was found next to, or in some cases, was seen outright carrying. And it was all photographed. Evidence caught in analog frames. She had no idea how, but there they were, irrefutably apprehended by a dozen different film cameras – the old times in which she could put her neck on the line without feeling like that open revolt equalled to the end of the world.

All the events shown in the images Thornhill confronted her with right now were old – 1971, 1972, it didn’t get more recent than that.

Two, three years ago.

At the time, it was uplifting to join her fight on the streets. Let Yoko lecture her about why they shouldn’t stay still with crossed arms, say what the hell and spend day and night at Greenwich Village with a thousand more people who understood her struggles. Because at the time…who the hell was Enid Sinclair?

“I agree. It’s no one’s business. But this could jeopardize your entire take-off in the industry.” The woman said, cautiously, as amiably as one could say something of the sort.

Thornhill hesitated before pointing at a photo that seemed cut out from a news magazine. It most likely was; it presented the best quality out of the whole bunch. Even through the black and white grayscale, Enid was as recognizable as ever – with her loose hair, floral top and bell bottom pants, and joyous fucking smile – at the front of a huge crowd. She recalled that day, 1972, June, pride march.

She had been captured leaning against Tyler Galpin, a gay activist notorious for the number of disorderly arrests in his record. He had been one of the militants in charge of leading that rally, as confirmed by the megaphone in his hand. There was a huge banner above their hands, Stonewall was a riot…now we need a revolution. Yoko was just barely out of frame.

Enid wanted to smile at the memory, but her stomach curled. 

“I found this one published in The Village Voice. Did you know these photos were in a paper?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then I suppose you’ll also be surprised to know that this one,” She pushed forward a photograph featuring women from the lesbian feminist group Lavender Menace. I Am A Lesbian And Beautiful, their shirts said. And then there she was. Fuck— Enid wouldn’t be the first thing you noticed in the shot, given that she was almost out of focus in the background. But there she stood nonetheless. With two interlocking feminine Venus signs drawn in her arm, laughing at whatever Yoko was telling her. “I found published in Come Out!. It was the image introducing a poem by Rita Mae Brown.”

“Did you dig for this shit?”

“I didn’t. I have a friend who’s writing an article on the aftermath of Stonewall. He was quite shocked to come across one of my clients in his research. Enid, your face is in…a lot of publications. It’s a good thing protests are documented more and more these days… but I guess everything is a two-edged knife.” What the fuck. “Don’t worry. He won’t be using any of these. But I think you understand why I called you here.”

Her heartbeat plunged, her voice cracked. “Those are all from years ago.” Why was she trying to explain herself?

“It doesn’t matter.” Thornhill sealed her lips in a hard line and curved the corner of her mouth ruefully. “For the record— as I see it, the bravery to stand your ground on such a socially stigmatized matter should earn you nothing but good things. But I’m afraid that’s not what the media thinks. Maybe it’d be different if you already were at the top of your career, but you have no backbone of protection in this world, sweetie. You’re a new face. New name, new everything. And yes, we’re marketing you as an eccentric, but…this is different.”

Enid felt her throat turn into a desert. Her breath was held, imprisoned inside her own lungs. Humiliation flamed a hole through her chest. She blinked and blinked, only with the intent of suppressing the water beginning to collect at the bottom lid of her eyes.

“This comes out, this is noticed, and it’ll be all people will ever associate you with.” The publicist warned. Her voice attempted its best at gentleness, like she profoundly lamented everything she was saying.

The designer just recoiled into the seat, shrinking as fear slashed open her ribcage. A terror so primitive that she grasped onto the chair not to flee the room.

“I’m not reprimanding you here, darling. It’s all the same to me. But socially— you cannot afford to make a world debut as luxury designer while being associated with groups like the Gay Liberation Front.”

“I’m not.”

“These photos tell a different story.”

“I protested a couple times, so what? Lots of people did!”

“And I get that. I wish it wasn’t a problem—”

“—so let’s not turn it into one.”

“You’ll be eaten alive, honey.”

“You’re fired.”

Thornhill sighed. “I’m not against you, Enid.”

Enid gripped the chair. Tighter. Stronger. Knuckles growing whiter. Her bones could’ve cracked. A muscle in her jaw twitched and she felt childish when her chin began to tremble irrepressibly, taking away seriousness from the death glare she was trying to impose. Thornhill looked away, remorseful, wordlessly allowing the girl to privately wipe away the threat of incoming angry tears.

The room was cold, awfully tense. The gracelessness of the moment was as sharp as the hooks of a bear trap.

“I can’t say I don’t get it. Go ahead. But I’m on your side. I know people who would kill to get their hands on this. About anyone.” She gazed again at the pictures. “Do you know how much money the press could make off of mass-producing speculations about the life of a young girl like yourself? Especially now, that your work is starting to get serious coverage?”

Enid’s first instinct was to nearly jump forward and venomously spit something ironic – no, I had no idea, that’s not what I was protesting against or anything – but instead, she just forced her mouth shut, knowing that she couldn’t show how shrill her voice was without crushing the leftovers of her pride in the process.

The silence was heavy. She felt physically ill. She felt like she was seconds away from perishing at the hands of a tragic death.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, I’m open to debate. But wouldn’t that— wouldn’t being outed be worse than… anything else?”

Her gaze flickered down – in uneasiness, in shame too perhaps – but it was admittedly a miscalculation on her behalf, since her eyes then landed on Thornhill’s desk. They focused on a different picture this time. 1971, the protest outside of Kooky’s – a lesbian bar that was all but safe for lesbians. Oh God fuck—

What startled her to the disturbing degree of an overwhelming chest pain wasn’t the fact that her blurry silhouette was in view, but that she immediately recalled that Wednesday had joined her that day.

Her girlfriend had always remained out of sight in the sidelines – big gatherings full of people shouting, unsurprisingly, weren’t her thing – but she still had decided to go that one time, curious about why Enid liked street demonstrations so much. Plus, it was her cause too. Yet, the mere fact that Wednesday had gone there because of Enid, and could’ve accidentally ended up in a position just as vulnerable as the one she was in right now made her mind race in a million different directions like she was about to collapse.

Enid felt as if her entire nervous system was being mercilessly butchered by pins and needles. There was a lot on the line. Too much. She remained silent. But here it was. A fight she couldn’t win.

She forced the question out of her mouth, unable to not feel like she was stabbing herself in the back, “What do you wanna do?” It was an utterly bizarre feeling – betraying yourself in order to protect yourself, and the one you loved.

“Well… first, if you give me the green light, I’ll make sure to conceal these from the public. I’m sorry. You just have to understand… if one journalist was able to find these pictures and identify you, many more will be able to do the exact same. And they most definitely won’t be kind. I’ll simply try to make that harder.”

“Right.” Of course. Step one, bury the body. Enid chuckled humourlessly. “Second?”

“…No more protests. Ideally, no more gay bars either. Or if you do decide to go to one—”

“—be lowkey about it. Yeah, I get it. Thanks.”

Thornhill grimaced, regretfully finding out that Enid – cheerful, bubbly Enid – was just as capable of sounding and looking bitter as anyone else. The blonde scratched her nails against her palms, feeling the glass of a hopeful, trusting relationship with an adult break in her hands yet again.

“I’ve noticed you’re with the same girl in many of these pictures.” Yoko. “Is she an activist?” Enid gritted her molars in silent rage, seeing red in an urge of protectiveness, almost foaming at the mouth in response. That must’ve been enough for the publicist to understand that said subject was utterly out of bounds. She just continued her train of thought. “You can’t be linked to those. Especially the ones who mirror more…radical groups.”

“Linked to who? I told you- all of those photos are old. I stopped going to protests after I left college. When I knew freedom of speech would get me in trouble with people like you.”

The publicist seemed to want to defend herself from the accusation, but just shut up before any sound could come out of her mouth, and now she was the one looking down in shame.

“You have more bullet points?”

“I think…” Thornhill sighed. “I think you should consider the benefits of a PR relationship.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I know how it sounds.” She said. “But set it up well and you’re… off the hook, so to say. For a well-known public figure, which you will be, it’s nothing but a long-term strategic insurance. Honestly…I’m sorry, Enid, but it might be your safest bet. There won’t be anything to speculate about if people are too distracted looking the other way. You’d be shocked to know how many celebrities do it. It’s a common practice since the dawn of Hollywood. Who knows— choose the right guy and it might even push your career forward.”

Enid didn’t know how long it had been since the last time she had felt like this. Wrong. Not wrong about something. No, it was much graver than that. This was personal. It was the bleak knowledge that something about her didn’t have a rightful place of its own in this world. And hence she was left with a single by-product conclusion: she was wrong.

She was so shocked that she neglected to take notice of the corners of her eyes turning dampened again.

“I’m really sorry.” Thornhill spoke quietly, in a whisper of her own. “It’s not fair. It’s a lot to compartmentalize. Just think about it…for your own good. Reporters make scapegoats and anecdotes out of these matters all the time, it’s how they profit. My job is to prevent that, honey. And there’s only so much I can do to keep these pictures away from the media.” She forced a half-smile. “Having… well, a beard, wouldn’t be a bad idea, Enid. It could actually make your life a lot easier, both in the public and private sphere of things.”

And Enid saw her entire life in the millisecond that followed. She saw everything. It was an awful premonition. The drought and flies and flames. All of the things that had made Earth, and could as easily destroy it too. She saw violence. She saw liberty. She saw Wednesday.

And everything was slipping from her hands like soap.

*

When Enid left Thornhill’s office, all she wished to do was crawl into a nest and cry.

Unfortunately, that urgency for safety awakened a whole different, newly formed, and worse problem. Because her refuge wasn’t a place. Her refuge was Wednesday, whom she couldn’t yet face without falling apart. Whose heart she couldn’t – and didn’t – want to break.

So she just walked. Whereas usually she’d take the D train from 6^th Avenue to Columbus Circle and get home pretty quickly…this time she just walked. Not towards home, no— she just walked. Aimlessly. Burdensomely. The sidewalk screeched under the weight of her misguided, slow steps – as if the pavement was made of wood, and New York was an old house.

She walked for so long that suddenly— Central Park stood in front of her. Enid didn’t think twice before head diving into its labyrinths, losing herself to the enormity of it. She walked and walked. She abandoned her brain and gave rein to a mental blur, not registering a single thing while passing by people and lawns and lochs and trees. She just walked and walked and walked.

She wasn’t really present to take note of the equations her head produced, but she felt an awfully bitter swirl of what ifs and what nots tormenting every last one of her nerve cells.

And when she eventually got home, conscious she had to at some point, Wednesday was so worried with her big, beautiful dark eyes that it took everything in Enid not to disintegrate in an ugly sob right at that second. And Wednesday was concerned because, well…since Enid had left in the morning, six hours had passed. Naturally, she had questions; no meeting would last that long, and Enid never went radio silent about her whereabouts.

But Enid could barely utter a sentence to begin with. Only after thirty agonizing minutes of calming herself down in between panicked gasps of hyperventilation, did she finally speak. She told Wednesday everything. Terrified incredulity stared back at her the whole time.

And then— silence. Long drawn-out minutes of it.

Ultimately, “I’m so sorry” was the first thing Wednesday said – discombobulated words that were followed by an equally empty and tortured void of stillness on both parts.

It was the first time Enid ever felt it, never the more intensely – like she would’ve rather screamed to the extent of a headache just to avoid withstanding what lurked in their mutual soundlessness. It was the scariest of blackouts. Every light flickered.

And only when Wednesday finally asked, with a lone voice, dismayed, “Where do you and I fit into that?” did Enid irrevocably cave, twenty times worse than before, sensing that whatever terrible sorrow lied ahead of them had arrived.

Trouble set its teeth on her throat and ripped it apart.

They both knew what Enid’s tears meant. She was so terrified that her hands shook. Could anyone blame her? Wednesday’s hands shook too. The heart of the dilemma pumped so much blood, too much blood. It was dug up from the soils where skeletons hid. It was muddy.

And silence came back. For a while, silence prevailed.

However, that wasn’t the fatal tap to send the glass shattering.

The initial shock came, killed, and then was dispelled before it could cause any more damage. Because if there was one thing Enid and Wednesday were with each other, was patient.

That day, Enid leaned forward, face tarnished with streaming tears, and rested her forehead on Wednesday’s hands, apologizing. Their fingers intertwined. And she was kissed softly on the hair, on the knuckles.

Wednesday, who felt she had to make herself ruthless for everyone, except for Enid, let her touch be gentle. And despite how, in moments like these – feeling knocked sideways – she wasn’t good with vocalizing feelings that had been pulled out by the roots, she tried her best. Like she always did when it came to Enid.

(The fear of getting it wrong was so irrelevant when there was a palpable urgency to make Enid know that she was loved. Loved to the point where fear didn’t stand a chance in the way).

“It’s not your fault. I’m here. She’ll regret saying that to you. I’m not upset. Stop apologizing.”

And with all the care in the world, as if Enid was the beautiful petal of a bruised flower, Wednesday lifted her chin, caressed her tear-streaked cheeks, trembling, pleading wordlessly with her gaze. And kissed her.

Wednesday kissed her like a kiss was a promise. A poem, a declaration. Like for their lips to meet was a statement. It brought light upon irrefutable evidence – they didn’t have to ask anyone if this was right or not, because one could feel such things, and what Enid felt was that being Wednesday’s was to die and be reborn, each time better than the last, each time stronger and gentler (over and over and over again).

This was not the end of the road— sorrow had no business getting between them yet.

*

The two weeks that followed, however, were some of messiest and scariest of Enid’s entire life. She had never been so fucked over by a more unpredictable series of days.

It started with telling Yoko, who was also in the photos, and therefore, who needed to know. Surprisingly, she took that part quite well, almost nonchalantly; perhaps because the stakes were different for her – Yoko wasn’t striving to become a wide-reaching celebrity who made a living off what people thought and wrote of her. But she was still mad. What she was really enraged about though was exactly that: learning that Enid was in the lion’s den over something so absurd but so vital to her future, the opinions of strangers. Actually, not just Enid, but both of her friends.

It was followed by time spent with Wednesday. Every single day. Calming touches and sweet nothings. Reassurance in one hand, and in the other, conversations full of hidden fear that avoided to really tackle the prime burden weighing on them – Thornhill’s suggestion of a fake relationship.

Speaking of Thornhill, she followed through with her promise. She gave Enid time and space to think of the situation she had in hands. Despite her shortcomings, she was well aware this was a quandary too personal to be rigged by outside pressure.

(She would be the first and last of Enid’s PR people to take that into account).

After a while, Enid also told Ajax. She didn’t divulge as many details to him as she had to Yoko. She didn’t even mention how Wednesday fit into the picture at all – for all he knew, they were just roommates and Enid had a crush (which justified the boy’s adorably clueless attempts to play wingman between them at times). He listened to Enid’s heartbroken vent with a heartbroken expression of his own, and never interrupted.

He tried to cheer her up by suggesting they went out to one of her favorite restaurants in Chinatown – it was good and cheap, exactly Enid’s kind of comfort food, even though money wasn’t exactly an issue anymore. They ate dumplings while taking a walk. He offered Enid his dearly treasured white beanie when she complained about the wind blowing hair over her face. She took it, and saw his hair in full glory for what was probably the third time ever. And because this was Enid, she jokingly jumped to tousle it while giggling, running after him when he tried to escape.

It was nice. But that marked the godforsaken day the rumors started.

What was time between friends— in fact, it’d be appropriate to rephrase. What was a lesbian leaning on her token straight friend’s shoulder to open up about how shitty it felt to have her identity erased out of PR convenience, turned into dating rumors. Serious ones. Ironic.

(You could blame it on the fact the two of them were no longer unknown.

Ajax Petropolus’ services were in high demand. His photos had been receiving praises from New York’s biggest art whizzes and pop culture gurus for a while. His camerawork style had now completely taken over Warhol’s magazine. In addition, everybody knew he was joined at the hip with Enid Sinclair, who was in even higher demand than him. She was the most notable prodigy of fashion in New York City, with more and more success all over the country every day. A young girl full of color whose extravagant creations made the jaws of American fashion industry titans drop to the floor.

Anyone in Manhattan who cared about culture knew who they were. And everyone knew they were one hell of a team – their approaches to art were fascinatingly in tune; every time they worked together, something without equal was the end result.

So, naturally, everybody thought they were so cute).

“This is such a fucking mess.” Was Enid’s first verdict upon realizing that word about their hang out had spread like a wildfire. A date, people were calling it – congratulating them on finally getting together and going for it and everything.

Whoever had spotted her wearing his beanie had been quick to draw and diffuse conclusions, to the point that one of the next times they were seen together outside of work, there were images of it printed on a gossip rag. It was a small one, but still. God fucking help her.

From there on, everything was a snowball falling down the hills, accumulating more and more snow until eventually— it was too much.

Thus, Enid and Wednesday’s actual first conversation about the matter was forced to play out.

“Did you do it on purpose?”

“What? I don’t— on purpose?”

“You could’ve known they were there.”

“You think I wanted those photos taken?”

“I don’t know what deals you’ve been arranging with your publicist.”

“Wednesday… you can’t be serious.” Enid breathed out, hurt. “I had no idea this was gonna happen. It’s already bad enough I feel like I’m committing a crime by existing, the last thing I need on top of that is to also ruin the base of trust in our relationship.” She found that she had no strength to exasperate. No real will to search for such energy. She was just tired. She didn’t want them to lash out on each other. “Which, by the way, is my one and only relationship.”

Wednesday’s mouth opened and closed, and Enid watched this like there was nothing else in the world to pay attention to. Deep in thought, Wednesday broke eye contact, like she was scared of it, ignoring her girlfriend’s searching gaze.

“Are you thinking of following through that PR scheme with him?”

“I don’t— I don’t…know— I— But I don’t care about him, Wednesday! I’m thinking of you right now. That’s who I’m thinking about.”

“Don’t.”

“What do you mean don’t?”

“I’m clearly bad for your image.”

“You’re not. No, Wednesday. I’m bad for my image.”

The words fell out of her mouth into silence. Wednesday's shoulders drew tight, she couldn’t look at Enid. It was like watching a hedgehog grow spines at full force to defend itself from danger. But oh God— the last thing Enid wanted was a fight.

She got closer, moving bit by bit, murmuring Wednesday’s name and soft hushes, bleeding love, earning back the observant tone of her girlfriend’s eyes assessing her movements. Enid’s chest ached when she got close enough to translate the other girl’s expression, to perceive the full range of fear masked within her gaze, battling neutrality, battling surrender.

Wednesday stood still, petrified, and in response, softly, the blonde ran her fingers over the length of her arms, easing both of their nerves by reaching for the skin of her hands, slowly sliding their palms together. The touch was enough to break Wednesday out of the stiffness she had recoiled into as a means of self-defense.

Enid was close enough to see words freeze at the top of her throat, to see her struggle against it, like she was sinking in quicksand, trying not to get stuck.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry.” Enid squeezed her hand lightly. Their fingers touched ever so gently. “I’m so sorry, Wednesday.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

“Are you jealous?”

“No.” Wednesday said, and then clarified, because of Enid’s skeptical head tilt, “Jealously presupposes feeling threatened. Men don’t pose as a threat to me. Especially Ajax.”

“No one poses as a threat to you.” Enid corrected. “Anyone who isn’t you can fuck off.”

“I wasn’t jealous. But I… was, and am, having a hard time picturing you… by someone else’s side. Like that. Even if just for illusion.” Wednesday confessed. “I don’t like it.”

“Me neither.” Enid sighed. “I didn’t do it on purpose at all, though. We work together, so we just hang out all the time. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t. And I wasn’t fair with how I spoke to you.”

Enid closed the little space that was still between them. She leaned in to rest her forehead against Wednesday’s, bringing up their joined hands between their faces, tenderly kissing every part of the other girl’s skin. Every inch she could reach. And then it was Wednesday’s turn to exhale a deep breath.

They stayed like that long enough for track of time to be lost, for anxiety to regress.

Enid bit the insides of her cheek, “I’m gonna— like about what you said— shit, I hate even thinking of it. Fuck. Wends, I’m the last person who wants to say this but—” and released a nervous breath against Wednesday’s lips, “I’ve been thinking, and like… I’m the ticking time bomb here. I’m already fucked. I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

Enid dropped her gaze alongside her intonation, which suffered just the same crestfallen impact. She wanted to hide her face in Wednesday’s neck, but Wednesday didn’t let her, Wednesday wanted to look at her. She was confused.

“What do you mean by that?”  

“I just want you to know— if I’m considering something I shouldn’t… it’s because— we could still have a chance like that, couldn’t we?”

“What do you mean still?”

“I just— fuck, that sounds awful, that’s not what I mean— I just… I don’t want us to drift apart because we’re under a microscope trying not to get caught.” She disclosed. “I don’t want Thornhill to be right but she knows how these things work— and we do too.” She felt terror shaking her throat, cornering her. Terror like the suspicion of a monster under the bed. “I still have some control over what it’s said about me now, but if the CFDA supports my brand’s expansion to Italy, that’s going to change. If the tabloids find out, Wends— they’d pick us apart. I don’t even wanna think about it— but I can’t— I can’t let that happen. It'd be our relationship and your career and my fault.”

“That won’t happen.”

“I’m just thinking out loud, okay?” She rushed to reassure, cupping Wednesday’s cheeks when her face fell down in a sorrowful motion. “I’m sorry, please look at me— I don’t want to fuck this up, but God, I also don’t want other people to fuck this up.” Wednesday’s eyes were full of heartache. Yet she was listening, she wasn’t pulling away. Her hand slowly came to rest atop Enid’s to show it. “I’m yours and I want to be yours and I don’t want anyone to stick their nose into our business.”

“I’ll kill every last one of them if they dare.”

“I know.” Enid smiled weakly. She knocked their foreheads together again, and intertwined their fingers over Wednesday’s cheeks. “Darling, I’d be your accomplice. But then we’d go down in history as serial killers and you wouldn’t be known as the world’s most brilliant cellist. That’s kind of… precisely what I mean.”

“Those are equally honorable titles.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“You’re the most beautiful, secure thing I’ve ever had in my entire life. I don’t want the world to twist that. Maybe Thornhill just scared the shit out of me and I’m saying this out of paranoia, but the thought of us falling apart because of a few pictures or a few hearsays makes me go insane. I’ve been avoiding to mull over this shit for the sake of not making matters worse with my overthinking skills but there’s so much happening at once, and I have to be honest with you because honesty is all that we’ve got.” She grimaced. “The rumors about Ajax and I are laughable and untrue and there’s no substance to it beyond the fact that we’re boy and girl. But what if the smartest use to make of it is… let people buy it so they don’t come looking for my actual love life?”

Wednesday stayed silent, assimilating Enid’s heartbreakingly low-whispered words.

Everything stopped for a minute. It was like being in the deepest of waters, without nothing to hold on to, surrounded by boundless quiet.

Enid wondered if Wednesday knew what was going through her head, if she could feel it bleeding off of her – all the panic, all the fear, all the bad endings flashing like movie scenes; all the despair of feeling caught between a sword and a wall. She had never tasted a defeat so debilitating.

And sadly, Wednesday could more than certainly feel it consuming her stomach too – because she wasn’t arguing back.

There was silence. A lot of it.

“I’ll need to think about it, Enid.”

“I know, I know.” She said quietly against dark lips, brushing their noses together, caressing Wednesday’s face as if she was holding a treasure sent from the heights of heaven. “Me too. Okay? I’m sorry maybe I’m being dramatic, but I just— I don’t want—” She went silent, biting her lip so the pain would substitute an urge to cry. “I don’t want you to be taken away from me.”

“Enid,” Wednesday called, fondly yet nearly reprimanding. “Please. You can’t get rid of me.”

Enid smiled. It started small, shy – as she struggled with allowing her muscles to widen while she began to weep. But then she gave in. She beamed broadly, almost stupidly so; and she accepted it as she accepted the way it blended with her tears.

Wednesday tasted salt in her lips when she hesitantly reached for a lingering kiss. Enid let out a tumultuous sigh, soaked in sheer gentleness. Time slowed to a complete stop. Enid didn’t want to move her forehead away from Wednesday’s.

“This is ours to discuss, okay? Whatever decision we make, Thornhill will be the last one to know. We have time to figure this out.” She whispered. A soft finger wiped the tears off her face. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Not just ours to discuss, Enid.”

And God— Enid could’ve dissolved in a sob again. Hearing those unsweetened words and feeling Wednesday tense up— she could’ve died.

“I’m sorry.” She nearly pleaded through a broken voice.

Wednesday was right. It wasn’t just theirs to discuss, and that felt wrong. It felt wrong in so many ways. In spite of how much she loved, how much she trusted Ajax, oh it felt wrong. It felt wrong to implicate him in a coverup, it felt wrong to call it a coverup in the first place. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He was aware of the situation, but what reason did he even have to go along with it? And if he didn’t? She would what—? Play pretend with a beard that her publicist randomly fished out of the water? Did she want that? Did she even want any of it? Did she have choices?

But in Wednesday’s arms she could cry it out as a necessary evil— if only we’re not torn apart, it’ll be okay, it’ll be worth it, oh I can’t let this be ruined. Plus, it’d only be until the end of the year, right? She was still arranging things regarding Italy, but most certainly, she’d be moving away for some time. She wouldn’t have to pretend any longer than that.

“I promise… whatever happens, I won’t let this thing’s proportion grow. I’m yours- heart, body and soul. We come first, no matter what’s going on in the background.”

*

With the end of August, came the end of normalcy as it was known.

Slowly, it became a matter of a crazed, monstrous snowball— rolling down a mountain at a deranged pace, picking up more and more volume by the minute, swallowing everything it encountered; ready to blast and kill at any given second.

There went the snowball, a sign of the times— from Wednesday squirming in agony, ratifying the PR move Enid was being inflicted upon regarding her public appearance’s protection – and even more under the covers, their relationship’s – under the wing of a beard; to Enid falling prey to potent insomnias out of guilt for it, terrified at how everything around her had suddenly turned into shitty and shittier; to Ajax believing he was only keeping Enid’s secret, not Enid and Wednesday’s; to the giant step that whole charade was for both of their careers in the social aspect of fashion nonetheless.

In good truth, it was quite stupid, because they never did anything in public that earned them the title of IT couple they quickly became known for. People just liked the idea of it – innovative fashion designer and artful fashion photographer; Enid Sinclair and Ajax Petropolus, from Greece to Cali to New York; friends to co-workers to sweethearts; you would envy their luck in having found one another if they weren’t so damn cute.

Not only did magazines eat it up, but everybody they worked with did too. Suddenly, all of their connects fused together. Their popularity escalated in an upwards spiral. Thornhill barely had to lift a finger, the world was just irritatingly naturally invested in marketing them gloriously. Oh, they’re soulmates this. Oh, they’re each other’s muses that.

It would be nice if Enid wasn’t a closeted lesbian and Ajax wasn’t uncomfortable to imply they were anything other than sibling-like friends. Although, admittedly, he also took his new mission quite seriously – he wouldn’t let bigotry pull the trigger on Enid’s career when her career was just getting started, he knew she feared the worst.

August was a messy month, and September was cruel. That is not to say, however, that there were no more good moments between Enid and Wednesday. There were. They never turned against each other, regardless of how chaotic it all got. Enid kept her promise— they decided things together, they had to see eye to eye for something to go forward, their long talks about feelings came first unconditionally.

And there were still sneaky laughs and winking eyes, and Enid’s pop music rants and Wednesday’s late night cello solos. Shared breakfasts and dinners – some just the two of them, some with Yoko.

It was reciprocity, as it had always been between them. Patience. Resilience. But in a way, it was also like stepping on glass, carefully and slowly, hoping it didn’t cut your feet, hoping it didn’t slaughter your skin.

What they were doing was dangerous, it was hoping that the end of the rope didn’t slip. And that eminent danger sometimes flashed through their brains like a warning, screaming underneath the veil of nice moments. It screamed loudly, because all of their nice moments were also confidential.

In some sad way, that already forecasted enough.

On October 3^rd, it was made official, printed on the first page of Glamour: Enid Sinclair’s brand was about to take new heights and fly on its colorful, glittery wings all the way to Italy. America had never seen designs so mold-breaking, and rightfully so, they were earning fervent support from the industry’s biggest players – every big-league fashion professional would tell you so, her vision was so unique it was nearly menacing.

The exclusive lead article in question marked Enid’s first appearance on the cover of a radically mainstream magazine. Which pretty much sealed it – now her designs weren’t the only thing turning into an influence, into a product, now it was her personality too; and when you had a bright, fresh charisma like hers, the real kind, oh the cameras loved you, and so did the public.

From that point on, the glass began to cut.

It wasn’t that Wednesday was against Enid’s departure to Italy – they had talked about it, it wouldn’t be permanent, they understood those times would inevitably come and go; a small but natural price to pay for the fact they hadn’t chosen jobs which required stillness.

Now— what wasn’t a natural price to pay, was how Enid’s PR team (because this was much bigger than Thornhill now) was suddenly bringing forward the idea that Ajax should join her; because wouldn’t you know— nobody wanted them to break up. And it didn’t take a degree in public affairs to realize that, even if they didn’t announce a separation and just went on with their respective lives, the profits would triple up if they showed to be serious about their romance with a grand gesture. Moving across the globe to live and work together kind of grand gesture.

Despite how much of a dishonest scheme it was, it wasn’t utterly nonsensical. In the big picture, both of their public images would boost alongside their statuses – both for how they’d be perceived as a sensation couple, and for how they’d be perceived as a sensation fashion duo. And then there was all this newfound fame, reminding Enid at every turn that if she didn’t keep up appearances, something bad was guaranteed to happen.

Enid and Wednesday tried to stitch the wounds that came along with this by talking. Failing to accept that maybe, this once, talking wasn’t enough.

The people handling the strategy of Enid and Ajax’s attachment soon started discussing something bigger – marriage, which the designer knew, was a lavender one; because she would be one hell of a liability if her truth ever came out. And they were so insistent with this that came a day when Enid and Ajax were forced to stay in a room for three consecutive hours just listening to a bunch of PR specialists enumerate all the reasons why their matrimony would be their best move.

The pronouncement of their engagement was nothing like their decision to go along with the dating rumors – it wasn’t tolerant, it wasn’t small, and it wasn’t theirs at all. It wasn’t theirs to suggest or debate or control.

And by theirs, it meant three people: Enid, Ajax and Wednesday.

The cellist, at this point in time, had just reached her career’s big turning point. She had performed the Elgar Cello Concerto with the Philadelphia Orchestra under the direction of conductor Ormandy – the concerto had been recorded and quickly became a critically-praised bestselling album. So, it wasn’t like she could do anything either. Like Enid, her name was too in view. They were too all over the headlines.

It became stressing to even go home – they lived in the same building— they lived together, yet nobody expected them to even know each other. It was nerve-racking to worry and pretend every second of every day. But they were good at it. It was all they did.

However, the fear that something bad could happen out of the blue at any given time had never been so strong and encroaching – to both of them; there were so many eyes on their movements, so many expectations.

In the end, Enid and Wednesday shared one last kiss in Dumbo under the Brooklyn Bridge, early in the morning before Enid’s flight— I’ll be back, I promise. They both had gotten each other the same farewell gift. Love letters. The first two of many.

In the end, Enid and Ajax got married in December. In Greece.

It was portrayed in the news as something beautiful. But Ajax didn’t stop biting his nails the whole time and Enid wanted to throw up when she signed the papers. Her hands were shaking. An ocean away, the ink dropped onto Wednesday’s hands, and her heart was stained.

Enid and Wednesday exchanged correspondence consistently for a year, before Wednesday removed herself from the situation entirely.

Throughout a good deal of that year, they survived just fine.

Wednesday collected magazines with Enid’s face on it; Enid collected records that featured the sound of Wednesday’s cello. They smiled at each other’s letters and postcards.

(Like in April of ’75, when Enid found herself in a new Italian city every week. She travelled so much. She saw everything from coastal towns to landlocked metropolises. It was beautiful and electrifying and sunny and rich and she forwarded Wednesday every single photograph she begged Ajax to take. The cellist’s mail overflowed).

Wednesday sent anonymous threats to the conservative critics who dared to call Enid’s creations anything other than revolutionary; Enid sent pieces from her upcoming collections to Wednesday before the world knew of their existence.

They were so in love still, the letters were like coming home. They managed, until they couldn’t anymore.

As anticipated, Enid and Ajax became lionized, their names prospered internationally. God, Enid was all that everybody everywhere talked about. Her brand really had been internationalized.

The pair flourished, respected and beloved. And inevitably, Wednesday felt the weight of it turn too heavy; she didn’t like to be Enid’s secret, she didn’t like that Ajax got to appear next to Enid on the cover of Vogue but she didn’t.

At first, she suspected it, but then she was sure— they were drowning in a sea of bad luck made from their own blood.

They were apart, and it was as if their limbs were breaking from stretching. Before leaving, Enid had promised she would come back, but Wednesday could read between the lines— she wasn’t. Not anytime soon. And never like before. The letters were everything they had.

Enid wasn’t coming back. In fact, Wednesday was pretty sure that Enid was avoiding it.

Next month is no good for me— I know I said I’d stay in Spain longer, but I was needed in London— I’m sorry our schedules conflicted and I was in America when you weren’t— 

So she stopped— she pulled back and ran. The pain of it couldn’t be worse than the pain of not being Enid’s – not fully, not wholly; she was Enid’s by the halves. There couldn’t be a more dreadful fate than that. She couldn't live half a life.

To only touch someone through a piece of paper was a slow death, unfortunately, their death had been imposed.

They were a ghost of what they used to be. Hollowed out like a bullet case after fired shots. No matter how much longing flooded their correspondence. From their first to their last.

And so Wednesday fled.

And Enid succumbed inside.

Wednesday scatted like a woman on the run – from city to city, country to country – ceaselessly plagued by a torment whose origins she could place but didn’t want to. It was too much. And Enid couldn’t be so irreverent as to chase her after denying so many opportunities to do it before. Wednesday knew her boundaries, Enid knew to respect them.

I don’t think two people could’ve been more right until the very end, Wednesday wrote on her final message.

These months have been a countdown to destruction, haven’t they? It shouldn’t come as a surprise that it’s you I talk to as the world tumbles down, but I suppose I always pictured us side by side as the sky burned down. Instead, I am left here, a mere mortal, to cave as everything crumbles around me. I cannot reach for your hand to hold. But maybe that’s the way we should leave it, so as to not punish one another any longer. This is agony I cannot withstand. I admit you are a balm for my tortured soul; but you are also what tortures me, Enid.

For all that was worth, year after year, Enid’s letters never stopped plummeting onto Wednesday’s hands. They found her like it was their destiny to. They kept coming and coming, like a lifeline that tethered them together against all odds.

Losing Wednesday nearly drove Enid to madness. True insanity. The deep well it carved on her chest was one of anger – anger of the circumstances, anger of leaving, anger of fear, anger of powerlessness, anger of obeying, anger of loneliness.

So, in 1977, although all the drama between her and Ajax was for show, the essence of her wrath was real. She was finally letting it implode. Desperate to show some genuine emotion. Finally getting herself back.  

—

June 7^th, 1978

Dear Wednesday,

I’m turning 25 in two weeks— can you believe that?

I’m terribly sorry I haven’t written to you as much lately. Sadly, I haven’t had the time. Even worse, sometimes the courage to hold the pen slips from my grasp. Which is quite silly of me, because I’m always thinking of you nonetheless.

But I must confess, dear, however scary it is— I’ve been meaning to tell you that I was in New York. Not for a fleeting day, but two full weeks. In my line of work, those words shouldn’t be surprising, yet I’m shocked to state them. I suffer from what my business right-hand likes to call “New York phobia”. If Manhattan screams for my name, I don’t care, I’ll put it on hold for as long as possible. I’ve been keeping this in my heart for a long time.

This might be a brave guess, to which I have no right to suppose— but I think you know what I mean.

It had been a while since I had spent so much time there. New York is a graveyard of stars. In its streets I find the crooks of heaven, the tales of you. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to what I’m told religion feels like, and there will never be a place that looks more like home. But even though your name is still thriving all over Lincoln Center, our house has been sold. We flooded an entire city with our love, but darling, I think we might’ve cursed it too in the process.

Our ghosts stroll up and down the streets of Manhattan til this day. I’m not sure if this is sardonic or romantic on my behalf, but I suppose that comes as an attainment of its own – to undyingly haunt such a great city isn’t everyone’s feat to own. Although I wish we didn’t. There can be no pride in haunting something with fear, and God knows those last days were full of it. Although, yet again, we were also so much more than that. If you ask me, those last days don’t count.

While I was there, I visited a bookstore. Can you guess what I looked for? I’m quite predictable— Greek mythology. I suppose some part of me was trying to find you inside a story. And I did find you. But I found you reflected in something better than folklore, I found you in a poetry book.

It’s a shame we never discussed Sappho. Are you familiar with her? She was the greatest of her time. And well, her name certainly caught my attention. I think she’s my new favorite poet. I’ll leave you with a passage of something she once wrote, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever read: ‘Sweet mother I cannot weave – slender Aphrodite has overcome me with longing for a girl’. And oh, this one is excellent too: ‘Someone, I tell you, in another time, will remember us’.

I hope you’re doing okay.

Forever yours, if only in my dreams,

E.S

Chapter Text

April 4^th, 1978

Vogue Magazine  

Enid Sinclair’s Newest Creation Steals the Show at the Oscars

Enid Sinclair has done it again! The fashion designer known for her daring creations has unveiled her latest masterpiece – an attire that has taken the world by storm. Worn by none other than Cher to 50^th Academy Awards ceremony, this look is unlike anything we’ve seen produced by the designer before!

These pieces mark a departure from her usual style, which tends to feature bright colors and flamboyant patterns. The dark tone and sultriness of these clothes have shocked the world to its core; they might be Sinclair’s most dramatic inventions to date yet. The all-black ensemble worn by Cher was meticulously crafted to showcase a unique blend of avant-garde and classical fashion elements: it consisted of a theatrically tall, feathered headdress; a showy, jewelled top; a midriff-baring skirt adorned with shimmering black sequins; and strong knee-high boots.

The look caused a stir at the event. Once again, this designer’s name is the one on everyone’s lips.

When asked about the outfit’s revealing intentions, she claimed to have wanted to “celebrate the female figure”. When asked about what had inspired such a sudden shift in color palette, however, she merely pulled a wolfish smile and inconclusively  replied: “Next question, please”. Bianca Barclay, on the other hand, has been happily teasing the possibility of a new, reinventing look carried on by the brand.

Whether we really will see more of Enid Sinclair’s darker creativity or not…well, for now, that remains in incognito.

The designer has had her fair share of scandals over the years, including a long-standing reputation as a nightlife aficionado, or a disco diva to be more precise, who doesn’t mind to be spotted dancing on tables with a drink in hand; and of course, an ugly high-profile divorce from Ajax Petropolus nearly a year ago, which many believed was going to send her career into the trenches to die critically. However, her revolutionary approach to fashion has clearly allowed her to consolidate controversy with glory like a real iconoclast.

Now, months after her infamous statement, “I don’t need a husband to stay relevant, in fact, I don’t need a husband at all”, it’s certainly safe to say that she keeps proving backlash wrong and her own claims right.

(…)

NEXT UP: Sources claim that Wednesday Addams has permanently left her reclusive residence in Iceland after a seven-month hiatus. She’s believed to be on the move towards a new country yet again, with rumors of upcoming concert dates trailing behind her steps.

—

“Why didn’t you tell me that you had divorced Ajax?” Wednesday suddenly asked. “In your letters, that is.”

She observed as the blonde tipped her head and looked away from her crystal heels to focus on the black lips that had uttered the question.

While Wednesday was still sitting on the floor with crossed legs, Enid had changed her resting position, and now nearly looked as if she was relaxing on the beach with a slightly reclined back supported by the weight of her palms on the ground.

After Enid’s remark about the vanished pictures, they had talked somewhat minimally about Thornhill, and then lolled back into quiet. Well— not a talk as much as a mutual manifestation of disdain. But the shortness and superficiality of it was okay, because they had already discussed that name too many times before, too much, and they knew well that what it always brought was a bloodsucker of a revolt.

(The truth was, as much as Wednesday prided herself in standing unapologetic about holding grudges for a lifetime, even she had to admit… that grudge was a vampire.

It’d be one thing to act on it – make Thornhill and everyone else with a degree in public affairs who had ever interacted with Enid regret their first cry of breath – but to dissect it all over again, as if they hadn’t already done it a million other times before— that was, quite frankly, cruel. How many times did a heart deserve to break over the same irreparable thing?

So they shared some mutual disrelish, Enid got a few laughs out of Wednesday’s deadpan description of how to turn a corpse into dust, and then they closed that book. There was no point mulling over old pain, and they both seemed to want something more, something bigger than lamenting, something that pushed forward).

Enid corrected her posture the littlest amount before answering.

“It seemed like a manipulative thing to do.” She spoke honestly, not needing much time to think about it. “Don’t you agree?”

“How so?”

“I mean,” She forced herself to sit more uprightly by taking a hand off the floor to aimlessly gesture around the air. “I was pretty sure you’d come across the news on your own anyways, and from that point on you’d make your evaluation of things. But it felt of poor taste to, I don’t know, rub it in your face? As if I expected something in return for it?”

She said, frowning, like the mere thought of it was bizarre.

“I wrote you love letters, not gossip columns. Like— that would’ve been so self-centered of me. It’d be like saying, ‘Hey. See? I divorced him. Now you owe me a response. Because I did this for you, so start writing back’. And that wasn’t my thought process, I didn’t do it to have a card to play or something to pressure you with.”

“That is…” Wednesday froze for a moment with an agape mouth. She dragged her gaze across Enid’s face, feeling embarrassingly tugged at her heartstrings with the way she was being observed so devotedly. “Thoughtful. Very much so.”

“Oh, c’mon.” The blonde smiled. “More like the bare minimum, Wends.”

…Oh.

Lord have mercy.

Her heart wavered like a bird taking flight.

Too many years had gone by since the last time she had heard that.

It clearly hadn’t been a premeditated move on the other girl’s part, though. Enid’s own surprise was genuine, as genuine as the casualness with which the nickname had dripped from her lips. It was an impulsivity so sweet that it surely had left millions of beehives nauseatingly jealous all over the world.

Wends— and so something luminous ignited. A little candle tilted, fell, met a leaf, set an entire forest on fire in the fraction of a minute.

Because who would ever call her that if not Enid? Who would ever be allowed such privilege if not Enid? And naturally, if you followed that little hint, that tiny line, you’d find yourself uncovering a much bigger trail— an entire path to eternal damnation interweaving with footprints to seventh heaven—

You’d find the first time that Enid ever called her that in the hideaway of a library, the smirk in her voice, the teasing in her pronunciation, the dare to test both of their limits; you’d find that by the second time she ever said it, behind the counter of the Weathervane, making a teal blue apron look like the cutest of garments, Wednesday was already a fool beyond hope, she just didn’t know it yet; and you’d find every other time that followed, a string that harbored years of intimacy.

That, however, the history and the intention, only made it feel better— it was good, good, good.

Wednesday’s pulse soared ridiculously on the high of it. Her eyes curled, shyly but passionately. She was prey to yet another fluttered heartbeat. Wends— God help her. She would do something incredibly childish if she didn’t hear it again in the next ten minutes; she would pout, she would beg with her gaze, she would say please, she would corner Enid with puppy eyes—

“Sorry. Impulse.”

“No. Don’t apologize.”

“…Okay… then I won’t.”

Wednesday blinked, trying not to sink her teeth into her lower lip. “And I do find your thinking to be very reasonable. About not writing of it.”

“I got kinda scared that you were maybe like… gonna hardcore disagree and say I should’ve actually done it.”

“No. It wasn’t about me.”

Wednesday reassured, and something about saying it out loud made her realize how full of truth her words deeply were. It was empathy, really. Because the divorce had been Enid’s escape; she had disentangled herself from a thousand vines of restrain and fled from play pretend. At the root of it, she had done it for herself – and that was something Wednesday respected.

“Plus, thinking about my boundaries isn’t something I’ll ever reprimand you for.”

And the moment brought forth an emotion she hadn’t yet allowed herself to taste.

For the first time that night, Wednesday came to terms with feeling washed over by a sense of relief – about many things, but mostly, Enid’s company, which hadn’t been calculated in the least, but which she felt grateful to have found. Because in all its fluctuation… it still worked.

Enid bit her lip in contemplation, with a fond glow in her sapphire eyes.

She moved nearer ever so gently, and changed her position to mirror Wednesday’s cross-legged stance – although, admittedly, with a far less perfect posture. They were close and the sky was star-studded, shimmering against the gloam, and Wednesday wanted to reach out so badly, to touch her, but she didn’t dare, if only because there was something a thousand times just as dazzling about the rip-roaring tension hanging between them, like they were at the edge of a cliff.

“I know that in hindsight I haven’t always dealt with shit in the most admirable ways… and I’m not talking about New York here.”

Enid spoke, calling for the cellist’s undivided attention with a serious, heartfelt gaze. Wednesday was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. She immediately sensed a shift in the atmosphere, immediately sensed that Enid was about to get rid of a stone in her shoe. She let her, although nothing could’ve prepared Wednesday for the almost religious-like openness pouring from the bleeding words that followed.

“I should’ve come back. I should’ve come back to you. I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry I gave you crappy excuses instead of just owning up that I was scared. I should’ve known better, but I didn’t. And for that I’m so fucking sorry, Wednesday.”

Her voice broke into a trembling whisper at the end. That crack, however, didn’t make the statement sound any less sincere. If anything, it only illuminated the pit of Wednesday’s soul. Enid had never looked so candid, and her frankness was brighter than a ray – it was a wellspring, a gospel of truth unfurling inside her chest. And it bled, because she was opening up a cut and rubbing alcohol all over it, but the blood coming out had long been yearning to be cleaned.

“I never wanted you to lose yourself in my mess, but I didn’t always go about it in the right way. There’s a lot I’d like to change about what happened, but I can’t redo the past. That inability doesn’t petrify me, though. Because now I’ve learnt, and I know what I don’t want in my life, I know exactly what I have no wish to repeat. So… yeah, the divorce was a lot to jungle on its own, I wasn’t going to carelessly insert you in the middle of it and pretend it was doable. Or fair.” She further explained. “I couldn’t. I knew better then, same way I know better now.”

Enid let the words sit between them for an instant, and as she always did, she observed Wednesday’s expression with care. Finding no mute cue to bring her speech to a halt, she picked up her train of thought, looking into the girl’s eyes never the more fearlessly, yet never the more vulnerably either.

“I’ll never put you in that position ever again. Because loving you was never hard, Wednesday. It was easier than— than making dresses and sketching designs and chitchatting at parties and— and making my mom mad and wearing too much color. Loving you was the easiest, the most natural thing I’ve ever done. It was unfair to you— and to us both— that I let other people make me believe it suddenly couldn’t be that way anymore.”

Wednesday listened. Wednesday took it and accepted it – Enid’s earnestness (forever and ever warm in spite of its rawness). But deep down she felt it like she had never felt anything else before – she wasn’t hurt anymore. The hurt kept untangling and untangling around her lungs. She breathed, and it felt simpler, cleaner.

“Through the good and the bad… you were so easy to adore. You were patient, as a girlfriend and as a friend. So… yeah, I wasn’t going to send you an invitation through the mail to join my mess again. Honestly— I’m actually so fucking glad that you had no idea any of it had happened until now. I’m glad that you didn’t get involved one bit. I’m glad that you didn’t waste a drop of energy thinking about it. And I’m glad it’s all dealt with now because— yeah, the divorce was a shitshow, but it’s gone. And I’ve grown so much these past two years that the least interesting, most forgettable thing about me is my fiasco of a marriage.”

Wednesday was sure that her eyes said enough. This was Enid’s apology, this was Enid’s vent, worth years and years of wanting and waiting, and Wednesday was sure that her doleful starry gaze gave her entire internal surrender away.

“You’re not a mess, Enid.”

“It can get messy around me. I’m not saying that to be hard on myself, it’s just the truth.”

Enid shrugged with a resigned smile, lips sealed, eyes free from strife. And despite all of Wednesday’s inaptitude in translating social cues, one thing was certain: she was pretty sure that Enid was okay with her life’s imperfections, with naming the skeletons in her closet, pointing them out; she was pretty sure that Enid did know better now, better than her insecurities and uncertainties.

“I’ve been through all stages of grief in the most extreme ways you could ever imagine. I’ve built an enraged monster with all my repressed anger, and now that monster’s gone and what it left behind was just… me. Like, a real version of me. That knows what it wants and who it is and is eager to walk this world exactly that way. If I say I was a mess, or let shit get messy, it’s not self-pity. It’s just… acknowledgement. Hitting rock-bottom is one hell of a humbling experience. My messes made me who I am today, you know? And I think that’s gotta count for something.”

It did.

Wednesday found herself agreeing.

Wednesday, in good truth, found pieces of herself in Enid’s statement.

And cleaning blood had never felt so… cathartic.

“Fuck all the people who drove us apart.” She added. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell them to fuck off until it was too late. I’m really sorry, Wednesday. I tried so hard to protect us, yet I just made way for both of our hurt. I wouldn’t put us through it again if I was held at gunpoint.”

Wednesday’s gaze wandered astray with a slight blurriness, away from the blue. Her mind hazily commanded her attention elsewhere. She obeyed. She followed the lines of Enid’s body, observed the bones under the flesh, watched the way her heart thrummed against her skin’s tissue, from her shoulder to her collarbones to her jaw. She wasn’t even aware that she was doing it until her vision focused back on Enid’s eyes, deep pools of wonder.

She wished a thunder would just smite the ground besides them, because then they wouldn’t have to move, but it’d be enough for light to shine across Enid’s face. Then they could just stay right there, in the gloat of the dusk, and a beam would illuminate them in the dark.

“Thank you for always writing.” Wednesday said, a little bit above a whisper. “I’m grateful that we ran into each other today. I’m grateful that this conversation is happening. And I’m sorry that I stopped sending you my letters.”

“Me too. And I understand why you did it.”

“But I made you believe I had stopped caring.”

“You did it to protect yourself.”

“I was..." The admission was terrifying. "Scared…as well.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“But I don’t think I want to protect myself from my feelings anymore.”

The brief silence that followed was a bridge – a canvas waiting to be painted, a blank page begging to be written upon. Enid played with her hands on her lap, eager, full of expectation. The weight on her shoulders decompressed fully.

“I’m done with that too.” She declared. “And… since we’re on the topic,” She paused, and – honest to God – smiled. “I just— I have a few questions about that. About the letters.”

“I expected you would.”

“So, uhm…” She mumbled, bracing herself, shy and smiley all of a sudden. “You didn’t make a bonfire out of all the stuff I sent you, huh?”

“No.” Well…there was no point in playing coy now. For the lack of better words, fuck it. “I have all your correspondence safely kept inside various suitcases. Which I’ve always taken everywhere with me. Relocation after relocation.”

Enid would’ve probably squeaked in shock hadn’t she been rendered speechless. Her mouth flew wide open and she looked flushed as she fumbled to form a cohesive response. “Cool—” She cleared her throat when her voice came off too high-pitched. “Cool, cool.” She was blushing so hard that not even the penumbra of the night-time could help her case. “And huh… you wrote to me as well?”

“I did.”

She pressed her lips together tightly, supressing a grin. “I noticed you keep saying… letters. As in… plural. So like… five? Ten?”

Wednesday raised an eyebrow.

Seriously?

What kind of amateur was she being taken for?

“Two hundred and eight.”

Enid blinked.

And blinked again.

She stood still in absolute paralysis, flabbergasted as if she had just witnessed a building collapse in front of her eyes, or as awestruck as if she was a child witnessing a magic trick for the first time. She was unmoving. It lasted for a comic while, until she hastily sat on her knees out of the blue and smiled so broadly that it was ridiculous. And then, in a turn of events that was utterly playful at heart, her hands threatened to violently go for Wednesday’s neck.

She stuttered before actual sound managed to leave her mouth. “I have never…” She breathed, pausing for a second, smiling more and more, “Wanted… to rip your head off with my bare hands so bad in my entire life, Wednesday Addams.”

Cute, but what a feint of an ultimatum it was. She was happy like a lottery winner. Her rosy lips were lively, mirthful with a flash of warmth, and it was like she intended them to jokingly spell out are you kidding? You’ve really written me all those letters and I haven’t read a single one? You've been keeping all of that from me?

It was lighthearted. That was a good sign, right?

So Wednesday smiled too, challenging Enid’s false outrage with a smirk.

“I’ve received scarier intimidations from my brother.”

Enid’s mouth fell, hanging open with such shock that her jaw nearly reached the depths of hell. And then her menacingly positioned hands finally acted on their pretensions by hitting Wednesday’s arm. She couldn’t hold back a laugh while doing it.

“You’re such a— two hundred and eight?!” Enid exasperated like she was on the warpath, but her stupid smile grew wider by the second, wider and wider with every soft, meaningless punch.

When Wednesday tried to block Enid’s hits by getting a hold of her arms, however, the shot backfired in the slightest… she had to admit.

Enid fought against the grip and resisted the clutch of Wednesday’s hands. She giggled playfully, but was having an unusually hard time getting the upper hand in the spat. Perhaps because her biggest wish at the moment was nowhere near simulating aggression. Either way, she knew Wednesday was having fun with the prospect of winning.

(Winning what exactly? They weren’t sure themselves. But they were touching and laughing and the moment was foolishly intimate in a way that was innocent. And that was enough. Oh, that was a start).

Wednesday’s sneer was infuriatingly conceited, so Enid moved – in a way that could’ve almost been perceived as accidental – to her lap. And did not stop counterattacking – just so that the accidental part came off as more believable.

And with that, the smugness of the Addams dropped dead.

“Two hundred— and eight?! Are you insane?” She chuckled, eyes softly crinkling at the corners. “I can’t believe I haven’t read them! I’m gonna kill you so viciously that when I’m done with you there won’t be a body to look for.”

Wednesday blinked, and despite her breathlessness, the smirk dared to come back. “Seduction will get you nowhere.”

“Still not taking me seriously?”

“You’re harmless.”

“Say your last prayers.”

“You know I don’t pray.”

“I’ll make you.”

“Your threats are as empty as—”

And just like that she was cruelly cut short. By something she really didn’t see coming and had no idea how to dodge – which wouldn’t be the first thing to cross one’s mind… no.

Enid touched Wednesday’s skin and tickled her.

Ah shit—

“Sorry. I didn’t catch that. As what?”

“Enid, no, no, no—”

For added context— if you asked Wednesday Addams about the worst thing to come out of four years living together with Enid Sinclair, she would have one single very specific incident to complain about: the time that the one spot on her body prone to the vulnerable malice of ticklishness had been discovered by the blonde.

We were talking about, of course, the insides of her elbows.

A zone that Enid prickled deviously right now – with a playful giggle that in reality was nothing short of sadistic. The touch of her fingertips was light but accelerated, and the horrible tingling sensation that it naturally caused somehow only worsened every time that Wednesday registered how loose Enid’s laughs sounded.

She was so fucking screwed. She would defend herself oh so weakly if it meant that she could hear that laugh for a little bit longer. Or at least, hear whatever she could grasp over the sound of her own catastrophic chuckles.

If this was her punishment for being an awful pen pal… she’d take one for the team.

“As empty as Enid, no, no, no? That’s weird—”

“—Enid, oh my god, you’re dead—”

“—I wonder what that could mean.”

“Stop, stop—”

“You big softie, are you laughing?”

“I’m going to kill—”

The timid eruption of Wednesday’s laughter completely filled the little space between them. The air was an open void, barren of noise obstruction, everything reverberated. It was just the sound of them and the sound of their clothes moving against one another. The warmth of too much closeness justified under the pretext of friendly teasing. It was Enid’s hips clutching the littlest amount and Wednesday’s hand pretending to find her waist by mistake.

Wednesday tremored and shuddered. They laughed as their ribs began to ache, and it echoed across the night sky into heaven and above.  

“Enid— Enid Sinclair, stop—”

“Oh, wouldn’t that make your life easy.”

For all of Wednesday’s frown upon being called short, she appreciated what her five-feet-tallness in conjunction with her impeccable physique allowed her to pull off in regard to furtiveness. For example, at that moment, desperate between gasps for air and gasps for sanity, it sure made it a lot easier to sneak her legs from under Enid’s clasp and run.

Yes…Wednesday Addams…running away… from Enid Sinclair…who was more ridiculously colorful than a box of crayons… and not only that but she looked like a complete mess while doing it – disarrayed bangs and panting chest, hints of a dumb smile still clinging onto her lips, looking like she was fighting for her goddamn life making a break for it in an expensive dark gown.

The world had seen it all.

Enid probably agreed judging from the hysterical way her shrieks of laughter inflated at the sight.

The blonde fell flat on her back for a moment, giggling hopelessly while looking at the moon from the ground. And Wednesday, who was struggling miserably for breath, thought it was ridiculous— absolutely ridiculous— she had never seen a woman so ethereally beautiful in her entire life. Nothing about anything or anyone mattered to Wednesday as much as the way Enid dissolved into laughter under the moonlight.

To look at Enid Sinclair was begging God to make you fall in love, begging cupid to open fire at your heart. It was ridiculous. She was the most unforgettable thing Wednesday had ever encountered. It was ridiculous.

The cellist had no power left to register that the Earth was still spinning.

Next thing she knew, Enid had gotten up, and stood across from her, still chuckling diabolically, establishing a safe distance between their bodies, aware that if she drew too near all of a sudden then the other would likely flee again – or perhaps do something violent.

Wednesday had cornered herself into the back of the rooftop. It was so remote. They were already alone up there but that particular spot felt lonelier, more private, like the depth of the woods. As intimate as sitting in a car with someone, nothing but the handbrake between you.

The trees surrounding that area were a much darker shade of green too, and they tilted, providing refuge from peering eyes, veiling them from the world. The Eiffel Tower wasn’t even in sight anymore. They were so isolated.   

“How’s that for a last prayer?”

“Take a step closer and I’ll murder you.”

And Enid Sinclair be damned because she just scoffed with a calamitous degree of teasing in her glistening blue eyes and then took not one but all the steps closer, without a stutter of forethinking.

Her heels clicked on the tile floor slowly, approaching, echoing; she did it with such grace that Wednesday – poor mesmerized Wednesday – could barely repress a delirious sigh taking her in. Gaze running up and down.

“What you said about seduction,” Enid spoke with the poise of a woman who knew what she was doing. Enid spoke elegantly, so elegantly, like this wasn’t the beginning to a devious remark destined to shatter Wednesday’s senses. “Don’t propose a challenge you’re bound to lose, darling.”

Chaos wreaked. Wednesday was utterly ravaged. Melting, glowing. In flames and in shreds. But what a perfect chasm it was – snapping open beneath her and devouring; sweet like honeycomb.

“You’re insufferable.”

Enid raised an eyebrow in a way so effortlessly daring that it made the other girl turn scarlet. “Is that what you wrote about me in your two hundred and eight letters?”

“Something of the sort.”

“Oh, wow.” She joked, bright-eyed, “You must really hate me then.” flashing a sunny smile, “And will I ever have the privilege of reading them? I hear that hate fuels some of your best writing, you know how to make a girl curious.”

Wednesday stared.

And stared.

And at last, panicked a little bit.

Because what exactly did she mean by that?

That small thought – that small question – turned into the seed of something a million times bigger as she suddenly grew painfully aware about the concept of time, which most definitely was not on their side. Time, which would stretch. Time, which would expand into the night and eventually pull the light of day. Time, which would not stop.

They wouldn’t remain in the asylum of dusk forever, they couldn’t. So what did she mean by that?

“What are you doing, Enid?”

The question dropped – like dew dropping onto the grass after slipping from the tip of a leaf. Enid looked at her with an azure hue so dark that it was tempestuous. Raw and perseverant.

“Getting you back.”

Oh.

Wednesday gave it a minute, an instant where only their eyes spoke.

She looked at Enid anticipatively, almost as if she expected a catch to be added – a but or a however. Yet, nothing came. It was just them, in heaven and in hell, in the night, in the immortality of Paris; and in the bloom of a desire. A want, a commitment.

“Are you out of your mind?” But it was uttered so softly that it was silken.

“I have never felt so sane in my whole life.”

“Is that the wine speaking?”

“It’s me speaking. I’m not joking, Wednesday.”

Enid’s gaze didn’t waver, the intensity in her eyes was almost too much to bear. Wednesday felt a commotion burst her chest wide open. And slowly, whatever skepticism she had experienced before began to shrivel, which only turned the heartbeat of the moment more violent. It was a maelstrom.

For a long pause, Wednesday just stared. Pulse thrashing in her throat, a whirlwind of craving and confusion. She just stared – because she felt unequipped to do anything else; anything vocal or carnal or emotive, she was rendered strengthless. The ships in her mind were sinking gloriously, too weak to retaliate against the ocean’s tide, which was so ferocious and rampant, as irresistible as Enid’s goddamn eyes.

Wednesday’s thoughts were a spinning of blues and pinks – between not having Enid, having her tonight, and having her until their last cusps of breath; between what this moment meant, what they were doing, and what if she was signing her heart’s death warrant again?

“Come with me.” Enid extended her hand, offering it softly, reading right through Wednesday’s quietness. “I wanna see the Eiffel Tower.”

And with that, there they went – hand in hand, fingers brushing – to the openness of the terrace, away from their own shadows, brought to light by the power of the moon; to look at the Eiffel Tower, laid bare in front of their eyes as they moved, as they approached the balcony’s perfect center.

There they went and there it was – the lack of concealment, the middle finger to clandestineness, the renouncement of being a hush.

The heart of the rooftop was so markedly designed to maximize the vista that the landscape from there was absolute, nearly a bird’s eye view to the Parisian picture from afar, from the remote venue of the restaurant. And so there they were, in the centrality of it all, standing tall like queens, open to the weather and the elements and the whole goddamn world.

(And in all her nervousness, that made Wednesday feel safer. Exposed. But safer).

Enid was calm through the beats of silence that followed, casually leaning over the handrail, appreciating the view. Wednesday was gripping onto her senses for dear life, unable to wash away the memory of Enid’s confession.

“Do you ever wonder how your life would have turned out if you hadn’t chosen a career in music?”

“But I did choose a career in music. And I cherish it. So what’s the point in that?”

Enid’s look told her to think deeper. “Realizing what part of that fictitious life you would like to carry into your real one. If you could. And maybe discover that you can.”

Ah. Okay.

Okay. Right.

This was about them.

She was nervous and trembling but she could still put two and two together.

(Professions not as in professions – but as in limitations, as in social roles and societal expectations. She supposed it made sense… the root of the whole trouble had been, indeed, their lines of work; a lethal iceberg. Fame had fucked them over, so what if – in some alternate universe – there had been no fame?).

Wednesday didn’t see herself truly doing anything other than music; she had known it was her calling since she was two years old and Uncle Fester taught her how to use the radio, and she was immediately entranced at the sound of Dvořák playing on WNYC. But she supposed she could try to play this game. She was a woman of many gifts after all. And she needed a distraction from her roaring heartbeat.

“I could’ve been a writer.”

“I always liked the idea of acting. Or dancing.”

Wednesday chuckled.

Yes, certainly.

She got lost in the image of it for a minute.

(Enid would’ve been an excellent dancer. Not one of traditional technique though, that’s for sure – but yet again, Enid Sinclair would never lower herself to tradition in any way, shape or form, that went against her entire being. It made a lot of sense, actually. She undeniably experienced her pop disco nonsense with unmatched passion, she loved a nice chance to let loose on the dancefloor, and anyone could tell she was good at it.

The same could be said about acting, she was a natural. In all honesty, Enid had everything to be a star on the silver screen, in a hypothetical world maybe that fact checked out; she was simply too dramatic not to be amazing at it – and Wednesday meant that with no offense, because God— she liked it).

So yes, absolutely, she could’ve done that instead of designing clothes, and Wednesday could’ve written morbidly graphic horror novels instead of mastering the cello, she surely found great solace in literature… but… wait—

“Upon further thinking,” Wednesday tilted her head, confused. “I believe we’re bad at this. Neither of those jobs would’ve bettered our situation.”

“I think you’re right.” Enid chuckled under her breath, behind her hand. “But I also think we’re bad at it for a reason.”

“Which is?”

Enid turned very serious all of a sudden. She scooted closer, so slow that it was deathly, almost like a predator circling a prey, with a pair of eyes so penetrating.

“It’s very simple, actually. I’m Enid Sinclair.” She stated, and then gestured forward, “And you’re Wednesday Addams.” she tasted the name on her lips; her hands came up to lightly caress the very tip of the cellist’s braids. “And there’s nothing we could’ve done to stop ourselves from being just that. I think we’re exactly who we’re supposed to be, exactly where we’re supposed to be. And I wouldn’t change us for the world. We don’t have to.”

Silence was made.

Her tender touch faded away, evanesced with patience, lingering on its goodbye as her fingers fell down. Wednesday couldn’t peel her eyes away from Enid’s hands, and noticing this, the blonde lifted her chin, reconnecting their gazes.

It was weakening. If Wednesday’s knees didn’t give up their force, it was pure luck.

“We’ve tried a lot of things, Wednesday, except the simplest one.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Two hundred and eight letters are nice. But I want the real thing.”

Enid spoke, without an ounce of rush, iterating the longing of her previous confession even more thoroughly.

“This isn’t a joke, and it definitely isn’t the wine. It’s just me and the feelings I’ve had for you for a lifetime. And if you wish me to stop, please tell me so. I don’t wanna dump this on you if you don’t wanna hear it. But I’ve been waiting years to make you mine again, so forgive me if I sound a bit eager.”

God.

Wednesday didn’t possess half a mind to act nonchalant. She sure tried, yet in vain. She didn’t find it easy to show emotion, yet at that moment, emotion just showed itself, like it was that natural, that uncontainable. It grew and spread from her gut to her ribcage to her stuttering, moonstruck eyes.

“Go on.”

“I’ve been head over heels with you for nearly a decade, Wednesday. I look at you— and what I want has never been clearer.” She said slowly, so no word could possibly be misunderstood.

“Enid…” Wednesday whispered, dole-eyed, stepping closer, leaning into the touch now placed on her jaw. But whatever she wanted to say past that infatuated mumble was like honey sticking at the walls of her throat; gluey and choking.

“It’s okay, Wends.” She said, softly. “Tell me.”

God, God, God.

Wednesday’s voice came out a mess, “I can’t be the person the world knows me for when I’m close to you.”

“I’ve always taken that as half of your charm.”

Wednesday almost rolled her eyes. Only Enid could crack a lame flirty joke at a time like that. And only Enid could make it work. Goddamn her. Wednesday gave in a little. A small dimple. She was weak. For one person only. One girl and no other. Sue her.

“You know what I mean.”

“Would it be a problem?”

“Sounds like one.”

Enid shook her head, “If you’re talking about what people might say,” she stroked the girl’s cheek, “I don’t care about that.” and looked at her full of hope and devastation. “Do you?”

“I’ve never cared about it.”

“What’s the issue then?”

“Do you realize what you’re asking for?”

“Yes. And I’m not taking it back.”

“What about—”

“—they can call it whatever they want.” Enid interjected, cutting off Wednesday, cutting off her hint at tragedy, cutting off her suffering, “Let them wonder and speculate and cry about it. It’s not their approval I want.” the softness in her tone mixed with the inherent firmness of fully-fledged determination, “I want you, Wednesday. I want you fully and wholly. I want to be with you, like two people who have loved each other this hard for this long finally fucking deserve to.”

She looked at Wednesday like she was heaven-sent; like the mere occurrence of their eyes crossing paths was biblical – the furthest thing from a coincidence, and the closest to star-written destiny.

Wednesday felt weak.

“We don’t need to figure it all out right now. I’m okay with that, if you’re okay with that.” She continued, “We can figure it out in an hour. Or tomorrow. Or as time goes on. Because… if other people get to do it that way, then I say we do too. This isn’t me saying hey let’s be super reckless and impulsive about this, that sounds like a great idea. Because in all dear honesty, Wednesday— impulsivity has nothing to do with what I feel for you. I want us to do this right. I want this to work. But I also know we’re both slightly out of our element here, so I think we’re allowed a bit of exploration. I think it’s only natural. I think it’s good. I think that’s why we have time, and should make good use of it.”

Out of all the occurrences in Wednesday’s life, wanting to kneel down to Enid Sinclair in helpless devotion five years after their great farewell, four years after their great schism, at the top of a roof for all to see, simply had to be at the summit of the list… truly an epiphany of the Gods… a rendezvous with all the motive, without any of the planning.

Wednesday gaped at Enid – who was a living, breathing love letter – and touched her wrist, her hand, which held her face gently; feeling Spring blossom at the contact, feeling the Fall wrap her in a breeze, feeling all the seasons flare up, the symbiosis of Summer and Winter.

It was like her heart stopped, found itself in too serene of a state to keep actively beating. And in the end, love was exactly that. Ceasefire.

“This isn’t five years ago. Or nine. It’s not New York. And that’s okay with me. All of this shit is new and I want us to navigate through it together. You told me to only say what I really mean, this is exactly that. And I ask you to do the same. Unconditionally. And if… somewhere deep down… this is not the life you want— because a lot would be different— tell me and I’ll let you go. I love you far too much to suffocate you. I want your honesty. I just don’t want something unresolved.”

It was so gentle of a request that it was brutal. Loving to the point of change, to the point of selflessness.

But Wednesday didn’t want Enid to let her go. Wednesday didn’t want to let go of Enid. She hadn’t been able to before. She was certain that she couldn’t, the luxury of forgetting a love like that simply wasn’t for her. And above all else, she didn’t want to.

So when Enid caressed her cheek as if she was getting ready to pull away the next second – secretly worried that their closeness was perhaps too much tending the current suggestion of allowing one another space – Wednesday urged to keep her there, and thus tilted her head to the side, proceeding to kiss Enid’s knuckles.

She dragged her lips over shivering skin, hovered over its warmth. Enid froze still and suppressed a gasp at the suddenness of such tenderness, nearly whimpering. But it worked. She didn’t go away.

“A lot would be different. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, yes.” Enid assured once more. “I mean it. And if anyone ever tries to tell us how to live our lives, I’ll ruin them. I’m Enid fucking Sinclair, they couldn’t get rid of me if they tried, and they have.” Wednesday had never felt so stupidly attracted to anyone in her entire life. “And you’d chew them up and spit them out, darling. No one stands a chance against you and I.” Honest to God, in her whole goddamn life. “But being with me does mean you’ll get dragged into the spotlight more often than not, though. And I know you like your privacy. You like your space. You’ve built a name around that, around mystery and inaccessibility. I attract the opposite.” She put forward. “I wanna know how that makes you feel.”

The cellist took a moment to think. Enid remained quiet, patient and caring. It made her swim in the feeling of something mellow. It felt open, safe – to know that whatever her answer was it would be met with respect.

“We’ll meet in the middle.” Wednesday pronounced. “Private. But not secret.”

Enid sparkled at that. “Private, but not secret.” She repeated with a pleased whisper. “That sounds pretty fucking perfect to me.”

Wednesday smiled. God help her, she really did. And to exist like that was soothing. To exist in a shared moment, in its immortality, was all that two people needed sometimes. And the way Enid looked at Wednesday— God there was immortality in that. There was need in that.

In that moment, it was all so simple. It had taken them long to get there, but that was okay. Everything being laid on the line under the cast of the moonlight was a fruit to repeat the benefits off of. It was deserved.

Wednesday suddenly felt exceptionally lucky – which was nowhere near a regular emotion in her days – she swelled with the sensation; it was well-tugged in her chest, it made her levitate. She felt… clean. In a way that was holier than a baptism. In a way that told her she had survived something. They had. And now this was living.

She smiled. And then smirked. Because oh she was lucky. “Associating myself with a walking rainbow is going to ruin my credibility.”

“Hmm, no. It’s gonna add points to your cryptic vibe-thing. You’re with the cool kids now.”

“Over my dead body.”

“If some stupid reporter ever asks me if we’re ‘great friends’ or some shit I’m gonna laugh in someone’s face so hard.” Enid giggled. It was pretty, unburdened. Her hand traced a line to Wednesday’s jaw. “I’d much rather make the whole world jealous that you’re crazy about me, anyways.”

That very clearly seemed to send Wednesday down into a spiral of wordlessness, which made Enid bite her lip with a teasing chuckle, and then knock their foreheads together.

“Wednesday Addams.”

“Enid Sinclair.”

“Would you allow me the honor of taking you out on this fine evening? And figure things out with me, through sickness and health and common ground?”

“Bold.” Wednesday riposted, trying terribly hard not to melt. “We met hours ago. Where are your manners?”

“Oh darling, they disappear when I look at you, I can’t help it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re shy.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I made you blush and everything.”

“That’s a lie.” It wasn’t. “It’s too dark for you to tell.”

And so Enid tilted forward and kissed her cheek prolongedly, proving a point: her skin was burning.

It was nearly shocking to find out – to remember – that Enid could touch her like that; that her lips were a brush with the sanctity of death, that her hand could grab her jaw and plant soft kisses there, make her go insane over the promise of it. It felt rewarding. Overpowering. Her skin was scalding hot. And Wednesday had never been good at not being an open book about what Enid did to her.

She was about to let out a plea, say something utterly embarrassingly she would later turn red about like please just kiss me, but before she could, Enid’s skimming lips rescued her of it, took some gracious pity in her crave and captured her mouth without more torture.

If time went by unnoticed to them before, it turned utterly useless now.

Enid kissed Wednesday, and everything else became backcloth.

It was noses brushing together— It was Enid’s hand in Wednesday’s jaw, it was Wednesday feeling the thin material of Enid’s clothes—

And it was, perhaps, the slowest kiss they had ever shared. For anyone to see from four floors below – if they happened to go outside to smoke a cigarette, or if they happened to arrive at the restaurant’s precinct. It was an oath if Wednesday had ever given her soul to one.

They kissed with incredible patience. Given the circumstances, all the tension and all the longing, one would expect this reconnection to be anarchic, sweet despair battling sweeter relief; but yet it was unhurried, it was free of chaos. It was too sure of itself to lack serenity, to be anything other than completely unafraid.

They didn’t kiss like the world was ending, because it wasn’t. And they didn’t kiss like this time would be the last, because it wouldn’t.

Enid’s lips were a slow-burning fire pulling Wednesday into the flames. The passion was ever-growing, tingling waves of euphoria crashing against each other; consuming everything, demolishing fear down to ashes, overcoming their senses beyond where thought could follow. Enid tasted like red fruits – like strawberries and cherries and pomegranates. Her mouth was soft, tender; her hands pulled Wednesday infinitely closer, wanting more, wanting everything, wanting to feel the line of her throat and the bones of her jaw.

It was all-consuming. Wednesday had never felt that way before. It was unprecedented.

Her mouth parted to feel the tempting lap of Enid's tongue, so slight that it was nearly shy. But what they were doing wasn’t exploratory, they knew one another way too well for that. What they were doing was enkindling was a goddamn renaissance. An awakening, a new life. And may the moon be their spectator, because the moon knew – the moon had been taught Enid’s name through Wednesday, and Wednesday’s name through Enid; the moon had heard them both from opposite poles of the globe, throughout years and years; the moon had been an invisible lace between them, Enid had urged it to keep an eye out for Wednesday, who unknowingly in return, had done the exact same.

The fire grew – like a symphony building up to a crescendo, or red wine becoming more powerful after each taste. Enid’s breath hitched in her throat to liberate a small moan when Wednesday pushed their hips together before running fingers through her hair. They pulled each other closer and closer, soft in all their strength, yearning in all their affection, quenching thirst with worship. The longing was panting and scandalous - yet the furthest thing from racing.

They were the only people in the world. The only people at that restaurant, the only people in Paris.

The moment unfolded like rose petals, and it deepened. Wednesday’s fingers got lost in blonde hair, in the softness of it, in the anchor of Enid’s warmth. And the two of them were pushing and pulling – slowly, strongly, breathlessly. Conscious of nothing else but one another. Wednesday’s heartbeat was an aching mass, magnifying at every throb, growing endlessly, craving every sensation laying claim of her senses. She had missed everything about kissing Enid. She had missed the way Enid just knew exactly how to touch her, how to make her melt like a senseless idiot, how her devotion to the moment was unforgettable, how she gave love.

God, it was freeing.

When they broke apart – minimally; mouths still feeling the heat of each other’s breath, foreheads touching – there was peace, given, taken and felt.

“Let’s ditch this place.”

And Wednesday clutched onto Enid’s shoulders not to fall, levitating with such faith that it was like she had forgotten how to be a mere mortal and stand on two feet.

“Dinner’s not over yet.”

“Thought you hadn’t come for the food.”

Dear Lord.

She was stupidly, stupidly head over heels.

Wednesday closed her lips on Enid’s again, savoring its delicacy without an ounce of rush. Not for any particular reason. Just because she felt like it. And because Enid went after it like she was chasing a mirage.

Their lips were slow and their movements were a bit more maddening than before and they didn’t really want to stop but they had to because they couldn't stop smiling.

Enid’s eyes had never been so blue. So stormless.

“We should stage a distraction. Like setting this place on fire.”

“Threatening to commit arson is always such a good look on you.”

Wednesday smiled. For Enid’s eyes. Only hers.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Nowhere? And everywhere?” She chuckled, dumb with so much happiness. She kissed Wednesday on the lips again. “Tell me something you’d like to do.”

Wednesday thought for a moment, secure in the embrace of the arms and hands that kept her close.

“You spend a lot of time in Paris. Correct?”

“I’ve had the privilege.”

“So, you’re familiar with the city?”

“I am. Why? Want a tour?”

“Take me somewhere you like.”

The grin that blossomed on Enid’s lips was nothing short of joyous at first, as lovely as if love had delineated it itself. And then, it casually morphed into a very specific shade of mischievousness.

“That I can do.”

Oh…

Wednesday instantly realized that she had seen the flash of that smirk before. Many times. Wednesday knew what that face meant. It was the reflection of a wish... a highly particular one. She stared dumbfounded. Oh?

“You’re not serious.”

“This city is ours tonight, darling.”

“I know that look.” The cellist stated, pulling Enid away ever so slightly, analyzing her entire expression like she was making sure she had read a sentence in a book correctly. The shameless way Enid turned more smiley only confirmed it. Oh. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“Watch me.” The daring tone rolled off of her tongue eloquently, full of pride, as she brought their hands together, fingers intertwining. “What do you say?”

Wednesday laughed, and maybe she had gone mad, but she approved of the idea. Embarrassingly so.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Enid’s smile grew. “You’re gonna love the gay bars they have here.”

Chapter Text

“We are not throwing a paper airplane at her, Enid.”

“But you have such good aim!”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Because you won’t miss, silly.”

“We are not throwing Yoko a paper airplane with the words let’s party written on it across a room full of people.”

“What if we write like SOS, then?”

“You frustrate me immensely.”

“Darling, you are in no position to say that. Literally.”

Enid was right. About that last part, at least.

She had Wednesday back pressed against a wall, with both arms placed around each side of her head, palms flat on the tile, hovering slightly over her with high heels. If there was an upper hand to be claimed, it rather belonged to her.

She smirked, teasingly and without an ounce of real malice. She was too love-struck by Wednesday’s features not to immediately melt into a smitten idiot, anyways.

This was also a different wall from the one she had Wednesday also trapped against about ten minutes ago, back when they were still up on the roof, appreciating the view and… whatnot. Right now they found themselves in the restroom of the third floor, blissfully alone because everyone was mass concentrated on the event taking place on the ground level. Pascal had bought out the entire restaurant for tonight, which made the unoccupied floors just… perfectly huge and deserted.

And who were they not to take advantage of that? Who were they not to completely submerge themselves in the thrill of feeling after having spent so long walking into the water slowly? Getting warmer bit by bit?

(The sweet light-headedness and the heavenly vertigo brought forth by their first couple of kisses on the roof had left them both brainlessly shy for a while – as the happiness of it started to merge with the notion that ooh holy shit this is real this is happening. But yet again, that was only natural. That was part of figuring things out, that was part of the brand-new aspect of what they were doing.

Enid quickly concluded that there was something dazzling about re-meeting Wednesday. About kissing her and feeling like a teenager all over again; but also about kissing her and seeing it all in a different light. Taking a fresh look at the whole landscape this time around – a perspective she couldn’t have had when she was twenty or twenty-one, and hence now felt earned.

They danced their way around shyness, and then shyness fell into obsolescence. Enid was completely drunk on Wednesday’s kisses. Wine couldn’t compare. Wine was jealous.

And there was just something inherently cosmic about the clash of two powerful, hungering stars – it couldn’t be stopped if the Gods came together and tried – a supernova; bliss and prosperity. And so they took those two things and explored what they felt like. In the present. In the skin of these new versions of themselves. Not through the lens of nostalgia. Much less through the habit of overanalyzing their wishes.

Tonight was theirs.

To feel liberated was intoxicating. It was water to swim and float in. Yet again, who were they not to? Who were they to fight against what simply was right?).

They kissed and giggled like two fools possessed by schoolgirl crushes, stumbled all the way to the restroom door from the top floor’s stairs; but everything was slow and kind and underneath the giddiness there was love pumping madly, waiting for its all-embracing beauty to be rightfully uncovered with the blessing of time.

There were reassuring whispers, pauses, readjustments; the taste of magnolias and blackberries spreading from Wednesday’s lips to Enid’s cheeks and Enid’s chin.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Can I hold you like this?”

“Please.”

And that was how they ended up where they currently were. How they currently were.

Wednesday looked up at Enid through her eyelashes. “I thought you had perfected your scheming skills.”

The blonde faked outrage. “Low blow, you know damn well that I have.”

“Then think harder.” Wednesday challenged, barely repressing a smile. “A paper airplane won’t help us.”

“If you saw the way you’re looking at me right now, you also wouldn’t be able to think.” Enid accused with playful eyes, slightly meek, blushing hard because it made her weak in the knees to say something so obviously flirtatious out loud and be met with a look that carried the exact same level of infatuation she was giving.

It made her blush because she was saying it to Wednesday. It made her blush because it were Wednesday’s eyes taking her in. And Wednesday was allowing it. Wednesday was blushing too.

Enid grinned and broke their closeness to evaluate the state of herself in the mirror.

(Romance aside— they were still inside the restaurant debating paper airplanes and scheming for a reason.

The issue at hand right now was quite simple: they had to find a way to get to Yoko. It was imperative, they had to – because what was a French exit and a night-out at a gay bar without Yoko? Doing a vanishing act without her would be offensive. Mending things and celebrating without her would be criminal. Literally— she would never forgive them. And they’d never forgive themselves.

Because Yoko wasn’t just anyone. Yoko was Enid’s chosen sister. Yoko was someone Wednesday had never forgotten about; had once been her closest friend. Yoko meant a lot to them both. Truthfully both – even if Wednesday still had some apologizing and repairing to do for the way she had handled things in the past; cutting off Yoko due to a nearly irrational fear of remembering New York hadn’t been her proudest moment, and if anything, covertly bantering with her at dinner had only made Wednesday miss her more.

So no, Yoko Tanaka wasn’t just anyone. And if they were losing their minds to freedom once and for all, then she unquestionably had a reserved invite to tag along.    

But besides being completely unaware that reconciliation and plotting were taking place two floors above her head, Yoko was also surrounded by an avalanche of people in a massive ceremony. She was unreachable, to say the least).

Enid ran her fingers through her messy hair strands in an attempt to brush them. “Fine, no paper airplane. But seriously— how the hell are we supposed to get her attention without calling attention to ourselves too in the process?”

“We’ll just have to be smart.”

“We really can’t be spotted, Wends. If Bianca sees me making a getaway, I think she’ll kill me telepathically.”

“Will this get you in trouble?”

“I mean— she will be fuming. But meh. Trouble? Not really.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yeah. Bianca’s like… something special. She gets mad in a big sister kind of way. She’s just— very protective of me. Which I suppose makes sense since she’s basically only ever known me for as long as I’ve been on the eye of a PR storm every month. She’ll be mad ‘cause this is gonna get people talking, you know, about leaving out of nowhere at least. It probably won’t be good, and it was like, avoidable drama, I guess. But it’s fine. This is different. Completely different. And I’ll explain things to her later, anyways.”

Enid fixed her lipstick, or more appropriately, she tried, with her fingertips and some taps of water, because there was nothing concrete to fix it with – her things had been taken away by the doormen to never be seen again.

But it wasn’t like she was all that eager to get rid of the black lipstick traces smudged against her red mouth. She was quite proud of the sight, actually. Dark red. Slightly messy on her swollen lips. It looked good. And it felt good to know what had caused it. Who.

“Bianca doesn’t know about me yet though.” Enid revealed, looking at Wednesday through the mirror. It was one hell of a vague statement, but to them the meaning behind the wording was obvious. “I’m telling her tomorrow. After I apologize for leaving like this. I’ve wanted to do it for the longest time really, I’ve been building up courage for months. Hell— years. But I think timing is on my side with this one.”

“She seems to have a lot of power within your brand.”

“She’s my right-hand.”

“Couldn’t it be dangerous then?”

“We’ve done a lot of other dangerous things tonight, have we not?”

“What we do is one thing. What we say is another.”

“Meaning?”

“People can speculate about your actions, but not your words. Intimate confessions can be turned against you. It’s not hard to make a business crack from the inside with the right amount of executive control.”

Enid sighed. “It could be dangerous. But it won’t.”

“Do you genuinely trust her?”

“Honestly,” The blonde turned around, hips pressed to the sink, palms against the marble. “With my life.” She assured. “Bianca would never harm me.” Wednesday seemed to take her word for it, visibly unwinding her tensed shoulders.

Her concern was valid, but Enid didn’t want to think too much about it now. There was no point. Because what she said was true: she did trust Bianca. And Bianca was no backstabber. Well— that was subjective. But Bianca would never do anything to her. And she wouldn’t be a double-crosser over something like that.

The two of them were a team, in the broader sense of the word, not just superficially, not just professionally. Enid really did trust her, and that trust worked both ways.

They were friends. She felt for Bianca what she felt for Yoko – the kind of love people usually expressed towards their family, and in a way, those two were exactly that: her little found home. Enid wanted to keep that. Maybe expand the party. Yeah, so what? She had the feeling Bianca would be okay with it. Today and tomorrow and afterwards too.

“When did you meet her?” Wednesday suddenly questioned, and Enid saw in her eyes something like interest… something like curiosity – a wish to know more about this part of Enid’s life, these four years she hadn’t witnessed and virtually knew nothing about.

There was nearly a bit of guilt in her gaze too – perhaps because everything was taking a different dimension now, perhaps because Wednesday saw it now; Enid’s reality, which had kept moving and evolving after she had removed herself from it, and now there were so many new things in her days… things that to Wednesday were unknown. New people, new habits, new standpoints – change.

But that didn’t have to be a bad thing. Because it wasn’t. So Enid didn’t let her dwell on it. They’d take things one day at a time. She wanted to tell Wednesday everything. She wanted Wednesday to see her growth and be a part of it. Wednesday, who more than any other person in the world, had been, and in a way absolutely still was, her home too.

“We’ve worked together since ‘76. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who is probably as stubborn as you. A bit petty too. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Watching you guys passively aggressively threaten each other at dinner was kinda cute.”

Enid drew nearer. Their hands touched. Her pinky met Wednesday’s index.

“She seemed quite intense.”

“I’d say she passed the right impression then.”

“Yoko appeared to know her fairly well too.”

“The three of us are close.” Enid hooked their fingers gently, and she could see Wednesday wanted to hear more, know more. “I had no idea I’d ever one day call Bianca my big sister when I hired her. Back then, she just seemed too ruthlessly professional to ever do anything other than intimidate the fuck out of me. But we were pretty close at work, she was a game changer to the company. And then we got closer outside of it. Yoko helped a lot with that. Of course she did— you know Yoko.”

“Where did you live at the time?”

“Beverly Hills. We were all in LA. But Yoko got a job offer and moved here. Ever since then it’s been… different. But manageable. We never grew apart. Work doesn’t allow her to travel for long periods of time, but mine is kinda the opposite, and it’s especially easy for me to fly to Paris. I always have stuff to do here, it’s like my second home at this point. And Bianca always insists on coming along, even when she totally doesn’t have to businesswise. She likes to visit Yoko. That’s a secret though, don’t tell her I let you in on it.”

Enid disclosed – mumbling the last part in a secretive whisper that wasn’t at all necessary inside the restroom’s void. The corners of Wednesday’s mouth lifted slightly in a smile. It was genuine and her eyes softened. Yet there it was again too: a certain melancholy in her gaze. Like a wish to be in the picture as well. Enid’s chest ached a little.

“Let’s do this,” She spoke calmly, taking a step forward, intervening in the other girl’s inwardness delicately, “You find us a way to get to Yoko, ‘cause I’m clearly out of ideas here, and in return, I’ll let her tell you all about the embarrassing stories the three of us have at karaoke bars. And then we’re gonna leave this place and get a new story. And jog your memory on why I can’t be trusted with a cocktail bar.”

Wednesday looked at her deeply, and then smiled – still with sealed lips, but wider, much wider. She pulled Enid closer by her pinky, “Deal.” and caressed her skin with her thumb.

This was not much different from the position they found themselves in some minutes ago. One against the wall, one hovering over it. But now there was no slow kissing making up for five years of abstinence. Now there were sparkling glances and fond smiles and fingers shyly touching, shyly curling around one another.

“Will your friend be okay?”

“Eugene?”

“Yeah.”

“He spent the whole dinner drooling over you. I owe him nothing.”

Enid held back from laughing at the out of pocket remark and instead pulled a serious face, a criticizing look, don’t be mean. To which Wednesday replied with a challenging gaze of her own, I’ll do as I please.

Enid didn’t look away. “He’ll be fine.” Wednesday eventually gave in. “I warned him beforehand that I wasn’t sure I’d remain at the table until the end. And I made sure to tell him goodbye when I left amidst the commotion. He will probably attempt to contact me later to be sure that I am indeed okay, but he’s fine. And Pascal takes a liking to him, so I’m sure he won’t be left alone.”

Enid beamed, biting her lip, biting her tongue, trying to withhold her words. But she couldn’t. Oh it was just too damn good not to be said out loud.

“When did you adopt another little brother?”

*

After realizing they couldn’t just walk out the front door—

(Well…they could, but where was the adrenaline rush of covertness in that?)

—Wednesday convinced Enid to sneak out the back. It didn’t take much to persuade her. At all.

They navigated their way around security and staff members on the first floor, and found an emergency exit on a lonesome corridor next to the kitchen.

Their immersion in the silliness of the moment was whole. Enid pretended she was in some sort of stealth movie, and Wednesday took the dramatics of being furtive maybe a little bit too seriously. It was ridiculous. They didn’t care. Oh if only they cared. It was so ridiculous and they were so happy. To hell with settling for anything less than that.

Wednesday had concocted a plan in the restroom, and once successfully broken loose from the restaurant’s confinements, their next move was to find a telephone booth.

Outside, they followed a stone path through the venue’s huge gardens and ended up at the parking lot near one of the building’s secondary entrances. No one was around. There was a call box next to an oak tree. Perfect.

They both got inside the small compartment. Enid slipped a few coins into the payphone. Wednesday dialled the restaurant’s number – which she had memorized a few minutes ago after strategically taking a look at the establishment’s phonebook on the way out. Next to her, Enid tried to contain her excitement - because it was one thing to pull strings and scheme on her own, but it was a completely different thing to do it alongside Wednesday; everything felt much more thrilling like that.

Maybe a bit too thrilling, because God help her but she could’ve legitimately fainted hearing Wednesday’s perfect French accent impersonating one of Yoko’s superiors to the receptionist on the other end of the line, harshly demanding to speak to the curator right at that second because of a critical made-up work matter. Ne me faites pas perdre mon temps. J’ai bégayée? Va la chercher. [Don’t waste my time. Did I stutter? Go get her.]

She repressed a sigh as they waited for Yoko to be told that she had an urgent call on hold. Flushed. Wednesday eyed her with a smothered smirk.

“Focus.”

“I’m very focused.”

“On what?”

Did the fact that they were way too close inside an unlit cubicle help them on the pause of silence and glancing that followed? Absolutely not. But as alone as they were, they were also in the middle of a mission, and hence the telephone vibrated in the cellist’s hand with the waves of a muffled sound coming out through the speaker. “Yoko Tanaka speaking. Who is this?”

Wednesday put the object against her ear and turned effortlessly deadpan in a second. Again, maybe taking the dramatics of it a bit too seriously. “Leave the precinct.”

Enid scoffed. “Wends, you’re gonna scare her—”

Some indiscernible, blurred sounds were heard on Yoko’s end as Enid struggled to get the telephone out of Wednesday’s hands and take over the call. The unintelligible noise lasted for ten solid seconds while they fought like children.

“Yoko! Hi! It’s Enid!” The designer finally said, breathing out with a proud grin after winning their little spat, cockily pressing Wednesday against the phonebooth’s glass with her arm. “Sorry about that.”

“Why are you— was that Wednesday?!”

“Yes—”

“—Are you two together?!”

“Well, yeah. That’s actually why I’m—”

“—Why are you two together?! Oh my god— you two are together.” 

“A lot has happened since the incident with the wine. Really a lot—”

“—What the hell does that—”

“—But I’d rather not explain over the phone! Listen, can you please, please, please come up with some life or death excuse, give Bianca a kiss, ditch dinner and meet us outside? It’s a girls night out!”

“It’s a what?”

“A girls night out—”

“—With Wednesday?!”

“Can you stop interrupting me—”

“—Wait, what the fuck, wait, wait, wait— was that you before? Calling her by that corny ass nickname?”

“Yoko, like I said—”

“—Oh my god, did you guys make up?”

Wednesday knocked Enid’s arm out of the way with much more benevolence than she would with anyone else, rolling her eyes impatiently, and simply stole the telephone from Enid’s grasp, cutting off the girl on the other end of the line, “—Outside by the parking lot. Hurry.” And then hung up before Yoko could finish shouting wait!

It was purposefully impolite and Enid could barely pretend to be bothered by it. “That was rude.”

“She was asking too many questions. That’s a logical waste of time.”

“You’re just mean.”

“Never bothered you before.”

“God, shut up.”

Enid laughed into Wednesday’s mouth as she kissed her.

*

“Unbelievable.” Was the first thing Yoko uttered after taking fifteen minutes to bail dinner and two more to look back and forth between Enid and Wednesday after finding their location outside.

Her expression was one of shock, but the two girls weren’t even doing anything besides standing side by side near the telephone booth, waiting. She also had her hands hidden behind her back. Enid took a step closer.

“Are you mad? Sorry we made you leave—”

“—No, not that.” She quickly interrupted, brushing it off with a head gesture. “You two are together. I mean— I don’t know if it’s— or if I’m— I don’t wanna— you know—”

She drifted off hesitantly and her eyes got stuck on Enid’s darker-than-usual colored lips, on how conspicuously blurred they were.

Yoko stared, holding her breath, trying to understand what was going on without vocalizing a fully-fledged question, afraid of being too quick to say or assume something. These were their lives. She knew the matter was sensitive. A wrong guess could be shattering, or at least very awkward.

“You might wanna… touch up your makeup.”

“No. It’s perfect like this.”

“Oh.” Yoko raised both eyebrows, first in pondering and ultimately in bombshell – because Enid turned her neck around to look at Wednesday sweetly, and Yoko caught sight of a black lipstick mark on her jaw. “Ooh!” She enunciated with an increased tone, relieved, with the look of someone experiencing a light bulb moment, of someone proven right. She shifted eyes between them more avidly, more enthusiastically. “Oh my God, it’s real. Oh my god.”

It wasn’t easy to genuinely take Yoko Tanaka aback, yet there she was before them, bringing one of her hands up to her mouth to cover a gasp. The other remained stubbornly concealed behind her back. And then she beamed broadly to the point of showing dimples. It also wasn’t easy to make Yoko Tanaka smile like that.

“God help us all, you two really made up.”

“Should I be offended that you’re so surprised?”

“Fuck off, I’m ecstatic! Are you serious? Is this for real?! How did this happen? Why wasn’t I there to get it on camera?”

“Calm down.” Enid said, smiling so widely her face muscles ached, trying to discourage Yoko from imploding in exhilaration at the news as if she wasn’t ready to scream joyously herself. “We just had a very long and productive talk. That’s it.”

“Oh, I’m sure Wednesday’s mouth on your neck was very productive.”

“Dude— shut up.”

“I bet she did shut you up.”

“Yoko, I swear to—”

“One more word and I’ll end your life, Tanaka.”

Yoko simply laughed, looking like a mix between a proud mother and an overly excited child. The sunglasses resting on top of her hair nearly fell as she frantically waved one of her hands in the air without any kind of movement cohesion, just glee and surprise.

“You know those threats don’t break me, Addams.”

Wednesday smirked with crossed arms and talked back something purposefully condescending that prompted Yoko to shoot back something cynical in return once again. And like distant friends falling back into their old routine as if time hadn’t passed, they kept chopping logic for the delight of it.

It was like watching a movie sequence in bathed breath, holding onto your seat for dear life while suspense took over your lungs. That was exactly what Enid felt and it showed. She went static and observant, didn’t even dare to blink. She was mesmerized like one witnessing a miracle. Wednesday and Yoko just kept going ang going, trying each other’s patience with the kind of playful quickness only deep-rooted mutual trust could explain.

Enid was absolutely bright-eyed.

She let them bicker senselessly without intermediating for once. She let them have their moment. She knew this was their way of refamiliarizing, of checking if they were okay – now free to interact away from Bianca’s hawk eyes and Eugene’s curious questions.

“God, you’re such a bitch.” Yoko giggled. Wednesday didn’t even pretend to be offended – she was too relieved about being able to be with her like this again to fake anything. “I’m happy for you guys, okay?”

Enid smiled, titled her head. “You wanna pry so bad, I can see it in your face.”

“I do, but I won’t. Maybe later, though.”

And what that meant was obvious: Yoko could see how new all of this was to them, and it didn’t take a degree in psychology to figure out that they were out of their comfort zone, probably nervous as shit to suddenly come before someone and await their approval on the matter, especially someone who knew them so intimately.

But this wasn’t a test. Again, these were their lives. Yoko trusted their judgment. She wouldn’t press them for details now – it was still too soon for something that could so easily turn invasive; their rekindling was in the making, in exploration, the night was still so young; questions could come later.

“Is this a reunion? Oh my God, you said girl’s night out— is this a reunion?!”

“Not just any reunion.” Enid grinned and rested an arm on Wednesday’s shoulder, reclining against her slightly. Height difference clear as crystal. “Tell us what’s your favorite gay bar.”

Yoko gasped really audibly after a three second delay in which her brain raced to try to catch up with the sentence’s meaning. When it hit her, it was a shock so unexpected that it was blinding. She completely forgot that she had an object purposefully veiled behind her back, and hence it came out of hiding when both of her hands jolted expressively in enthusiasm to cover her mouth.

Enid and Wednesday frowned. Stared. Yoko was holding… a bottle of champagne.

Not just any bottle. Not just any champagne. A vintage 1967 Dom Pérignon.

“Yoko, what the hell is that?”

“Oh. Well. I wasn’t sure if it was the right occasion? So I was waiting to be sure? Before I was like? Hey? Let’s have fun? Celebrate? Or whatever? Like— if I had misread this— it would’ve been so embarrassing. You get that, right?” She explained. “But wait holy shit— gay bar? Now? Tonight? Are you guys coming out or something?”

Enid drew back from Wednesday’s shoulder, caressed her arm and played with her hand. “We’re gonna enjoy ourselves. Whatever assumptions people make, that’s on them.”

“Oh, I’m gonna pass out, I’m so proud.”

Wednesday spoke, “Pass out later, first tell us how you got your hands on that bottle.”

“I found it.”

Enid raised an eyebrow, “Did you steal it?”

“That’s such an ugly word.”

“Yoko, did you steal it?”

“Yeah, I did steal it.”

The designer held her breath before laughing loudly. “I love you.”

She practically threw herself at her friend’s arms. They hugged for an instant before the blonde broke away with a sparkling smile.

“You’re so fucking stupid.” She turned to Wednesday and pointed between them. “This is what I mean when I say you were a bad influence on her.”

“I think I did a great job with my teachings, actually.”

“Of course you’re proud that your deviousness rubbed off on someone this badly.”

“Didn’t it rub off on you worse?”

“Are you guys flirting? In my face?! Oh my God…disgusting. I’ll drink to that.”

“Wait— don’t open it yet.” Enid impeded, beaming like a ray of light. “I can think of a better place to do the honors.”

“If you say you wanna open this preposterously expensive, impulsively stolen champagne bottle in the middle of the dancefloor of a gay bar, Enid Sinclair, I swear to God—”

“—No, shut up.” She shook her hands in the air. “The Eiffel Tower is so close. Literally, we’re like— at a fifteen-minute distance. And we’re right next to a payphone, we could call a cab and drink that on Champ de Mars with a good fucking view. Then later, we’ll see.”

Those were the words that started their journey. Sealed it.

Those were the words that confirmed the state of affairs: fuck the kind of comfort zone that held you back from growing, they were going to make the best fucking use of tonight. The matter was absolutely settled.

“Use my money for the phone. We’ll be right back!” Yoko spoke once all was planned, tossing her wallet at Enid and grabbing Wednesday’s hand, dragging her away while gesturing at the designer to get inside the box.

She did. She called the cab company and tried her hardest to cohesively explain geographical coordinates in French without tripping over her tongue. It was a short call, though – unlike whatever discussion Yoko had pulled Wednesday into.

Enid looked away, anywhere but the tree under which those two were having a dialogue. However— if she had looked, just hypothetically— just once or twice— she’d say it appeared almost… a heart to heart?

Yoko’s mouth opened and closed decisively; her hands moved and emphasized her words intensely, even with one of them still holding that goddamn bottle; similar to one getting something off their chest with urgence. Wednesday listened and nodded, eyes wrenched, and then spoke too— wait oh God, was she prying on an intimate moment? Oh no no no, Enid for fuck’s sake, look away, turn around—

(A good stone’s throw away from the telephone booth, Yoko wholeheartedly told Wednesday that she had missed her).

(When Wednesday cut ties with Enid, she cut ties with anyone and anything that reminded her of what she was actively trying to forget. Unfortunately, Yoko had been at the top of that list. Guilty by association. They had fallen out of touch just as harshly; Wednesday had made herself untraceable, and Yoko hadn’t kept trying to reach out.

There was no resentment, though. There was no bad blood. Yoko knew Wednesday was in unbearable pain at the time; they stood before one another right now and there was only the intense feeling of missing someone. Of understanding what had gone wrong and wanting to fix it.

Wednesday listened to Yoko’s vent like she had listened to Enid’s: quietly, attentively. And then said her own piece back. A truth of her own. An apology long overdue. An admission of attachment. An I’m sorry and an I thought about you the whole time).

Enid nearly squeaked when she saw them hugging. A long hug. She mumbled a clumsy oh my god under her breath and panicked trying to pretend she hadn’t seen a thing when they began to walk back towards her.

(“Why are you flushed?”

“Were you watching us?”

“Jesus Christ, what did I— why would you— you know what— I think I hear a car coming!”)

When the cab arrived, Wednesday was asked by both girls to sit in the middle.

September by Earth, Wind & Fire was playing on the radio, and to Wednesday’s detriment, the driver cranked up the volume when he noticed Enid and Yoko’s excited reactions at the tune – the designer immediately set aside a generous tip for him.

“Since my plan worked, I think it’s only fair I claim my prize. I heard you had some embarrassing stories about inebriated-Enid for me, Tanaka.”

“Oh no, you remember that—”

“Holy shit, you don’t even know, like, so many!”

Halfway to Champ de Mars, Enid tried to stop Yoko from talking about the fateful (disastrous) night out in Amsterdam in which she drank three shots of absinthe in pure defiance of Bianca’s advice. Enid tried. But she fumbled with her movements and ended up accidentally placing a hand on Wednesday’s knee, which ceased her attempts at shutting up her friend.

Yoko’s witty narration turned into white noise as the two girls eyed each other silently for answers, for signs.

Wednesday nodded subtly, and Enid’s hand remained warm on top of her knee the rest of the ride. More and more confident in her grasp at every passing moment.

*

(Enid and Yoko got tipsy pretty fast, yet surprisingly, Wednesday got tipsy faster).

Champ de Mars was deserted. They sat on the grass – because fuck it – and shared the champagne Yoko had so thoughtfully stolen. It opened with a celebratory pop, followed by a fizzing sound as bubbly foam escaped from the bottleneck. Yoko shouted with a grin. Enid’s laugh echoed all throughout the park’s open-aired emptiness. Wednesday watched it all without missing a single detail, smiling to herself.

The bottle was passed between them without reservations.

“To living a little.” Yoko proposed as a toast.

“And to Wednesday’s beautiful performance tonight.” Enid completed. “And oh— oh my God! To the two hundred and eight letters I absolutely gotta read! Yoko, holy shit, you don’t even know! Wends, tell her!”

The champagne tasted of citrus fruits and lemon verbena. The final flavor of its sip was long and lingering. It was soft at first impact but ultimately addictive, acid in a way that washed over one’s tongue distinctively. Bitterly.

In other words, it was expensive. The real kind. So of course Wednesday enjoyed it. Maybe a bit too much. Enid didn’t let it slide – she’d happily take every opportunity to teasingly call her pretentious. Yoko snickered at their interactions.

The night-sky looked somehow even starrier from there, even wider, perhaps because the greenspace all around them was colossal. The Eiffel Tower was illuminated by a thousand sparkling lights; it completely overtook the horizon, monumentally close to their small bodies, standing so stubbornly tall it made them feel like ants in comparison.

It’d be offensive if it wasn’t so beautiful.

Enid smiled as Wednesday got more and more inebriated. Progressively tipsier. It was an odd thing to witness: Wednesday Addams, visibly having a good time.

(Her weak spot regarding alcohol were beverages worth a king’s ransom, the stronger the better, so Yoko had sort of hit the nail on the head with her choice).

Wednesday wasn’t giggly and sparky like Enid, or playful and gossipy like Yoko, but rather devoid of a lot of her usual shielding filters. Introspective still, but in a way that was daydreaming; less nonchalant, less brooding. More uninhibited. Not relentlessly playing offense with a silver-tongue. A bigger mess when it came to how expressive her eyes were. Touchier – twirling Enid’s hair around her fingers as the blonde laid her head on Yoko’s lap; reaching for Enid’s hand as they sat side by side.

There was a lot of catching up. A lot of storytelling. Opening up. Laughing.

(“Also— how the fuck did no one catch you?”

“If I’m being honest, Enid…” Yoko shook her head and tried to speak without giving in to an outburst of laughter. “I have no fucking idea.”

“You just felt like stealing millionaire champagne and went for it?!”

“I didn’t think it through but so what? All’s end that ends well!”

“And what would you have done if they had spotted your amateur wrongdoing, Tanaka?”

“Hmm.” Yoko pretended to think, tapping her chin. “I’d say Wednesday Addams made me do it.”

Enid gasped as if she had heard a scandal and flew her arms over Wednesday like a human shield. “Keep her name out of your bad criminal activities, you monster! That would’ve been tragic to her reputation!”

“Oh yeah? I’d throw you in as her accomplice just to even things out then. Fuck you.”)

The alcohol made Wednesday touchier, for sure, but not a lot more unabashed than that. And there was still some mutual understanding between her and Enid that… well, they didn’t want to mess things up. So Yoko inevitably made fun of them for the handful of times they got closer without straightforwardly admitting that was what they were trying to do – knocking shoulders and brushing knees and driving their hands towards one another across the grass. All while smiling a bit way too much at each other. They were a disaster.

(“You two were making out in a telephone booth minutes ago but now you draw the line at fucking hold hands?”

“That’s a ridiculous accusation.” Wednesday deadpanned as Enid simultaneously snarled a contrasting, “Yoko, shut up!”

“A match made in heaven.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you think I’m forgetting that time— actually, yeah… Wends, have I told you about that time Divina asked Yoko out on a date—”

“Enid, shut the fuck up—”

“—And she was so in denial about her feelings but so nervous that it could be an actual date that I was forced to tag along for emotional support?”

“Why are you setting me up like that?”

“Cause you’re worse than me and I have proof!”)

But Yoko had already drunk several glasses of wine beforehand, so it didn’t take much champagne to finally push her over the edge of sobriety. Inevitably, she got too out of it to keep teasing them. And inevitably, Enid and Wednesday also got too out of it to keep dancing around the obvious.

By the time the clock struck midnight, there wasn’t a single drop of champagne left, Yoko was shamelessly gushing about Divina and Wednesday was sitting comfortably in between Enid’s legs, resting against her shoulder, being held as her braids were stroked.

For the first time in a very long time, Enid Sinclair, Wednesday Addams and Yoko Tanaka were simply…living their lives – without a care in the world but their blossoming deep fondness for each other.

“Le Sept! Le Sept is literally the answer! The only answer!” Yoko said once they decisively stood up after a few tipsy missteps, answering Enid’s question about what gay bar was her ultimate favorite in Paris’ queer scene.

“Well, can you get us there?”

“There’s a taxi stand not too far from here. C’mon.”

They walked away from the park and stumbled into the nearest sidewalk. Yoko led the way as Enid laughed and spined on her high heels, hand in hand with Wednesday, who watched her with a dumb smile.

The street lights glowed. The city seemed nearly empty, but still as alive as ever.

When Yoko went to talk to one of the drivers on the cab rank, Enid pulled Wednesday aside, beaming brazenly with a hand on her waist, mouth on her ear, “Are you ready to hear some real music?”

“You mean bad?”

“Nope. I said what I said.”

“Bite me.”

“Oh, alcohol makes those comebacks of yours turn pretty weak, huh?” She smirked like a devil and for a moment it looked like she was going to bite Wednesday. But she didn’t. She worshipped the girl with her gaze, ran a finger through her bangs with care, and kissed the spot right under her eye. “When we get there, drag me outside the second you wanna leave, my love.”

Le Sept was located in the heart of Paris, Rue Sainte-Anne in the Opera District – at a shockingly close proximity to the music hall Wednesday had been playing at some hours prior…a full circle moment, if you will.

Its building had been designed in the 17th-century, and while classic on the outside, its interior was a complete departure from the traditional opulence of French architecture. Instead, it featured a shiny, simple aesthetic that incorporated industrial materials such as steel and aluminum, as well as walls lined with mirrors and cozy seating areas. The club’s most striking feature, however, was perhaps its use of lightning. There was a large skylight placed right above the dancefloor that offered a gorgeous view of the moon, and the whole bar was bathed in a series of colored lights, which created a rainbow of hues that contrasted against the metallic interior design.

The place was lively but intimate, widely known for its disco music, drag shows and themed parties. It was legitimately welcoming. It made one feel like they belonged to a community; like the world was theirs to take and identity was theirs to fucking own. There was no need to play pretend inside those walls.

When they stepped inside, Enid was nearly knocked sober by the environment. By the people, by the colors and the freedom and the music. It was a sight that deserved to be rightfully assimilated… more than that— wholeheartedly appreciated.

This was nowhere near her first time at a gay bar, but that didn’t matter, it still stole her breath away. It would every time. And perhaps now more intensely than ever before. It had been so long since the last time she had allowed herself to be in this side of the nightlife. In this side of life altogether.

It was all coming back to her now – why this was something to dream about and miss. Oh, everyone was so beautiful and gorgeous and just like them.

Even Wednesday – who for the first time in her life was overdressed at a party, wearing the classiest of dark gowns in a room full of people vibrating color and figure-flattering outfits – was hypnotized by the view; lightening her grasp around Enid’s arm as she slowly came to realize that… nothing about the place was loathsome, nothing about it was unnerving, even with all its color and noise… it was emancipating.

The happiness all around them was rare. Oh, it was precious. The kind that came from being able to forget the outside world and revel in a haven. A haven thoroughly built for them.

Yoko grinned at their faces. “You’re both welcome.”

U.O.Me by Luv electrified people on the dancefloor as it blasted through the club’s speakers. Its upbeat rhythm drove Enid to jump in excitement as soon as her reactionless state of amazement broke and joy fully took over.

She grabbed both of their hands and dragged them to the bar area, across a sea of stunning nonconformity. They passed by flamboyant men wearing makeup, women showing off their curves, synchronized disco dancers, drag queens wearing flower crowns and studs drinking by the barstool.

And the whole place was pink triangles and photographs on the walls of queer people smiling with their friends and loved ones, and all of it felt like coming clean. Coming home.

“Drinks on me! Wends, I’m so making you finally try a cocktail tonight.”

“Oh, get her a Bloody Mary!”

“And I’m getting you a Mai Tai.”

A minute later, Wednesday was squinting her eyes, staring at the red beverage in her hands so suspiciously that the bartender felt the need to ask if he’d done something wrong, at which Enid smiled and replied, “Elle est juste dramatique” [She’s just dramatic].

It didn’t take long for Wednesday to drop the act and be persuaded into just drinking the damn cocktail by an inebriated Enid and an even more inebriated Yoko. They rapidly managed to win over whatever very, very little was left of her trademark grumpiness.

“You two are annoying”, Wednesday claimed with an eye roll, smiling while bringing the glass to her lips.

Meanwhile, Enid finished an entire Piña Colada in three sips and her mind floated away softly, sweetly; her body was warm. Yoko decided to take it a bit easier with her drink this time around.

And then a new tune started echoing through the air with an emerging drumbeat, followed by a guitar riff over a pulsing bassline. Enid wasn’t sober, but she could’ve recognized those chords if the goddamn world was ending. It was Sunny by Boney M. Probably her all-time favorite song after ABBA’s entire discography.

She gasped with a grin, turning to Wednesday to hold her hand, to caress her knuckles. She swam in the warm effects of alcohol that were now hitting like a sea wave. Wine and champagne and rum and love. “Holy shit— I gotta dance to this.”

Wednesday smiled back at her, not a single trace of stoicism left in her lips. God. She was so clearly neck deep in the best feelings that booze brought out of anyone – unashamed love, unconfined emotion. Wednesday looked beautiful.

“I’m not stopping you.”

“I want you to dance with me.”

“On the next one.”

“Why not now?”

“I’d rather watch you.”

Enid kissed her hand – which marked their first public display of affection in a place so immensely crowded; first, but not last – and walked into the dancefloor alone after Yoko said she’d finish her Mai Tai first.

Enid’s steps accompanied the thumping beat of Sunny as her hips swayed. She looked around: the whole club was alive. People bumped into each other, groups of friends grew larger, men danced together provocatively, women kissed shamelessly, and the ones with the bravest moves on the dancefloor were hyped up by claps and chants and throws of glitter.

Enid was in love. She was in love with the happiness she was feeling. She was in love with the freedom, the self-expression. She was in love with the woman whose eyes followed her movements from the bar.

She moved like she could’ve transcended time and space, lost in a world of her own yet never the more comfortable with embracing reality; eyes closed, hands dancing along her own body, feeling everything. The music beat controlled her. The music beat liberated her. Oh, how she loved this song.

Sunny! Yesterday my life was filled with rain

Sunny! You smiled at me and really eased the pain

The dark days are gone, and the bright days are here

My sunny one shines so sincere

A few feet away, Wednesday watched it all like a movie scene. Eyes entranced. Mouth ajar. Not subtle about her passion or desire in the slightest. Enid smiled and let loose, holding Wednesday’s stare, dancing for her. She didn’t care about other people one bit.

Anyone in that room who wasn’t Wednesday Addams had been put on Earth by God just to fill up space. They could all succumb to dust for all she cared.

Sunny one so true

I love you

Enid let looser and looser.

She made it look natural – and truth be told, for her it certainly was; she danced with the grace and craziness of someone who had been born for it. Born for the eyes on her and the jaws dropping for her. Too ethereal for her own good. People fell at her feet, one by one, whether out of admiration or attraction.

All eyes on her, yet her gaze devoured one girl only.

She noticed how Wednesday quirked her lips into a smirk, aware of that same fact.

It didn’t take long for the claps and chants to be directed Enid’s way. It also didn’t take long for her face to stand out in the crowd.

“You’re Enid Sinclair, aren’t you?” A boy danced his way to the blonde in order to ask. There was a curious look on his face.

He had a gorgeous afro and an extended goatee. His nails were painted pink and he had a pair of hoop earrings on. There was glitter around his eyes, on his neck. His shirt was flashy, full of abstract patterns and multiple shades of purple; he wore it unbuttoned nearly all the way down, showing off his chest. And Enid could’ve recognized one of her own designs from a mile away.

It made her beam. Laugh a bit even. The target demographic of her menswear collections really were gay men. Yeah, it added up.

“Who? I’m not familiar.” She responded over the throbbing music, smiling like she knew she was lying but liked to play dumb anyways. “Nice shirt, though!”

Sunny! Thank you for the sunshine bouquet

Sunny! Thank you for the love you brought my way

You gave to me your all and all

And now I feel ten feet tall

Whether he bought it or not, she didn’t know. She didn’t care enough to tell. She simply took his hand and kept spinning, dancing to the song’s soaring rhythm, its contagious instrumental reaching a peak. The glimmer in her gaze invited him to join her steps. He did.

The two rapidly won the dancefloor’s attention with their improvised duet, which worked so well due to how similarly extroverted their mannerisms were. People joined their jive, carefree, full of energy. Enid’s hair whipped around as she twirled, her all-white look made her figure appear angelic. She was a goddamn star.

(Somehow, the crimson stain on her leg didn’t ruin the outfit at all. It was definitely noticeable, but forgettable. There were plenty, plenty more eye-catching things about Enid Sinclair).

My life was torn like a windblown sand

And the rock was formed when you held my hand

Sunny one so true, I love you

Sunny!

The lights shined on her face, reflecting color everywhere. She danced playfully with her hands and hips and legs and head. Screaming the lyrics with an undying smile on her face.

And Wednesday sighed like a hopeless idiot, out of breath, out of strength. Enid winked at her. Enid smirked at her. Enid blew her kisses. Enid didn’t let a single soul come near her if she could spot the most insignificant of second intentions in their eyes.

I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours – she gave her all and all to tell Wednesday across the dancefloor.

At a certain point, the boy in the purple shirt disappeared for a moment to find a friend but quickly came back with a small vial of golden glitter. “For your eyes! Goes well with the white”, he said through a thick French accent, gifting Enid the little capsule, tapping some of the glitter on her hand so she could see how it looked against her skin tone.

And Enid, who was too sentimental and drunk for her own good, hugged him like she’d been given a diamond.

(In all sincerity, maybe she had. Maybe she’d been given something way more valuable than that.)

And they kept jiving. Giving their all to the moment. She laughed when he made a joke about how he had never danced with a woman for so long before.

By the end of the song, her blue eyes were highlighted by sparkles of golden, the boy was gone and Yoko was joining the dancefloor with Wednesday – whose heart-eyes were a sight to be seen, good God, she was smiling at Enid so broadly you’d think it was a normal occurrence in her demeanor.

The blonde reached for her hand in the crowd and kept her close. As protectively as lovingly.

“What’s got you smiling like that, you fool?”

“You’re beautiful.”

The rum was going to make Enid do something stupid if push came to shove, if Wednesday kept looking at her like that. “I think you owe me a dance.”

“I think I do.”

Yoko shook her head, “Third wheeling was a mistake.”

“You were the one who insisted on not asking Divina to meet us.”

“She has a meeting at 7AM tomorrow morning. I told you, I’m not messing up her sleep!”

“Whipped.”

“You’re whipped.”

Enid childishly made a face at her, showing Yoko her tongue trapped between her teeth. And she was about to keep bothering her some more when a very loud gasp involuntarily escaped her throat instead—

“Oh my God.”

“…Enid?”

—Because the new tune playing was unmistakable. Oh, that guitar. Oh, the floods of people suddenly invading the dancefloor as if personally called forth by the music. Only a true phenomenon could pull that off. Oh, how obvious it was. ABBA.

Pause. Annoying Yoko could wait.

“Why did she stop breathing? What’s happening? Yoko?”

“She’s gay and ABBA’s playing, that’s what’s happening.”

“Oh. Her favorite band?”

“Yeah. She’s about to get really insuffera—”

“—this one is literally so good! Wends, oh my God— it’s the best song on Voulez-Vous after Angeleyes! Total classic! Such a killer!”

Wednesday clearly had no idea what most of those words meant.

“It came out this Summer, Enid. Can you really call it a classic already?”

“Yes! Of course! I mean— have you listened to it?!”

Yoko knew better than to contradict Enid Sinclair when it came to ABBA, so she just nodded. And their discussion was never going to evolve much past that anyway, given how dancing became immensely more important to the blonde after the lead vocalists broke through the beat, singing one very loud “half past twelve”.

The lights changed— blue. Hazy. Dark. Nearly smokey.

Enid danced with Wednesday, like she had wanted to for so long, never letting go of their proximity – if anything, she just pushed herself further into the other girl’s grasp.

The chorus featured a funky synthetizer that won over Wednesday with surprising lack of resistance. It was catchy but odd, same way her movements were fluid but kooky – quite punk for a classical musician; certainly the contrast against Enid’s vivaciousness and Yoko’s carefreeness.

Wednesday’s bangs were nowhere near tidy and there was a subduing wildness to her aura like that. There was something so terrifically arresting about seeing her now – unusually expressive and completely indifferent to what people might think of it.

And speaking of the chorus… c’mon… it was a joke waiting to happen. Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight? Yeah, right.

“Liars.” Yoko teased, pointing between the three of them.

Enid’s response was to laugh, shrug and take Wednesday’s jaw in her hands, singing the lyrics into her mouth anyway, just a push away from sealing their lips, with a look in her eyes that was nothing short of diabolically hungry. Daredevil.

And song after song, the night kept moving.

Bad Girls by Donna Summer played not long after ABBA, and according to Yoko that was “the best fucking song of all fucking time”. Enid bragged about knowing the singer personally and got thrown a middle finger by her. Wednesday had never heard that name before in her entire life.

The three of them had a good time to Heart of Glass – even if Wednesday was bound to deny it in the next morning; she didn’t possess half a mind to hate Pop Rock right now. Plus, the tune was a perfect middle-term between all of their different ways to self-express. And Enid also bragged about knowing Debbie Harry personally. Again, Wednesday was clueless.

And Yes Sir, I Can Boogie by Baccara was as sweet as it was torturous, with Enid’s undivided attention inevitably going Wednesday’s way due to the song’s sensuality. Enid was drunk and definitely not above trying the other girl’s sanity by dancing way too close to her, with hands way too tentative and lips way too near her ear.

And every once in a while Enid would look around and realize where she was, with who she was – her fight, her people – and it had never been as clear as it was then, that everything had been worth it if in the end she got to be this happy in her own skin.

It was 2:40AM when Wednesday tugged Enid’s arm.

“I think I need to go outside get some air.”

Yoko decided to stay behind – find a seat, rest her sore legs, come down from the adrenaline little by little and ask someone for a cigarette.

So Enid and Wednesday left Le Sept hand in hand. They were sweating and exhaustion had never felt so glorious.

Enid looked around every street corner and guided them into the most unbusy alleyway she could find, knowing that if sobriety was catching with Wednesday and she was feeling overwhelmed, then it’d be best to lay low in isolation for a while.

She drew circles around Wednesday’s wrist, floating softly in what was left of the light-headedness provoked by all the drinks she had taken, yet just as high on their thrill, on the fireworks of having given herself away to something as stupidly freeing as music and as ridiculously overdue as crystal clear self-acceptance.

The noise from the club vibrated in her ears still – phantom sounds – she couldn’t help but smile at the feeling. God bless the moment they had decided to bail that dinner. But also— God bless Pascal Laforest for his stupid parties. Yeah. Actually— Enid earned him a very sentimental thank you for the invite next time she ever saw him.  

But a new, different emotion also grew over that one – now alone in a moonlit alleyway with Wednesday… somehow the silence of it mixed with the night’s cool breeze just made it all so much more real… so much more intimate. Like life was as tangible as it could ever possibly be.

She could stay like that forever, slowly coming down from euphoria in peace.

“Do you wanna leave? Are you okay?” Enid began asking. Wednesday remained silent. “We can go somewhere else. Or just walk around the city. Or I can take you home. I mean it. I’m already, like, super happy I got to spend all this time with you. Like, absurdly happy. Like, words cannot begin to describe it. We can totally call it a night right now if you want, though. Seriously you don’t need to—”

Oh.

Enid didn’t get to finish that sentence. Wednesday didn’t let her.

Oh.

Enid felt her back hit the wall. Felt her body being pushed against it. Felt the cold of the stone. Felt hands on her waist. The grip of Wednesday’s fingers through the silk of her clothes. An impact so strong that it was like being thrown.

It should’ve shut her up. Clearly that was Wednesday’s intention. Yet, after a beat, Enid chuckled. No, no— Enid laughed.

“Oh… I see. Did you get me alone on purpose?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“I needed air.”

“And now?”

“I’m better.”

“You seem like it.”

Enid was careful to glance at Wednesday intently, to read the truth in her eyes. She wasn’t drunk anymore. That much was evident.

(After all, any Addams was impressionably competent at processing alcoholic beverages. A lot was needed to truly fuck them up. Uncle Fester could attest, but Enid digressed—)

Wednesday wasn’t drunk anymore, not like she had been a while ago. Her senses seemed to still linger onto a certain dazedness, that was only natural, but those weren’t the eyes of a drunk person.

Those were the eyes of Wednesday Addams, shocked at her own impulses, taken by a blood-soaked compulsion to do something about what she was feeling. Whatever that may be. Those were the eyes of a woman who wanted it all – the hellfire of Enid’s lips, again and again and again.

That was to say, her gaze was intense. Dark. And as if putting together the puzzle pieces of the night, recapping every little step, from the concert to right now, what had happened for them to end up there, what had happened for her to be driven to do what she had just done, it became darker.

Enid figured she had probably brought this upon herself by tempting Wednesday into her orbit the whole night. Oh but she wasn’t complaining.

“I don’t know why I just did that.”

“Yeah, you do.”

And there they were yet again for the second time that night – completely alone yet out in the open for anyone to see, in the most compromising position they could’ve possibly come up with, far away from giving a damn about saving face.

Enid’s index finger gently ran across Wednesday’s cheek. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

When Wednesday said nothing, Enid touched her throat, hovered over it softly with her fingertips, as if instructing her to speak. She closed her eyes for a moment when she felt Wednesday’s body press against hers tighter.

The distance between their faces was a joke, and Enid could help many things, but she couldn’t hold herself back from leaning even closer, making their noses touch.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Then we won’t.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

“Then we won’t. Forget I ever said that.”

“Do you understand what I mean by this?”

“That you…wanna stay?”

“More than that.”

“I think you’re gonna have to be a bit more straightforward about what made you push me against a wall mid-sentence, Wends.”

They looked at each other in silence, in self-control, and that was the catalysis of chaos for Enid’s beating heart. Wednesday took a deep breath.

“Going home is the furthest thing from my mind right now.” She whispered, like one whispered a confession. “I wouldn’t mind staying until dawn wherever you wanted me to. I don’t know how you do that to me.”

Which Enid was pretty sure translated into: I’m now fully realizing where I am and how many disco songs I’ve danced to tonight, and I would do it all over again willingly, because somehow you make me feel like it’s not the end of the world to abandon my dearly treasured nihilism…. look at the mess you’ve made of me.

Wednesday had that darkness in her eyes that showed just how badly she was in ruins. Enamored and athirst and wrecked by all the want driving her out of her mind, grasping onto just how real this whole thing was.

“You make me question my sanity. I almost don’t recognize myself. And I like it. Because it’s you I’m losing my senses to. You turn me upside down and I have no intentions of ever stopping you.”

Enid gulped, her throat tightened, she stared at the perfect bow of Wednesday’s mouth. She remembered the taste of it. She remembered what it felt like to be at its mercy. She remembered the sight of her own lips in the mirror painted darker.

Enid Sinclair hadn’t been built for this. She hadn’t been built to stand before this woman for so long without kissing her.

“Act on it then.”

And they were so close— so crazed by anticipation— that it required nearly no forethought at all to do it.

And this time it was different. This time they didn’t kiss like two lovers who had found one another again, for the second time, for the rest of their lifetimes. This time they kissed like two lovers ending a drought.

It could’ve teared Enid apart – how slaughtering of a famine it was, now coming undone with the greediness of Wednesday’s lips chasing after the sweetness of rum in her mouth. It was saintly for a minute, and then ruthless like they wished to be the cause of each other’s annihilation.

Enid’s soft fingertips turned into a grip on the underside of Wednesday’s jaw. A thousand pent-up seeds of havoc wreaked, it was all hell breaking loose.

And the tipping point finally came when Wednesday whined into the touch, grasping hold of Enid’s waist to save herself from crumpling down. Now that was just playing dirty—

The only thing Enid could bring herself to do in response was push Wednesday by the hips against the wall on the opposite side of the street – way less kindly.   

It was a thunderstorm— when Enid kissed her neck— it was a thunderstorm drilling through a fortress. And she could feel her mouth making a bigger mess out of Wednesday. Her tongue over her pulse, her teeth threatening to bite skin. A much bigger mess.

It was more carnal than any other moment they had shared so far that night, sure, but that didn’t make it any less of a soul-saving devotion. That didn’t make it any less meaningful. It was still them. It was still a release flowing from this evermore bond they possessed, settling into a new time, blending in a new space. And the merciless crush of their lips back together again as Enid thought of Wednesday’s weakening words made her want with so much passion that the scarlet of her pumping blood could’ve been ripped out of her veins to draw a red moon on the sky.

Their pants for breath and all-consuming harshness against one another were so purging that Enid completely forgot they were in the middle of a street.

She was kissing the perfect center of Wednesday’s throat when a group of three drag queens passed by; all dressed in bejeweled clothes, all clearly drunk, definitely leaving the disco.

They hushed at each other in giggles and then one of them whistled playfully at the scene – at the image of two girls who had presumably just met and were now making out in the back of the club without recalling so much as each other’s names…well…if only they knew.

Enid heard a shout, something in French that she wasn’t currently mentally capable to properly deconstruct and understand, but it sounded very supportive. Amused. But supportive!

It took everything in Enid not to laugh in Wednesday mouth, to keep kissing her despite her uncooperative face muscles that kept smiling way too much. They broke apart once the alleyway was empty again. Both breathless, both chuckling.

“I think you were right.” Enid said, chest going up and down furiously. Wednesday was too weak to muster the strength to answer audibly, so she just made the most pathetic attempt at a questioning glance of her entire career. Enid clarified, laughing, “Maybe I have made a mess of you. Maybe I don't want to stop it. I might just ruin your credibility after all.”

Wednesday smiled. And her weakest spot - her eyes - did too.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh but that’s the thing, Addams.” Enid smirked against the brush of their mouths, biting Wednesday’s lip. “I think I want to.”

Chapter Text

November 19^th, 1979

Paris, France

Wednesday woke up in Enid’s bed.

She woke up with a headache. And in Enid’s bed.

Of course, after opening her eyes she was merely swimming blurrily in the mental process of regaining consciousness, so she didn’t immediately put those two things together.

During those mind-bending ten seconds or so, she only assimilated a foreign arm immobilizing her shoulder and hair that wasn’t hers covering one of her eyes. She assimilated white bedsheets with pink trims, hanging plants in macramé style near a glass door with closed blinds, prints of colorful art hanging on the wall, and the smell of vanilla right under her nose.

It was slightly confusing, to say the least.

And then she remembered— oh.

It hit her like the magnificent opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony—

It was the morning after her concerto. After the dinner. And the talk. And the disco.

It was the morning after everything.

She was in Enid’s house. She had slept in Enid’s bed. She was wearing Enid’s clothes. It was Enid’s hair on her face. And the goddamn arm heavily resting on top of her body like an iron pipe was Yoko’s.

Oh.

And thus Wednesday began to fully recall the events that took place the previous night. Each little stepping stone. Choice after choice. Moment after moment. All of it summing up inside her brain until the ultimate instant she crashed on Enid’s mattress, glared at an already comatose snoring Yoko, and lost herself to the darkest sleep she had ever experienced in ages with her face almost nestled in Enid’s neck.

Wednesday fully recalled—

The memory of Le Sept. Outside. Enid’s wicked grip on her hips and their debate over the ruin of her credibility— “That’s the thing, Addams. I think I want to”, “Then I suppose I might be helpless to stop you” —the memory of harmlessly mean teases falling out of Enid’s sweet tongue.

They stayed there enclosed in a passionate bubble of their own way too long, kissing way too eagerly for their own good.

And how they damned one another’s name, tasted curses in each other’s lips. The way it was war, it was intimacy, it were muses coming to life. It was eventually slowing down, a mouth brushing against a cheek. It was giggling at their own profanities.

Of course, Yoko mocked them when they went back inside— “Fucking hell, Addams, do you need a hair comb?”— the three of them kept talking and dancing and drinking. And she remembered how Enid and Yoko tried to teach her the routines to some of the songs and get her to try out more cocktails.

She recalled how hunger seemed to hit their stomachs exactly at the same time, around 4AM, which prompted them to leave to go chase after food.

She recalled how they ended up at a nearby café – the only establishment in Paris that had open doors 24/7 – satiating the cavities of appetite that alcohol had left in their systems and the ungodly thirst that was drying their throats— “Oh my God”, “Enid, perhaps refrain from moaning at the food so loudly”, “I can’t oh God, it’s so damn good”, “Jeez, are you hearing this shit? How am I the one who’s gross?”.

And then Yoko changed Wednesday’s entire life trajectory by casually suggesting, “Hey, why don’t we all sleep at Enid’s? I don’t wanna risk waking up Divina and it’d be, like, the fastest route to take. I’m pretty tired”.

And how that had concluded with the three of them going out like lights in Enid’s king-sized bed.

All of it overcame her brain in a split-second and suddenly she was wide awake—

Wednesday was sandwiched between the two girls but undeniably laying on top of the blonde. She couldn’t tell if having her nose buried near Enid’s jaw was a self-accomplished feat or if Yoko had forced it to happen by taking up so much space.

Wednesday groaned and tried to move her friend’s arm away, but Christ Yoko was unreasonably heavy.

“Is she bothering you?” Enid’s voice asked, out of nowhere – surprisingly perky, not drowsy in the slightest, like someone who had been awake for a long time now – against Wednesday’s forehead; it could’ve alarmed her if an Addams was easily scared, but it only made her shiver.

As Wednesday tried to move her head to look up, Enid seemed to suddenly grow aware of how her hair stood somewhat in the way of the other girl’s vision. She uttered an adorably sheepish “oops” and tucked it away gently, careful not to be brusque with her motions.

Wednesday had just woken up, she knew she hadn’t slept many hours and was honestly barely alive to the world yet, but that didn’t stop her from immediately being a complete fool over Enid Sinclair. Oh, please. Never.

She sighed, watching Enid watch her. A complete fool.

And Enid simply laid there with a growing smile. Eyes as blue as the sea Aphrodite had emerged from. God have mercy. To have Enid Sinclair be your first sight in the morning was as cathartic as weight being lifted from within the spirit.

It also wasn’t something to take lightly.

Right now, Wednesday’s blood was devoid of adrenaline and alcohol – both substances so maddening, so overpowering – and that lucidity made her see things clearly, a thousand times more eminently, more securely.

Because all of the inherent madness of the night was gone, the sun currently trying to peek through the blinds had drenched it in light, melted its wings. The sun had brought back reality, set it high and gleaming up in the sky as an unavoidable reminder of aftermath.

Most people whined at that transition. The shift from escapism and pipe dreams to the real world. Nothing but a buzz kill. Yet looking at each other right now, Wednesday and Enid knew that idea couldn’t be more ridiculous. More wrong. Clarity wasn’t a sucker punch, it was a blessing.

It all came down to one simple thing: they had meant last night’s words, last night’s actions; last night’s ups and downs, last night’s confessions – emotional or physical or goddamn spiritual. And the time of day couldn’t wash that away. Couldn’t manipulate a solid thing.

It was morning. Their feelings stood still. Untampered.

“Your unblinking eyes are gorgeous, Wends, but if you don’t say something soon I’m gonna start freaking out.”

Oh— she was staring.

Wednesday woke up for the third time in the span of five minutes and responded, softly, “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“The early bird in me beat yours.”

“The early bird in you doesn’t exist.”

Enid chuckled quietly and readjusted her position to lay on her elbow. Wednesday had to remind herself how to breathe. Her eyes took it all in wonder – how there were still remains of rosy eyeshadow near the sapphire of Enid’s gaze, how she still had shiny traces of glitter on her face, on her nose, on her cheeks.

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

“It was past 6 in the morning when we went to sleep. How do you not sound tired?”

“I know my way around the morning after a party.”

“Such noble knowledge to possess.”

Enid rolled her eyes playfully. “Shut up and let me help you, will you?” Their gazes met and mingled, held each other endearingly for a moment.

(It was the prime of the morning, maybe eight or nine, and Wednesday Addams didn’t mind being a fool over Enid Sinclair. Not at all. She wasn’t sorry).

“Rule number one,” The blonde strongly knocked Yoko’s arm to the other side of the bed with all the casualness in the world, releasing Wednesday from its burden without so much as blinking in contemplation. “Yoko sleeps like a rock when she’s like this. Believe me, she cannot be possibly woken up by anything other than her own will.”

It checked out. Yoko remained asleep beside Wednesday, profoundly dozed off like she rested in the arms of Morpheus himself.

Enid smiled. “Good morning.”

Wednesday wanted to kiss her. “Morning.”

“Wanna get up? I was thinking we could wait for Sleeping Beauty to have breakfast. And I kinda wanna be alone with you for a bit too.”

Wednesday really wanted to kiss her. “Okay.”

The designer smiled wider and got up.

She put on a silk robe over her lavender nightgown and grabbed the grey hooded jacket folded on top of her dressing table. Wednesday watched her move. Too riveted to blink. Wednesday watched her with such engrossment that next thing she knew, said piece of clothing was being thrown at her face.

“I’d ask if you like what you see but I think I already know the answer.”

Evil, evil woman.

Blushing and uncapable of saying a single thing in her defense, Wednesday put on the grey jacket tossed her way – not totally her color of choice but whatever, at least it wasn’t yellow, or God forbid, pink.

She grabbed the hand she was then offered and followed after Enid’s steps. The blonde took Yoko’s pair of sunglasses from the nightstand before guiding them towards the glass door in the middle of the room, which likely lead to a balcony.

As they walked, Wednesday took the opportunity to scan the surroundings.

Even though Enid’s bedroom currently found itself deprived of the chance to shine fully and wholly due to the penumbra purposefully cast over every corner, its decoration was still color-popping enough to attract attention. One could apprehend a less shocking version of its chromatism in the low light.

The room was spacious, and now that she looked around more attentively, the majority of the prints on the walls were Pop Art pieces. All about immortal celebrities and lavish glamour and comic-styled characters and beautiful women. Some others were kaleidoscopic psychedelic designs. Spirals of color and abstract patterns and bright outlines.

There were plants in little vases everywhere, fashion books on shelves, magazines scattered in an organized manner and a pile of vinyl next to the classiest pink record player Wednesday had ever seen.

There was a golden hanging grid panel on the wall containing polaroid photos (with Yoko, with Bianca, with some of the people Wednesday recalled Enid used to admire; at red carpet events, at all sorts of touristic sites) travel postcards and elaborate dress sketches.

The walk-in closet on the other end of the bedroom seemed big enough for someone to get lost in.

Everything was so Enid – so true to her humbleness while still a picture-perfect capture of her absolutely extravagant spirit.

And that observation was ten times more beautifully exhibited in the ceiling, which was covered by a refined mural of soft colors, too marvelous to be glossed over.

It presented depictions of various Greek mythology scenes, and Wednesday swore— no, Wednesday knew— that Enid had been the one to draw its blueprint, to create its design from scratch purely out of a passion to do so.

And what a striking sight it was.

It told the whole folklore: the creation of the world proceeding the cosmic abyss of Chaos, the ten-year battle of Titanomachy, the birth of Athena, the Trojan War, the demise of Orpheus and Eurydice, the twelve Olympians— everything. Deity after deity, legend after legend.

And at the heart of it all starred Aphrodite; starred the grand illustration of her symbolic flower, the anemone. The logo of Enid’s company. The emblem of her fashion empire. Beauty and love making the world go round and round.

How over the top it was yet what a mark it left on anyone who laid eyes on it.

It was amazing that she had created such a thing. Enid Sinclair was a mad genius. A woman with a beautiful mind, full of passions that possessed lives of their own. There was no other possible way to word it.

Everything she loved experienced a rebirth. Everything she touched goldened into art.

It was majestic.

This wasn’t even her primary residence – Enid still lived in the U.S; she had left Beverly Hills after her divorce and moved to the beaches of Malibu. This additional home of hers in Paris served both the purpose of making it easier for her to work abroad in one of fashion’s key nations and to be closer to her best friend.

Hence it was just…abysmally impressive how much effort she could put into making this space so vividly hers despite how it wasn’t even the house she spent the most time in.

And lost in awe, caught in a trance of admiration, Wednesday didn’t notice that Enid was about to open the door to the outside world for them. She instinctively closed her eyes with tremendous sensibility when sunlight suddenly hit her vision.

“Knew it. You’re weak.” Enid snickered. “Wear these.” Yoko’s sunglasses were dropped in Wednesday’s hands and she was gently pushed by her shoulders through the doorframe.

The rays of light brightening the sky and beaming against the floor of the balcony confirmed it: it was early in the morning, maybe too early. Wednesday had to put on the shades otherwise she was sure she was going to be driven to psychosis.

Enid closed the door behind them.

The balcony offered a rich view of France’s capital from a more isolated standpoint, from a perspective outside the busy city center. Enid lived in Neuilly-sur-Seine, on the banks of the Seine River. Her residence was wealthy and the neighborhood was exclusive, situated near big greenspaces and inserted in a calm scene.

Wednesday remembered last night when the taxi dropped them off. The little, slightly inebriated house tour Enid gave her.

Wednesday remembered being told, “I have a guest room if you wanna sleep there instead”. Wednesday remembered answering with a joke, shocking the entire universe with the skill to apply light-hearted irony to a conversation, “Should I be jealous that you’re thinking of isolating me to sleep with Yoko?”.

And now leaning against the balcony’s rail, Enid smiled contently to herself, looking as well-rested as if she had been revived by a full night’s sleep.

And then she stared at Wednesday up and down amusedly, as her mouth began to open in silent shock. Inexplicably, she started to laugh. Enid started to laugh in a manner that was absolutely hysterical. So loud that it was a miracle how Yoko didn’t instantly jump awake on the other side of the door.

“Oh, God.” Her giggles intensified, Wednesday frowned. “I completely forgot I gave you that fucking shirt.”

What shirt?

Wednesday looked down.

The t-shirt she had been given by Enid before falling asleep was black – which was both an unlikely surprise and a good enough contrast against the grey jacket she had on; but she also remembered how the blonde had said something along the lines of sorry this is literally the only dark piece of clothing I own.

Wednesday hadn’t questioned the implications of that statement the night before – too tired at that point to be anything other than exhausted – but now observing it thoroughly for the first time, she couldn’t ignore a stamp of color in the middle of her chest. Because what she was wearing wasn’t a plain black shirt. It…displayed some sort of print.

She contorted her entire body to try to take a better look at this newly found detail, understand what it was, what it meant. Enid’s laugh only triplicated.

The small print on the shirt seemed like… two muppets?

“Enid, what is this?”

She had to force herself to breathe in order to properly utter anything discernible. “It’s Ernie and Bert! You know…from Sesame Street!”

Who?

From Sesame Street?

…How?

“I don’t follow.”

“They’re the roommates!”

“I don’t…” What?  “Enid, these don’t look like real people.”

“Well, they aren’t?”

“You just said they’re from Sesame Street.”

“Oh my God, not the real Sesame Street in Manhattan! Sesame Street the TV show!”

Uh.

Wednesday had no idea what Enid was talking about. But then again, it wasn’t exactly surprising that Enid knew something about pop culture that she didn’t.

“If the characters are muppets, I’m assuming it’s a kids program.”

Enid rolled her eyes. “It’s fun.”

Wednesday looked down one more time, analyzing the duo printed on the shirt’s fabric again.

One had a round orange face, the other had a pointy yellow head. One smiled widely, the other glared deathly. One wore a colorful striped shirt, the other wore a more serious sweater vest. One carried a rubber duck on his shoulder, the other read a book with a frown.

“This is the worst shirt I’ve ever seen.”

“It makes you look so funny. Please don’t ever take it off.”

“It makes me look ridiculous.”

“Hmm, adorable actually.”

Enid giggled and then pulled Wednesday closer by the hand with a pretty smile, effortlessly dismantling her scowl, which was absolutely perceivable even behind the sunglasses.

Enid also spent a few seconds looking between Wednesday’s sulky expression and the characters stamped on the shirt, or at least one of them, and seemed to… find something very humorous.

“I’m never gonna look at Bert the same way again now…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Enid kissed the tip of her nose. Wednesday forgot how to compute. “Anyways, say what you will, but I’m also pretty sure they’re gay.”

“Scandalous.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you bought this awful shirt?”

“Shh, don’t tell anyone.”

“And what evidence supports your theory, anyhow?”

“I mean… roommates…? In New York? C’mon?”

Wednesday wondered if Enid could see her eyes roll behind the sunglasses. And if so, Wednesday wondered if Enid’s dumb smile grew because of it.

“I’m telling you! They even have an episode during a storm!”

“Enid.” Wednesday aimed to sound like her usual annoyed self but messed it all up with the stupid slip of a chuckle.

God.

She just couldn’t, for the life of her, act normal around this girl.

Much less as the memory of thunders and hot chocolate and first kisses and Frank Sinatra began to send her senses into a whirlwind.

“Okay fine. Totally-not-in-love-with-each-other TV characters aside, how do you feel today?” The blonde asked – sweetly, with eyes as patient as expectant. The sun shined bright on her face, on her hair. Their touching hands turned into fingers softly intertwining. They stepped closer without even noticing. “Did you sleep well?”

“It felt like death.”

“Oh.” Enid said with a lively tone – because she knew what that translated into in Wednesday Addams vocabulary – biting her lip, biting the grin stretching her mouth to impossible lengths. “Brave description of a three-hour sleep coming from you.”

“That only gives you more reason to trust my words.”

Enid’s gaze soared with a kind of happiness that was heart-winning. Her blue eyes glimmered a greenish ocean, waters so crystalline it were windows to heaven.

And then that sparkle faltered gently, purposefully. She turned more serious, albeit nervous, capturing Wednesday’s focus. Her voice was the epitome of sobriety when it reached the other girl’s ears, “Do you regret any of it?”

And there it was – the most inevitable doubt of the morning after.

But Wednesday almost felt excited that such a fated question had been uttered. Because now she could at long last say, “I’d be insane to give regret any room to dwell when this is the most devoid of burden I’ve ever been.” and feel relieve expand her lungs with the reveal of truth.

Truth that was too lucid not to be a piece of one’s heart.

Truth under the morning sunlight.

In the simpleness and transparency of sharing the beginning of a new day with someone you conquered the dead of night with.

Regret had no business going anywhere near her. Near them.

It could’ve come as a shock that the world’s most hostile introvert was perfectly unbothered with the knowledge that a few hours ago her social disposition had been unrecognizable; that she had tipsily stumbled over her own feet and danced uncannily at a gay disco. It could’ve— but some things were an honor to go insane over. Some things were worth uprooting inhibitions for.

Things like Enid Sinclair and moon-drunk kisses.

Yet, if only to close the circle of doubts, Wednesday was going to ask Enid the exact same, “Do yo—” but Enid spoke truth in a different language, and so interrupted her with a kiss.

Wednesday couldn’t have been given an answer any clearer.

It was tender. It was full. Talking be damned. Talking could wait.

And Wednesday suddenly felt as if the whole sky had been swallowed whole by her insurmountable magnet of a love; felt as if the clouds were all inside her chest and the sunbeams fluoresced open her heart, shining bright through the fabric of her clothes.

And all of it was Enid’s fault.

Enid, who was an enchantress of life.

Enid, who was the morning rays and a crown of flowers. Who could summon an aurora in the deepest hours of darkness.

Enid, time and time again. It would always be Enid.

As inevitable as God had ever dared to make anything or anyone.

Wednesday had never felt so human until today, until right now – until she was kissed by that girl’s cherry-flavored reassurance, cut mid-sentence by the adoration of her scarlet lips. It was the only answer Wednesday had ever needed, spoken right into her soul.

And whatever world existed before that, dropped dead on its knees.

Wednesday moved her lips against Enid’s, held her face tenderly, loved her, and whatever world existed before that merely dwindled into nothingness. From its ashes rose a goddamn new world order. Change was so utter that it could’ve made Earth’s tectonic plates quake.

Enid kissed her with arms that embraced— and how the hell was Wednesday’s heart not supposed to belong to this woman for this lifetime and the next?

“I have to stay in Paris ‘til the end of this week.” Enid whispered against her mouth, knocking their foreheads together, breaking away gently like someone who didn’t want distance at all.

And pathetic as it was, Wednesday was seriously glad her waist was being held, because God— she was melting inside. She was one more kiss away from physically giving in to her weak knees.

“I have some important meetings I can’t postpone, but I’m taking the next one off. I’ll assign my work to someone else. I don’t care.” Enid poured the words into Wednesday’s parted lips. “I know you’re touring and I’d like to meet you. Wherever you are. I’ll fly to you. I’ll be there. I want to see you. I want to be with you.”

But as it turned out, she didn’t need to be kissed again to be thrown off balance.

Enid’s words left her feeling dizzy and aswoon with rubbery legs, breath caught in her throat, at the brink of a wild sigh, eyes embarrassingly infatuated: a honeyed mess of a fool.

“How would you feel about that, love?”

There wasn’t a single universe in which Wednesday remained sane in the face of such a question. The question, perhaps. The one that made it indisputably clear how they had lived beyond the hope of the previous night and now faced the tomorrow they had then discussed.

The real part of figuring things out together started now.

There was a whole new day ahead of them. Soon there’d be whole new weeks. This world was new, theirs to unravel, theirs to build.

And watching Enid fight to be by her side so shamelessly was the most divine of scenes.

Wednesday breathed out, short-winded, restraining herself from kissing the mouth she spoke into, “I’ll be in Germany. Four cities. A concert in each.”

“Perfect.” Enid murmured, smiling. “Save me four seats?”

And God help Wednesday— that was the match in the powder barrel.

She kissed Enid without thinking twice, leaning forward with all the yearning inside her chest. All the love impossible to put into words.

(She’d save Enid a seat always).

And love flashed bright – red like the clash of their lips and promising like Enid’s unfading beam.

It was quite a reminiscing scene: a healing kiss at the center of a balcony; in the day and at night. One could’ve drawn the parallels between both sceneries. Between formal attires and lent sleepwear, between moonglow and sunshine, between getting the girl back and showing her you’re keeping your word.

Wednesday raised higher on her tiptoes, hands savoring Enid’s jaw, making their way up to feel her hair, to pull closer, to revel in ruby lips. And Enid embraced her waist tighter, with a penchant for the all-consuming slowness of it all; for the romanticism of holding this girl in a way that made it clear, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was hers.

“Okay—” The blonde giggled when she tried to speak, softly drawing back from the kiss, but Wednesday chased after the reconnection of their mouths unabashedly. “Wait, silly—” Enid’s chuckles tasted good. “Oh my God, Wends— you’re an idiot— I have something to ask—”

To which Wednesday eventually gave in.

She relished the softness of the other girl’s lips one generous last time before pulling back.

“Yes?”

“I’m a bit curious about something.”

“Tell me.”

“See… I just realized I still don’t know anything about where you’re living right now.”

(It wasn’t news that Wednesday Addams never stayed in the same place for too long.

She was known for it. It was a fundamental trait of her persona – just like her scarce public appearances and calculated movements; everything about her was a closely guarded secret.

And Enid hadn’t been immune to that unreachability. Especially because, well… Enid had sort of been its core trigger at some point.

If Wednesday had been dodging something by unpredictably making a break for a new location every two months or so, it were her own feelings. It was this ghost of woe that unfailingly haunted her everywhere).

So since their official chasm in correspondence, Enid’s letters had always been put through the most intricate journeys to reach their final destination. They were forwarded back and forth between Wednesday’s last registered addresses and places of work, from point A to point B to point C. On and on and on.

(And if Enid had any confidence it wasn’t an odyssey in vain, it was because she had people being paid well to ensure it was a process handled carefully and effectively. After all, she wasn’t stupid. Her letters never abandoned a meticulous course. Never fell into prying hands. Never slipped from her control. Always ended up on Wednesday’s desk. Hers, and hers alone

But it wasn’t like she could ever be sure about where the other woman was living).

It was hence easy to comprehend how this question was vital in the context of their current circumstances; how it was attached to a long-awaited answer, a crucial step towards fully-fledged reconciliation.

And figuring it out together demanded honesty, so Wednesday did what she judged utterly implausible a day ago: she trusted the tide and was open about this strictly private dimension of her life, which she didn’t talk about to anyone other than her parents.

“I’m actually living nowhere permanent at the moment.”

Enid chuckled quietly, “What does that mean?”

“I sold my residence last year when my concerts began. I’ve been living in hotels ever since.” The blonde’s grin flunked. “Technically, I’m inhabiting Paris right now. By tomorrow night that’ll change to Brussels.”

“What?”

“Yes. Easier logistics.”

“You sold your house?!”

“I didn’t need one.”

“What do you mean you didn’t—” Enid’s speech suddenly fumbled, “Even if you’re touring— that doesn’t mean you have to— how do you— Wends— this has been going on for a year?!”

“And a couple months.”

“There’s…so much to unpack there.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Wends—” Enid pulled back gently, looking into her eyes with an emotion that had completely and horrifically metamorphosed into concern. “Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.”

“Okay… so first, you’re always on the move for a new place? And then you don’t have a place of your own at all? For more than a year?”

“I find myself adapted to a nomadic living.”

“Okay, hold up—” Enid was definitely starting to do that thing where she uncontrollably spoke with her hands to try to collect her thoughts. “Hotels aside, how many actual places have you lived in? In the last five years?”

“I… I’ve…”

Wednesday Addams didn’t grow roots anywhere. She was famous for it. And she had never truly considered, or felt, the weight of it. Never. Until now. Until she was backed up against a wall by the simplest question Enid could’ve ever asked.

She was sure she had inhabited practically all of Europe. Some countries in Latin America. Very few in Asia. There was that time in Australia. Most states in her homeland. She could confidently name a few. But the astonishing majority was missing from her mind.

She didn’t have a concrete answer to give. Not even a guess.

It was even blurrier regarding cities.

The question went round in circles inside her head. How many places had she lived in? Had she forgotten? When had she lost count?

She didn’t know.

Which was quite alarming – because Wednesday Addams always knew everything, she’d be in the dark about a piece of information when hell froze over. Yet, her unclear response regarding this personal matter undermined all foundations of that premise, “In point of fact…I’m not quite sure.”

Enid seemed to think the same. She was left a bit more astounded than before.

“How did you move so many times? I mean… didn’t you get even a little bit attached to any of those places?”

“No.” Wednesday said. “They were just houses where I slept. Practically unfurnished. Nothing about any of them ever held me down.”

“Don’t you miss having a steady home?” The question was left hanging in the air, unanswered. But it clang onto Wednesday’s brain, impossible to shake off. “Don’t you miss actually having a place that feels like something you can grow attached to? Your place?”

And God damn Enid Sinclair, always effortlessly removing the knots from her heart’s trickiest labyrinths. “Sometimes I do.” Always making her feel like opening up was easy despite terrifying; inevitable. “I just didn’t think it was meant for me anymore.”

Enid seemed to understand what that denoted. Her apologetic look sure showed it. Remorseful eyes and compressed lips.

Fucking New York. They really had to settle a truce with that city.

Memories of it flooded them both. Of those last days. Of unsent letters and doomed fate and bitter defeat and shutting down – and as Wednesday’s chest tightened in a high-pitched shatter at the recollections of her past emotions, she knew beyond doubt that fear of attachment had really fucked her up.

Worse than that, it had taken her captive.

It had dug such a hole in her chest that she had become frightened of emotionally connecting with anything ever again. A house, a commodity, a country, a city. She had become desensitized to all she had learnt with Enid, from Enid – those were parts of herself she didn’t know how to hear anymore, because trust that she would be immediately fleeing a place if she ever saw a billboard with Enid’s name on the street.

(That might’ve happened more than once).

Call it self-protection, call it self-sabotage.

And that habit became so entrenched in her behavior that she reached the unthinkable point of beginning to forget. She was never truly living anywhere; she was on autopilot.

“I understand the hurt. I understand the avoidance. Even the isolation. And I know those are all ways to cope which you naturally recoil into.” Enid said, “and sure, nomadic living might be very on brand for you, but if you’re not doing it for the right reasons… then you cannot base the way you live your life on detachment strategies.”

Enid tenderly brushed Wednesday’s bangs with her fingers when a breeze blew over her hair softly. She ran the tip of her index over Wednesday’s skin; it traveled down her face and her arm, stopping at her knuckles, leaking warmth into her body.

It was delicate. Subtle. Soothing. And it worked, because instead of being at the anxious mercy of an urge to escape emotional confrontation, Wednesday found solace in the touch drawing stars in her hand.

It was a lifeline. She held onto it.

“And you shouldn’t need me to feel like it’s finally worth it to beat those fears, Wends. You don’t need me for that. I’ll definitely be there every step of the way, but you should do it for yourself and your own good. It’s not good for you to be living like this.”

Wednesday forced the bottlenecked words out of her throat, “I know.”

“Hey,” Enid rested her other hand on Wednesday’s waistline, under her jacket, over the cloth of her shirt.

(Wednesday felt every last one of her muscles relax, and if she didn’t know any better, if she wasn’t already well-versed in how powerful Enid’s reassurance through touch was, she’d be going insane right now over the calmness cleaning her senses).

“I’m sure there’s some scary old house out there waiting for you to make it ten times more off-putting. You should look into that. And not half-heartedly. Or temporarily. I don’t think a home is supposed to be a band-aid you’re expecting to rip off.”

Wednesday thought about it. About a miserable place she felt something other than uninspiring apathy coming back to after a draining day.

About a living room wall flaunting tenebrous masterpieces by Caravaggio, a personal library, big bookshelves, gloomy literary collections, her own concerto records on display, and a bedroom with a wide window whose vista she could grasp during her cello sessions.

A place that she allowed herself to know longer than a couple irrelevant months.

Wednesday thought about it. Visualized it. A place that looked hers, felt hers, in the same way that Enid’s place felt like it couldn’t belong to anyone else in the entire world.

And perhaps she had been tragically downplaying one of the greatest aspects of self-expression this entire time, because a space so demonstrative of her individuality seemed like the exact fresh breath of air she had been missing.

“I suppose I ought to give it a try.”

Enid’s gaze skipped from the cellist’s soft eyes to the constellation of freckles all around her nose, all over the apples of her cheeks, and as if there were no words that could possibly translate the overwhelming pride buzzing in her chest, she simply took Wednesday’s face with both hands, full of care, and kissed her more gently than she ever had.

So lovingly that the sun lingered over their bodies, burning brighter.

And Wednesday thought, as the bridge of those ridiculous sunglasses slightly rubbed against Enid’s skin, that kissing her tasted like the rest of their goddamn lives.

*

When Yoko finally woke up and met them at the balcony twenty minutes later wearing baggy clothes, she made a joke about Wednesday becoming what she criticized, took the sunglasses off her face and then burst out laughing after taking a better look at her shirt.

They talked for a while, recalled last night, tried to puzzle together each of their memories in order to attain a more consistent timeline of happenings, and then discussed their plans for today.

Yoko wanted to be home by the time Divina arrived; Enid was going to talk to Bianca, better yet come out, followed by having to meet with a client’s representative; and Wednesday, who refused to take interviews or ever engage with the press, had a free schedule until her flight to Brussels tomorrow afternoon.

They all felt pretty decent too, which was remarkable tending how much alcohol they had ingested. There were no gruesome, life-sucking hangovers to deal with, just some dizziness on Yoko’s behalf, sensory sensitivity on Wednesday’s, and then the three shared physical exhaustion and major dehydration.

So they followed into the kitchen, debating their cravings for breakfast.

“Enid, I want pancakes.”

“Make them yourself.”

“But I’m tired… c’mon… and yours are so good…”

“Are you seriously whining?”

“Wednesday, back me up here.”

“I’d rather suffer a repulsive death than poison myself with sugar this early in the morning.”

“But she’ll make them if you ask! God, can’t you be of any help?”

“Fuck.” Enid groaned absent-mindedly, walking lazily in front of the two girls, turning a right on the hallway to open the door into the next room. “Yoko, by the way, I’m out of milk for your coffee, do you mind—”

They stepped inside the kitchen, and all Wednesday heard next was a full-throated gasp coming from Enid and the sound of her own body colliding against Yoko as the blonde came to a sudden halt ahead of them.

They hit each other like train carriages, one after the other.

Wednesday looked up at the same time a quiet fuck gracelessly escaped Yoko’s lips, and— ah… fuck, indeed.

Because in front of them – suddenly, irremediably – was Bianca goddamn Barclay, sitting at a barstool with crossed legs, holding a cup of coffee with both hands, observing their clumsy entrance without blinking.

Well… what the fuck.

“Finally. You woke up.”

Her voice was completely even, her expression lacked any graspable emotion; she was nothing but poise and vigilant eyes.

(And one didn’t need to know her very well to understand that she had been calculatingly waiting for them to walk right into this. Wednesday would respect the set up under different circumstances).

“Don’t worry about the milk, I told the housekeeper to go do the groceries and then gave her the rest of the day off. I figured we’d need some privacy.”

Of course the house staff knew Bianca. Of course she had access to the residence.

Of course she had to come look for Enid early in the morning – probably to ask her what the hell was last night’s hasty exit all about; and if she needed to start worrying about what the press could say regarding possible nightlife adventures she decided to engage in.

Bianca put the beverage down and Enid spoke haltingly, “What are you doing here?”

“At first I came over to talk to you about last night, Sinclair, but after taking a look inside your bedroom I figured we’d all benefit from a little chat.” She responded and got up, standing with folded arms. Her gaze took turns piercing them. “What a night you three must’ve had.”

Wednesday didn’t have to fully turn her head around to see the way Enid’s heart jumped in her throat. She could nearly hear it – throbbing and thrashing against the tissue of her skin, about to break in a cold sweat, about to hammer an entire nervous system.

Wednesday watched it. Wednesday watched Enid’s muscles contract and twitch, prey to the erratic pounding of her pulse.

And her own stomach curled.

“Are you really gonna make me ask what the hell is going on?”

Silence.

Bianca just sighed.

(This was one hell of a detour from Enid’s post-breakfast coming out plan).

Bianca tilted her head as Enid and Yoko – whom, unlike Wednesday, weren’t strangers to her, were her friends – gave her nothing to work with. She looked furious as she further realized there was something big she was being kept oblivious to.

And Wednesday would’ve said something, if only because she seemed to be the one less gobsmacked out of the whole trio, but it wasn’t her place to. That’d easily just make things worse. After all, wasn’t she the elephant in the room?

And wasn’t this Enid’s awaited moment? With or without proper planning? For better or worse?

“Fine. I’ll ask. If you insist.” Barclay gritted the words out. “What am I looking at? Why’s Wednesday Addams standing in front of me, Enid Sinclair, in the middle of your kitchen? After— I can’t even believe I’m gonna say this— you guys left the dinner party together? Mind you, after sleeping in your house? Wearing a fucking Sesame Street shirt?!”

That goddamn shirt.

“And you, Yoko? Urgent call from my boss my ass! I knew you two were acting weird as shit last night! I thought I was reading too much into it but there is something you’re not telling me! Seriously— and where did Addams come from?”

Enid’s voice shook. “I know this must be looking really weird right now but I promise there’s an explanation.”

“This is about business, isn’t it?”

“What? No— not at all.”

“Then…” Bianca glared at the cellist, allowing her eyes to speak instead of compromising her thoughts out loud, What the hell is she doing here?

“Look… Yoko and Wends didn’t do anything—”

“—Yoko and who?”

“Fuck- I didn’t mean to say that.”

“No but what did you say? What was—”

Yoko threw her hands in the air, “—Okay holy shit, pause, I’m intervening.” coming between their catastrophic attempt at a word exchange.

Wednesday was wide-eyed.

“I’m gonna need you guys to breathe. Both of you. In fact, all of us. And I’m gonna need one to speak and one to listen. Calmly. Patiently. No interrupting, no pointing fingers. No making assumptions.”

Yoko advised, warned, in a tone that was nearly motherly.

It looked as if she was breaking up two kids in a fight over something senseless, like a box of crayons or a card game, even though that was categorically not the case, and the matter at stake was infinitely more serious.

But Enid inhaled deeply to pull herself together and Bianca took a step back like someone gradually realizing they weren’t helping an already difficult situation. So in a way… Yoko was a mother breaking up two kids in a fight.

Two kids stuck in a disagreement fueled by hopeless communication.

“And I’m gonna need Enid to be allowed to fuck up her words a little ‘cause I know she’s really trying her best here. B, I’m sorry. But both Enid and I have strong reasons to have done what we did. Let’s all just… allow each other some space first. Okay?”

Wednesday watched the reverberations of Yoko’s (shockingly wise) words unravel in the face of both girls.

Bianca breathed it all in, slowly unwinding, disarming her frustration, realizing it was an unhelpful obstacle.

Enid breathed it all in as well, still nervous but trying hard to dispel insecurity, calling forth all her brain power to focus on recovering from stuttering.

“Okay. You’re right.”

“Enid?”

“Yeah. I hear you.”

“Good. Let’s restart.”

“…I’m sorry.” Bianca told the blonde. It was hesitant, yet sincere. “I didn’t mean to freak out. I’m just… I’m really confused. Confused doesn’t begin to cover it, actually.”

Needless to say, her dumbfounded glance at Wednesday wasn’t subtle. Again.

“I can explain, B. I was gonna call you after breakfast and invite you over to talk. I don’t wanna hide this from you. I can explain. I want to.”

Bianca sighed again, this time quietly, looking clearly regretful about her outburst. “Shit… I’m sorry. I’m all ears when you’re good.”

Yoko stepped back into the sidelines, choosing to stand behind Bianca so she could encourage Enid with nods and lame thumbs-up from the concealment of her back.

And so the blonde looked Wednesday’s way – searching gaze seeking for reassurance; trying to find an it’s okay, a go ahead, a I still want to do this.

And this wasn’t the time to beat around the bush, was it? Especially when Wednesday recalled Enid’s words the previous night. The act of opening up to Bianca wasn’t to be underestimated. Enid trusted Bianca. Enid loved Bianca. Enid wanted this to go right. Feel right.

So she concurred with a head gesture, but she also took a step forward, towards Enid’s side. Their knuckles brushed softly against each other, and Wednesday’s hand lingered, tenderly caressing Enid’s skin.

She never wanted to do this so badly in her entire life.

The movement wasn’t all that perceivable – in a way, it was solely theirs to notice – but the closeness of their bodies was definitely in frame.

Bianca’s eyes flew open.

Their intimacy was in frame.

(And who the hell was intimate with Wednesday Addams?).

“Okay… here it goes.” Enid said, and as she took another deep breath to summon courage into her chest, Wednesday was absolutely sure that she had entered a new world.

This was nothing like the old times.

“First off, when you introduced us last night… that wasn’t the first time Wednesday and I met.” Enid revealed, looking directly into Bianca’s eyes. Yoko bit her nails in the background, watching silently in suspense. “We actually studied in New York at the same time. We met in 1970. We lived together for four years.”

“…Oh.”

“We weren’t roommates, though. We lived together… romantically. We dated for four years. As in, we were girlfriends. And I’ve— I’ve always felt this way. I’ve been in love with Wednesday for a decade.”

“Oh.”

And again— quiet.

Silence descended around them nearly deathly.

But the perplexity stamped all over Bianca’s face quickly seemed to start revolving more around interest than anything else.

The gears working inside her brain were almost audible – deconstructing things she had up to that moment taken as facts, reliving everything in a new perspective, wanting to understand.

(And if one wasn’t too clouded by fear to notice, they’d rapidly realize judgement was nowhere to be found).

When her face contorted in extreme puzzlement, mouth opening with the intent to ask something, Enid interrupted, getting ahead of the predictable matter, “I’m a lesbian and Ajax never even proposed to me, it was all arranged from the start. He knew. I knew. We were trapped in the contract for a while.”

Yet again, another soft oh was heard.

Wednesday’s hand gently came around Enid’s waist to draw circles over the silk of her robe. You’re doing great, the touch reassured. It was genuine. It was grounding. Enid drew in a breath, and albeit nervous, she was also confident – because she was proud of herself for fucking speaking, and no one could take that away from her grasp.

(Later, Yoko would clap her hands and praise Enid for doing this before having coffee).

“I haven’t been hiding a secret relationship from you all these years, okay? Wednesday and I were broken off since before I met you. Since… well, my marriage. Yesterday was unexpected. To say the least.”

Yoko bit skin now.

Bianca was static for a minute before adopting a pondering frown. Before rubbing her chin and slowly pacing around in circles.

And the gears worked. “That’s why you hate going to New York.” She observed, thinking out loud, taking all of them aback with how terrifyingly spot-on the remark was. “That’s why Addams sat with us. To be near you. She changed the seating chart. And… the wine?”

(Enid’s shy, involuntary glance at Wednesday was incriminating enough).

Bianca looked around more avidly. Observed the three of them. One by one. Her lips parted in an epiphany. “You met Yoko back then too… so you were all friends in college.”

“…Yeah.”

And thinking back on yesterday’s events with this enlightening insight, Bianca probably saw it all in the little details now.

“So all the times you panicked when I insisted you should work with darker colors…?” She scratched her head, looking horrified at the memories of her own oblivion. “Fuck— and I was really hard on you for blabbering nonsense around her.”

Yoko chuckled quietly without really meaning to. Enid blushed.

“Sorry— I’m not trying to be mean. You just— sounded like a nervous seventeen-year-old around Wednesday Addams for some reason, and at the time I couldn’t put a finger on what was happening for the life of me.”

“Oh my God, it wasn’t that bad?”

Bianca and Yoko took the liberty of responding, at the same time, “It was.”

But Wednesday could tell the moment helped Enid relax – because Bianca didn’t mean it with harm and Yoko found it funny. Wednesday could tell Enid eased further into her touch, timidly flashing the tip of a smile.

It was in the little things.

“Damn it, Sinclair.” Bianca murmured. She looked at Wednesday up and down as her lips slowly unveiled a grin. “Star-crossed love is a good reason to bail a party.” And when she gazed back at Enid, she did it approvingly. “I can’t even be mad at you.”

They all watched speechlessly as without more to add, Bianca walked to the set of large windows in the room to crack one open; proceeding to grab a pack of Marlboros from her pocket.

All of her annoyance from before was entirely gone. She was as normal as ever. Whoever laid eyes on her now would confidently say she had woken up in a good mood.

(And in a way, the scene reminded Enid of Ajax – who had, without a single thought or care in the world, nonchalantly smoked a joint after learning about her sexuality.

The only difference being that Bianca wasn’t a harmless daydreaming stoner. Yet wouldn’t you know, she was the one right now actually smiling).

“Do you smoke, Addams?”

The question was abrupt, and it took the cellist a few seconds to fully pick up on how her name had been called. Not Enid’s. Not Yoko’s.

For whatever reason, Bianca meant to have Wednesday’s attention.

“Usually only cigars.”

“That’s so very old money of you.”

“But if you’re offering, I didn’t say I wouldn’t give it a try.”

Bianca smirked – nicely, kindly – and opened the pack.

“I wasn’t aware I was being a jerk. I apologize.” She held a cigarette between her fingers for Wednesday, who walked up to her with somewhat of a suspicious frown. “I have no desire to start off things on the wrong foot with someone so obviously dear to my friends.” Bianca dared to grin Enid’s way, correcting herself, “Dearer to some than others.” and then extended her arm, presenting the cigarette to the cellist. “Truce?”

Both Enid and Yoko looked flabbergasted at the interaction unfolding before their eyes. Wednesday glanced at them, and then back at Barclay.

“Is this some sort of peace offering?”

“It is. I was pushy yesterday and rude just minutes ago. We should be on better terms if I’ll be hearing your name more often. This is the best white flag I can wave right now.”

“How so?”

“They take sharing cigarettes pretty seriously here in Europe, don’t you know?”

“I suppose that’s true.” It only lasted a second, but Wednesday couldn’t stop the corner of her lips from lifting in a small smirk. She accepted the offer. “A truce then.”

Bianca hummed contently, reaching for her lighter in another pocket. Expensive. Elegant and silver colored.

Wednesday trapped the tip of the cigarette between her lips. She did it slowly, still feeling the taste of Enid’s kiss lingering on her mouth from before; sweet and warm like liquor.

(And it were Enid’s eyes she looked into as Bianca lighted up the flame. It were Enid’s eyes she looked into as she sucked on the filter, burning tobacco paper and creating ash).

Bianca closed the box lighter with a metallic click and turned to Enid, who watched as smoke left Wednesday’s mouth, weaving through the air – unfurling warmth within her chest.

“I didn’t know about Addams, you got me there.” Bianca said, leaning with her back against a window, smiling. “But I always suspected Ajax wasn’t your type.”

“So you’re… you’re not… this is okay?”

The cigarette passed from Wednesday’s possession to Bianca’s for a second. The business manager drew in a quick breath before giving it back, exhaling the smoke out as she spoke, “I’m still pissed you left me alone. And next time maybe don’t just dip without saying shit ‘cause I got worried as hell. But other than that…”

Bianca shrugged. Like there were no more words to be uttered, not a single but to be added. She just shrugged.

(Because really— what else was there to say? She didn’t see Enid any different. If anything, this only drove them closer. If anything, she felt an immense pride).

And Wednesday could tell that was precisely the feeling Enid was hit with as her flowery blue eyes began glistening; shimmering with incoming tears, absorbing how Bianca was looking at her with joy and care wrapped up in a sweet gaze.

It was good. It was rare. After all, Bianca Barclay didn’t allow just about anyone the sight of her tender-heartedness. Bianca Barclay didn’t allow herself to soften just over anything.

“I love you, Enid.”

She took a few steps towards the blonde to reach for her hand.

Wednesday didn’t want to pry on what likely qualified as one of the most intimate moments of Enid’s whole life, but truth be told, she was also there watching it for a reason. She wasn’t a mere bystander. And neither was Yoko.

They were Enid’s people.

And they had fought for acceptance like that their whole lives too.

“I mean… I get why you hesitated in talking about it. Shit, especially if your entire experience with marriage was an arranged deal to keep up appearances, like— we are so gonna have to go back to that one later but I digress— look, I love you so much. Don’t ever think you have to hide yourself around me. Okay? Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you have to do that. That’s such bullshit. You’re fucking beautiful.”

And with the cue of a soft come here you big fool, they hugged.

Wednesday knew, judging by the strength with which Enid’s arms enveloped around Bianca’s back, that everything in her cried out repressed emotions right now. Everything in her was present in this moment; and she let the bad years bleed through, staining her heart’s sleeve. But it was okay. She purged and expelled all of it from the depths of her soul. Safely.

Yoko walked across the room to join Wednesday by the window, and went on to smilingly hit her shoulder before asking for a smoke. The other two women kept hugging.

(And Bianca put her mouth to Enid’s ear, playing with the tips of her hair, to very sincerely question, “Does she make you happy?”

To which Enid responded, mixing a chuckle with another round of tears, “I’m the fucking luckiest girl alive.”)

*

Bianca made pancakes for all of them, and they spent the rest of the morning together.

They told her about last night – what they did, where they went, how fun it was.

(Later, they’d realize that while none of it had been caught on camera, there’d be indeed some minor hearsay going around the streets of Paris about some American celebrity living to the fullest at a local gay disco).

Yoko joked, after Enid confessed that her and Wednesday had been seen outside kissing by a group of drag queens, that it didn’t matter if they were recognized or not, because historians would probably just say they were great friends.

Which, for some reason, prompted a discussion around the erasure of Emily Dickinson’s sexuality. Blame Yoko. Which, eventually, led to them talking about the letters she left to Sue Gilbert. Which, of course, made Enid jump from her seat.

(“Holy shit, speaking of letters—”

Yoko rolled her eyes, “Ah fuck.”

“—You don’t even know, B! Wednesday did, like, the cutest thing ever! I have so many letters to read! Wends, tell her!”).

And in those hours they spent in Enid’s kitchen, Bianca genuinely liked to get to know Wednesday more, better. Truthfully this time. Devoid of second intentions rooted in business plans. Weirdly, they understood one another quite well.

There was only one person missing.

(“Are we all free tomorrow morning as well? I don’t want Wends to go without meeting Divina.”

“It’ll be my demise but fuck it— how about lunch? The five of us?”

“Sounds good!”

“Okay, cool. We’ll host then. Divina’s staying at my place.”

”Where do you live, Tanaka?” Wednesday asked.

“Père Lachaise.” Yoko replied with a typical smirk and a smooth accent. “You can go visit the cemetery and everything.”

”I just might.”

“Sure, Addams, but don’t you fucking dare embarrass me.”

“You know your empty threats have never stopped me before.”

Bianca laughed confusedly, “Wait… why would Wednesday embarrass you? …And why we? Why would you host lunch with Divina? She’s staying at yours? Is she alright?”

Silence.

Enid looked at Wednesday, wide-eyed.

Yoko looked at Enid, begging for help.

Bianca looked at each and every one of these glances, drawing her eyebrows together.

And then—

“Oh my God… you’re dating Divina…”

Yoko slowly threw her hands up in the air, ever so meekly, in a universal sign of surrender.

“Well… I have been…for three years…”

Bianca’s mouth fell. “Three years?! And I didn’t know??!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t—”

“I’ve been missing out on your happiness and dating life gossip for three years?! Wasn’t Enid enough?!”

“Look, you have to understand—”

“—With Divina?? I fucking love Divina! I can’t believe this shit! You fucking bitch— tell me everything! Start from the beginning, oh my God!”).

*

December 2^nd, 1979

Rolling Stone

Enid Sinclair Takes Center Stage with Wednesday Addams’ Concerts

The recent series of concertos in West Germany by virtuoso cellist Wednesday Addams have left audiences astounded. However, it’s not just her musical prowess that has given the world something to talk about this time; cameras captured none other than Enid Sinclair attending these shows. And we mean all of them!

From Berlin to Hamburg to Frankfurt. And finally, to Munich.

But since when is fashion’s wildest card such a lover of the classical arts? Better yet, since when is Wednesday Addams approving of this kind of eccentricity in her crowd?

Naturally, people were left perplexed as Sinclair unblinkingly claimed the best seats in the house for all four concerts. Even more so when she proceeded to immediately disappear backstage at the end of every show!

Each night, the designer arrived in dazzling ensembles, proudly wearing her attention-grabbing style and vivacious personality. And it was at the final concerto that, in a jaw-dropping twist of events, she ignited a complete media frenzy by appearing at the opera wearing a long gorgeous black dress!

Needless to say, this is a color rarely associated with her vibrant persona, and the influence behind this stylistic choice of hers doesn’t seem very difficult to guess. But what are we witnessing exactly?

Speculations about the nature of the relationship between Addams and Sinclair have been frequent ever since Berlin, and absolutely nonstop since Munich, after all, what could drive such mismatched personalities together?

Are they acquaintances? Are they friends? Has Sinclair somehow breached the walls of Addams’ withdrawn world? Could they be hiddenly working together? Or is it all a mere coincidence?

While no comments have yet been made on the situation by any of the parties, audiences have guessed this odd duo met in Paris two weeks ago, likely through a mutual connection to French theatre empresario Pascal Laforest, whose dinner party Enid has been criticized for abruptly leaving due to an alleged disagreement with a waiter.

Still, some have also dared to suggest the existence of an enigmatic rivalry between the two. With Addams’ well-known record for belligerent manners and Sinclair’s diva status, it seems quite a plausible clash of contrasts. But if so, how does one explain the photographs taken yesterday that show the two women hanging out so closely?

How does one explain what appears like Enid spending the night at Wednesday’s hotel?

*

Over the years, it stopped being anything new for people to stumble upon headlines that brought together the names Enid Sinclair and Wednesday Addams.

The articles always remained fairly hyperbolized, written to cultivate hearsay and sell preposterous numbers, with its sensationalism definitely reaching an unforgettable peak around 1982. But as it happened to all things celebrities didn’t care to tiresomely address or overexplain, the buzz around their unexpected, mysteriously intimate relationship inevitably fell into normalcy.

However, before any of it started being absorbed as standard news – throughout four years, more or less – the sightings of them together were apprehended as seriously shocking. One couldn’t underestimate the impact of those news on the media in any way, shape or form.

Magazines all over the world had never seen such a thing, such a craze.

Wednesday and Enid drove gossip column sales to an all-time high without even trying. Anything that involved the association of their names was bound to blow up, to the point that no matter how many papers were printed to meet the heightened demand, they still sold out every day, vanished from the stands with unprecedented swiftness.

And with the kind of shit that Enid sometimes said in interviews, mass media was basically handed an endless stream of talking points on a silver platter. Pretty quickly, the focus shifted from understanding their friendship to questioning…was it truly just a friendship?

Because Enid Sinclair had a few things to say.

And Enid Sinclair became controversial.

(Which, let’s be honest, she didn’t give a fuck about).

Certainly, if one were to rank the designer’s best out of pocket remarks to the press, the time she called Wednesday “her wife” on national television scored pretty high. It was definitely up there next to the night she shot back, “If I would? Who says I haven’t already?”, in response to a paparazzi asking her if she’d ever engage in a same-sex relationship.

(And seriously, she’d never regret it in a million years).

Plus, Enid also became determined to get her voice back – by speaking on the AIDS crisis, organizing benefit events, donating towards proper research; and most famously, of course, by calling Ronald Reagan every nasty name under the sun every chance she got – which pissed off a lot of people.

If Enid was already seen as a bold figure before, in the 80s she became utterly fucking scandalous.

(Wednesday liked it).

Contrastingly, the cellist managed to remain low-profile, at least as an individual.

She still didn’t talk to the press, she still scared the living daylights out of anyone with a pair of eyes and a heartbeat, and no one had ever seen a riddle so difficult to solve.

Because…how was it possible for her to be at ease in the presence of someone so unrepresentative of everything she stood for? Someone so… vivid?

(Why a fashion designer? Why one so brazen? Why a colorful, effusive, feisty woman who changed hair dye every three months?).

And so, the masses remained fixated on their relationship. Whatever the hell that was.

Neither one of them ever tried to publicly explain it, not any more than they already constantly did through their actions. They were well aware that if they gave a hand, then fourth estate would take the whole arm. So most people couldn’t understand their dynamic, much less their labels.

Seriously— why were they holding hands in public again?

And helpless slow-minded oblivion mixed with undying curiosity was a recipe for madness.

Thus, magazines sold out, and a phenomenon soared.

“I can’t believe you two shaped an entire decade’s public discourse by just practicing lesbianism in everyone’s face.” Yoko once joked. “Could’ve been me. I could’ve done that! Divina, couldn’t we have done that?”

At the end of the day, Enid and Wednesday lived their lives and blocked out background noise.

They dined out and went on weekend escapes and were in love out in the open. And they moved back to New York in 1980 – deciding not to live together right away since Wednesday sincerely wanted to learn how to foster a home of her own again; but decidedly, they took that big step three years later.

And more than supporting each other’s work, they were very clearly each other’s muses; they influenced one another’s art.

(In the field of fashion, Enid sure added fire to the fuel of their ‘possibly sapphic involvement’ rumors by debuting a collection of black dresses and even blacker suits. The Raven, it was called. An homage to the Addams family, many would say.

In the field of music, lord… Wednesday had never deliberately played Camille Saint-Saëns sonatas so much, so devotedly, so damn passionately. Come on. It was ridiculous.

It were love letters, exchanged back and forth).

Eventually, reports about them began to lose buzz simply because… it became expected. Routinized. After years and years of constant media-promoted back fence talk, what else was there to speculate about?

From 1984 onwards, none of their encounters or interactions could truly be perceived as hot goss anymore. It was no longer surprising. Sure, it remained intriguing, but people were never going to get them to sit down and address anything. Fuck no. They were never going to enable a public debate on their personal lives.

Enid and Wednesday clearly weren’t hiding. They weren’t a secret. But admittedly, they were private.

(That had been settled between them back in Paris, and it had never lost an ounce of meaning).

They were protective of the love they had so tenderly rebuilt. They were considerate of how beautifully precious it was. Pretty and patient. It was ever-growing. It was sacredly theirs.

So they lived – kissing softly as they fell down on bedsheets, having monthly grand dinners with the Addamses, making fun of Yoko and Divina for having a house full of cats at this point, pretending to act surprised that time Bianca told them she might be bisexual, giving the cameras shit to gush about, whispering prayers in each other's ear, doubtlessly going down in history as queer cult icons, knowing no end to their feelings.

And it was an everlasting lesson – that reputations and media coverages were unreliable, but their bond was not.

They bought a second home in Morocco near the mountains surrounding Marrakech. It was a peaceful solace from the fast-paced rhythm of New York. It was a nice place to retreat. It was a nice life. They usually sat outside as the sun set, drinking mint tea, talking about everything and nothing at all.

Oh. And Enid did end up reading those two hundred and eight letters. All of them. With a religious fervor. More times than any normal individual could ever possibly justify.

(And God, who knew— maybe someday they’d write movies about it. Perhaps Sappho had said it best; someone would remember them, certainly, even in another time).