Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The crescent moon hung high over Nevermore, casting a cold, silver light over the rooftops and spires. The quiet of the night was profound, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves in the wind and the occasional creak of the old building settling. Perched on the edge of Ophelia Hall’s roof, Wednesday Addams sat with a calm detachment that belied the danger of her precarious position. Her legs dangled over the edge, black boots swinging idly, her back straight, and her expression impassive as always.

A thin wisp of smoke curled from her pale fingers, the lit cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. It was one of the rare indulgences she allowed herself when sleeplessness struck, a remedy she’d picked up from her family’s long history of questionable coping mechanisms.

The sound of the roof’s trapdoor creaking open broke the silence, followed by the soft thud of boots on the wooden shingles. Wednesday didn’t turn to look; she didn’t need to. The distinct scent of leather, patchouli, and faint traces of cloves marked the arrival of Yoko Tanaka.

"Figured I wasn’t the only one up here," Yoko said, her tone casual but tinged with curiosity as she stepped closer. She had a cigarette of her own tucked between her fingers, the ember briefly illuminating her sharp, angular features.

Wednesday exhaled a thin stream of smoke, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "The night is often more tolerable when unburdened by the company of dreams," she said evenly, her voice carrying in the stillness.

Yoko raised a dark brow as she approached, pausing a few feet away. She took a drag from her cigarette and exhaled, the smoke curling into the night air. "And yet, here you are. On the edge of the roof, no less. What’s the plan if you fall, Addams? Tuck and roll?"

Wednesday’s lips quirked ever so slightly, a ghost of a smirk. "Falling would be an inconvenience. The splatter would be unsightly." She glanced over her shoulder at Yoko, her dark eyes glinting in the moonlight. "Besides, I trust my balance more than I trust most people."

Yoko huffed a quiet laugh and leaned against a nearby chimney, her own cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. "Fair enough. Still, it’s not exactly the safest spot to hang out." She tilted her head, watching Wednesday for a moment before adding, "Couldn’t sleep either?"

"No," Wednesday admitted, her tone clipped but not unfriendly. "The persistent hum of mediocrity within these walls is particularly grating tonight." She gestured vaguely toward the school with her free hand before bringing the cigarette back to her lips.

Yoko took another drag and sighed. "Yeah, I get that. Sometimes it feels like the whole place is just... too much. Too loud, even when it’s quiet." She glanced at Wednesday, her crimson eyes softer than usual. "Didn’t peg you as a smoker, though. Thought poison was more your style."

Wednesday let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "Toxins have their uses, but I find nicotine to be a more socially acceptable vice." She took another drag, the ember glowing brighter for a moment. "It’s a fleeting distraction, but effective nonetheless."

Yoko nodded, understanding the sentiment. She stepped closer, carefully sitting on the ledge beside Wednesday, though not as precariously. They sat in silence for a moment, the night enveloping them like a blanket, the only sounds their quiet breathing and the faint crackle of burning tobacco.

After a while, Yoko broke the silence. "You ever wonder if it’s worth it? All of this?" She gestured vaguely at the school below them. "Trying to fit in, trying to make sense of it all... It gets exhausting sometimes."

Wednesday turned her gaze to Yoko, her expression unreadable. "I’ve never concerned myself with the concept of ‘fitting in.’ Conformity is a plague, one I’ve made a lifelong effort to avoid."

"Yeah, I figured you’d say that," Yoko said with a small grin, though there was no malice in it. "But even you have your limits, right? Days where it all just feels... heavy?"

Wednesday’s gaze returned to the horizon, and for a moment, she was quiet. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost contemplative. "There are moments," she admitted, "when the weight of existence feels particularly cumbersome. But I’ve found that embracing the void—leaning into the darkness—is often the most efficient way to endure it."

Yoko studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "You’re a weird one, Addams. But I get it. I really do." She took one last drag from her cigarette before flicking the butt over the edge, watching as it tumbled into the darkness below.

They lapsed into silence again, the quiet companionship surprisingly comforting. The night stretched on, the moon casting its glow over them, and for a brief moment, the weight of their respective burdens felt a little lighter.

Before long, Wednesday extinguished her cigarette, crushing it beneath her boot. She glanced at Yoko, her expression as inscrutable as ever. "If you’re staying, I suggest you don’t stray away with your thoughts too much. The roof can be... unforgiving."

Yoko smirked. "Don’t worry about me, Addams. I’ll be fine."

With a small nod, Wednesday stood, her movements graceful and precise. She paused for a moment, her gaze lingering on Yoko. "Goodnight, Tanaka," she said softly, her voice carrying a rare note of sincerity.

Yoko watched her retreat back into the building, her smirk softening into something gentler. "Goodnight, Wednesday," she murmured to herself, turning her gaze back to the moonlit sky.

Yoko remained perched on the edge of the roof, the cool night air swirling around her. The silence lingered like a familiar companion, but just as she was about to let her thoughts drift, the trapdoor creaked open again. She glanced over her shoulder to see Wednesday returning, her expression unreadable as always.

Wednesday didn’t sit immediately. Instead, she stood at the edge of the roof, her hands tucked behind her back as she stared out into the distance. For a moment, it seemed like she wouldn’t say anything at all, but then her voice, softer than usual, broke the quiet.

"I’ve come to realize," she began, her words deliberate, "that despite my unwavering disdain for humanity as a collective, I struggle to apply that disdain equally to individuals."

"That a fact?” Yoko raised an eyebrow, intrigued. ”What brought this on?"

"It’s something I’ve always known, but until recently, it never seemed important.” Wednesday glanced down, her dark eyes catching the moonlight in a way that made her look almost ethereal. “As an Addams, I’ve been raised to revel in my peculiarities, to reject societal norms with fervor. The opinions of others were—and still are—beneath my notice." She paused, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. "Or so I believed."

Yoko leaned back on her palms, tilting her head as she regarded Wednesday. "You’re saying that’s changed?"

"Certain... developments have forced me to confront this inconsistency.” Wednesday nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “I find myself... irritated by the notion that I care what others think. That their perceptions of me might influence how I act, even if only subtly. It’s an infuriating paradox."

Yoko let out a quiet chuckle, though it lacked mockery. "Sounds like you’ve got someone specific in mind."

Wednesday’s gaze flickered to Yoko, her face betraying nothing. "It’s not a singular individual," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. "More the principle of the matter. Why should I concern myself with the trivial judgments of others when I’ve spent my life rejecting them?"

Yoko smirked knowingly. "But you do care, at least a little. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be up here talking about it."

Wednesday’s jaw tightened for a moment before she sighed—a rare sound, almost imperceptible. "Perhaps I do. It’s a flaw I am actively trying to reconcile."

Yoko watched her for a moment before nodding. "You know, caring isn’t always a bad thing. Doesn’t make you any less of a badass Addams. If anything, it just makes you more human."

Wednesday stiffened at the word. "Humanity is precisely what I aim to transcend. The idea of being ‘more human’ is... distasteful."

"Sure," Yoko said with a shrug, "but even vampires like me have to deal with it. Doesn’t mean you’re weak or ordinary. Just means you’ve got layers, like everyone else." She smirked. "Even if your layers are probably spiked with arsenic or something."

Wednesday’s lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile she ever allowed herself. "You’re insufferable, Tanaka."

Yoko grinned. "Yeah, but you’re still talking to me, so what does that say about you?"

Wednesday didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned to face Yoko fully, her dark eyes locking onto the vampire’s crimson ones. "It says I find your company tolerable," she said finally. "Which is more than I can say for most."

Yoko let out a low laugh, shaking her head. "I’ll take it. But seriously, Wednesday, you don’t have to figure it all out overnight. Caring doesn’t mean you’re losing who you are. It just means you’ve got something—or someone—worth caring about."

Wednesday considered this for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she gave a slight nod, her posture relaxing just a fraction and taking her place beside Yoko. "Perhaps there’s merit in your observation. I’ll take it under advisement."

Yoko smirked, leaning forward. "Good. And hey, if you ever need to vent again, the roof’s always open. I promise not to tell anyone about your existential crisis."

"You’d better not.” Wednesday shot her a sharp look, but there was no true malice behind it. “I’ll hold you accountable."

"Fair enough," Yoko said with a chuckle, leaning back against the chimney once more. "Good talk, Addams."

Wednesday inclined her head slightly, a silent acknowledgment, before turning back to the horizon. The two sat in companionable silence once more, the night stretching on around them. Yoko took another drag of her cigarette, her crimson eyes reflecting the dim glow of its ember. She blew the smoke out into the chilly night air, watching it dissipate like fleeting thoughts.

"You know," she began, her tone casual but tinged with a quiet frustration, "being a vampire comes with all these perks—strength, speed, immortality. But the one thing I didn’t think would be a curse is the insomnia. You’d think an eternity of sleepless nights would be great for productivity, but it just... isn’t."

She tapped the edge of the roof with her fingers, her gaze distant. "Most nights, I sit around waiting for the rest of the world to wake up. Feels like there’s too much time and too little to do. It’s boring as hell."

Wednesday, who was still seated precariously on the edge of the roof, didn’t look at her but tilted her head slightly, signaling she was listening. Her voice, low and measured, cut through the silence. "Boredom is a byproduct of stagnation. If you find the hours before dawn insufferable, perhaps you lack imagination."

"Easy for you to say, Ms. Overachiever.” Yoko raised an eyebrow, chuckling softly. “What, do you fill your sleepless nights with murder plots and autopsy sketches?"

"Only occasionally.” Wednesday’s lips twitched at the corners, an almost-smile. “But your plight and mine differ, Tanaka. I do not share your sentiment of having too much time. For me, insomnia is one of the few betrayals of my own body—something I cannot control. It’s… infuriating."

"Control freak, huh?” Yoko exhaled slowly, watching her friend with a mix of curiosity and empathy. “Can’t say I’m surprised."

"It is not about being a ‘control freak,’ as you so eloquently put it.” Wednesday finally turned her dark gaze toward Yoko, her expression unreadable. “It is about mastery over oneself. The inability to govern my own need for rest is a reminder of my limitations. I despise limitations."

"Yeah, I get that.” Yoko nodded thoughtfully, her fingers flicking the ash from her cigarette into the night. “You’ve got this whole aura of precision, like everything in your life has its place. I guess not being able to control when you sleep kinda messes with that vibe."

"It is more than a disruption to my ‘vibe,’" Wednesday replied dryly. "It is a vulnerability. And vulnerabilities are intolerable."

Yoko smirked, leaning back on her palms. "You know, sometimes I forget you’re human. Then you say stuff like that, and I remember you’re just as messed up as the rest of us."

Wednesday didn’t dignify the comment with a response, but the faintest hint of a smirk touched her lips before vanishing. She looked back at the horizon, the silence between them comfortable yet heavy.

After a moment, Yoko broke the quiet. "You ever try doing something with it? The insomnia, I mean. Like, I dunno, picking up a new hobby or diving into a project. Could be a way to make it suck less."

"I have attempted such endeavors," Wednesday admitted, her tone neutral. "But the hours feel endless when one’s mind is unwilling to cooperate. Creativity and productivity are hindered by fatigue, even if the body refuses to rest."

Yoko whistled low, shaking her head. "Sounds rough. Guess I’ve got it easy—just gotta keep myself entertained until the sun comes up. Though, trust me, even that gets old after a century or two."

"Perhaps boredom is the lesser affliction. At least it does not challenge your autonomy.” Wednesday regarded her thoughtfully. “You simply lack stimulation, whereas I am trapped by my own inadequacy."

Yoko blinked, surprised by the vulnerability in Wednesday’s words. "You know, Addams, for someone who acts like they’ve got everything figured out, you’re pretty hard on yourself."

"Self-criticism is a necessary tool for improvement.” Wednesday’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened ever so slightly. “If I am not my harshest critic, then who will be?"

"Maybe you don’t have to be so harsh all the time.” Yoko leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’re already pretty damn impressive. Cut yourself some slack, yeah?"

Wednesday didn’t respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Finally, she spoke, her tone measured but distant. "Perhaps. But complacency breeds mediocrity, and mediocrity is intolerable."

"Always so dramatic.” Yoko laughed softly, shaking her head. “You and your standards, Addams. Don’t ever change."

Wednesday reached into Yoko’s pack, pulling out another cigarette without asking for permission. Yoko raised an eyebrow but said nothing, merely watching as Wednesday lit it with a flick of her black-and-silver lighter. She took a drag, her movements sharp and deliberate, and when she exhaled, the smoke curled into delicate rings that floated briefly before dissolving into the cold night air.

“School,” Wednesday began, her voice laced with disdain, “is an exercise in monotony. The curriculum is uninspired, the faculty predictable, and the majority of my peers are, at best, woefully unremarkable.” She tilted her head slightly, blowing another plume of smoke that formed a spiral this time. "The mediocrity of it all is suffocating."

"And yet, here you are. Still sticking around, still doing your assignments.” Yoko smirked, flicking her own cigarette into the night. “What's keeping you here if it's so beneath you?"

"I’ve made commitments. Commitments I intend to honor.” Wednesday arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Furthermore, there are… certain individuals who make the drudgery tolerable." Her tone softened, just barely, as her gaze momentarily drifted to the ground below—likely toward a particular window in Ophelia Hall.

"Certain individuals, huh?” Yoko caught the subtle shift and grinned knowingly. “Let me guess: one of them's got sunny energy and a killer smile?"

Wednesday’s expression didn’t change, but there was a faint narrowing of her eyes that suggested Yoko had hit the mark. She took another drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke trickle out slowly. "Enid’s presence is… less unpleasant than most. She provides a distraction from the otherwise unbearable dullness of this institution."

Yoko chuckled, shaking her head. "You’re impossible, Addams. Just admit you like her already."

“I believe my actions have made my sentiments abundantly clear,” Wednesday replied, her voice deadpan. She raised the cigarette to her lips again, her fingers steady as she exhaled a stream of smoke that twisted into the shape of a serpent before dispersing.

"Besides," she continued, her tone cooling, "this is not a matter of liking or disliking. It is a matter of stimulation—or, rather, the lack thereof. This school does little to challenge me intellectually. The assignments are child’s play, and the so-called extracurricular activities are tedious at best. Even the mysteries I’ve encountered thus far have been disappointingly simple."

"So, what would challenge you?” Yoko leaned back on her hands, her gaze thoughtful. “What would actually keep you on your toes?"

Wednesday tapped the ash from her cigarette, her dark eyes narrowing as she considered the question. "Something unpredictable. Something... dangerous." There was a flicker of excitement in her voice, subtle but unmistakable. "I crave situations that test the limits of my intellect and abilities. Confrontations where the outcome is uncertain, where there is true risk involved. But here? The most perilous challenge I face is avoiding social interaction with the insufferable masses."

"You’re such a snob, Addams. But I get it.” Yoko laughed at that, shaking her head. “The whole 'normal school experience' thing doesn’t exactly suit you. Still, you’ve gotta admit, some parts of it aren’t so bad. Like, I dunno, movie nights with the gang or sneaking onto the roof to share smokes with your favorite vampire."

Wednesday gave her a sidelong glance, a flicker of amusement in her otherwise impassive expression. "An argument could be made for those activities. They do, at the very least, alleviate the monotony."

Yoko smirked. "See? You’re not completely dead inside. There’s hope for you yet."

Wednesday took another drag from her cigarette, exhaling a perfect ring of smoke that floated upward before dissipating. "Hope is a frivolous concept. I prefer certainty."

"Yeah, yeah, Miss Doom and Gloom. Keep telling yourself that," Yoko said, grinning. "But I see through you, Addams. You might be all about death and despair, but deep down, you care. About us. About her."

Wednesday didn’t respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the horizon as if contemplating Yoko’s words. Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but firm. "Perhaps. But caring is a dangerous indulgence. It clouds judgment and invites vulnerability."

Yoko leaned forward, her tone soft but insistent. "Or maybe it makes you stronger. Ever think about that?"

Wednesday didn’t answer, instead taking one final drag from her cigarette before extinguishing it against the roof’s edge. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths and unacknowledged fears.

Finally, Yoko broke the tension with a smirk. "Well, if you ever get bored of playing it safe, you know where to find me. I’m always up for a little chaos."

Wednesday’s lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile. "I’ll keep that in mind."

The silence between them lingered for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, before Yoko took another drag from her cigarette and broke it.

“My dad almost pulled me out of Nevermore after the Crackstone thing,” she said, her voice quieter now. “When my mom passed, he got... overprotective. Like, full-on helicopter dad. After everything went down with the pilgrim psycho, he was convinced this place was too dangerous for me.”

Wednesday turned her head slightly, her gaze sharp and curious. “Yet here you remain. What swayed him?”

“Me, mostly.” Yoko chuckled softly, though there was a tinge of sadness in her voice. “Told him that if he made me leave, I’d just come back anyway. He didn’t like it, but he knew I’d follow through. Nevermore’s my home. The weirdos here are my family now.”

Wednesday shifted slightly, her gaze fixed on Yoko. Her expression betrayed no sympathy, only a quiet attentiveness that seemed to invite Yoko to continue.

“The irony, right? Overprotective vampire dad. I mean, he’s always been like that, but after Mom…” Yoko chuckled bitterly, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “it just got worse. He started micromanaging everything, even stuff like what time I should go to bed. A grown vampire with curfews. Can you imagine?”

“Grief manifests in peculiar ways. Perhaps your father saw you as the last tether to your mother.” Wednesday tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes glinting. “It’s understandable, albeit stifling.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Yoko admitted, her voice softer now. “But it was suffocating. I had to fight tooth and nail just to convince him to let me stay here. Nevermore’s the only place that feels like... me, you know?”

Wednesday nodded slightly, her gaze turning to the distant horizon. “The concept of home is not unfamiliar to me. However, in the Addams household, it is a more... unique experience.”

Yoko arched an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Oh? Do tell.”

“My parents,” Wednesday began, her tone tinged with disdain, “are insufferably devoted to each other. Their love is... intense, to say the least. They cannot simply love; they must consume each other with every waking moment. It is both admirable and nauseating.”

“Sounds like the Addams version of romance.” Yoko snorted, grinning. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched in the faintest semblance of a smile. “It is not limited to romance. The Addams family approaches everything with intensity. My brother Pugsley, for instance, is often the subject of my experiments. He is resilient, but only because I’ve ensured he has been thoroughly tested.”

Yoko laughed. “You tested your brother? What does that even mean?”

“It means precisely what it implies,” Wednesday replied, her tone matter-of-fact. “I’ve sharpened his survival instincts through various methods. Electric shocks, simulated drowning, mild poisonings—nothing fatal, of course. It is my way of preparing him for the world.”

Yoko shook her head, still chuckling. “You’re unreal, Addams. What about the new kid? Pubert, right?”

“Pubert,” Wednesday said, her expression softening ever so slightly, “is an enigma. He is the newest addition to our family, and while I had my reservations, he has proven to possess the Addams spirit. His cry alone can shatter glass, and his uncanny ability to attract danger is almost endearing.”

Yoko raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a little terror.”

“He will be,” Wednesday replied with quiet pride. “It is in his blood.”

The two lapsed into silence for a moment, the night air filled with the faint hum of crickets. Finally, Yoko broke the quiet. “Your family sounds... intense. But it fits you. You’d be bored with anything else.”

“Perhaps,” Wednesday admitted, her voice low. “But their intensity can be... overwhelming. There are times when their suffocating affection feels like a noose. I cannot breathe, yet they claim it is out of love.”

Yoko nodded, her expression somber. “Yeah, I get that. Love can feel like a cage sometimes. Even when it’s well-meaning.”

Wednesday tilted her head slightly, her gaze thoughtful. “You speak as though you’ve experienced this.”

“Who hasn’t?” Yoko said with a shrug, taking another drag from her cigarette. “But I think that’s just part of having a family. They drive you nuts, but they’re yours. And honestly? It’s kind of nice knowing there’s someone who’d go overboard for you, even if it’s annoying as hell.”

Wednesday hummed in acknowledgment, her eyes turning back to the stars. “An astute observation. Though I find solace in the peculiarities of our bond. It is, perhaps, the only thing that keeps me tethered to them.”

“See? You’ve got a soft side after all,” Yoko teased with a smirk.

Wednesday didn’t respond, but the faintest flicker of a smile graced her lips before disappearing into the night. She stared into the darkness beyond the edge of the roof, the faint ember of her cigarette glowing against the shadowed contours of her face. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than usual, as if the confession threatened to shatter the night.

“An Addams is born with an innate understanding of death,” she began, her tone deliberate. “It is our constant companion, a concept we test and prod, a boundary we flirt with endlessly. But there is one thing a person should never test and that is an Addams’ love.”

Yoko, leaning back on her hands, glanced at Wednesday curiously. “Love?”

“Love is sacred. It is not to be questioned, tampered with, or taken lightly.” Wednesday nodded slightly, her expression unreadable. “It is an unshakable foundation in my family’s… peculiar philosophy. Love for family, for those who matter, is absolute. Unyielding. It does not falter, even in the face of death. That notion has been ingrained in me from the moment I could comprehend words.”

Yoko blew out a slow stream of smoke, thoughtful. “So, like... you’re not supposed to doubt it?”

“It is not doubt,” Wednesday clarified, her gaze unwavering. “It is… reverence. My father, for instance, would cross any boundary, defy any logic, to fight for my mother. And she would do the same for him. It is the kind of intensity that consumes, yet somehow strengthens. An Addams does not love halfway. It is either all or nothing.”

Yoko raised an eyebrow. “And that applies to you, too?”

Wednesday hesitated, her hand tightening briefly around the cigarette between her fingers. She drew in a slow breath, exhaling smoke in an intricate spiral before responding. “I have never… tested this concept personally. But there is a certain clarity I cannot ignore. When Enid saved me from the Hyde, when she risked her life for mine… that was a grand gesture. And in my family, grand gestures are synonymous with devotion.”

Yoko’s smirk softened into something more genuine. “You admire her for that.”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened, the words seemingly heavy on her tongue. “Admiration is an understatement. It is… overwhelming. To feel as though someone would willingly sacrifice so much for me.” She paused, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “It reminds me of my father defending my mother against every adversary that dared to stand in their way. Or my mother shielding him without hesitation. That kind of intensity—it is suffocating yet liberating. A paradox.”

Yoko stayed silent for a moment, watching Wednesday carefully. “And Enid? Does she know you feel this way?”

“Enid has a unique way of unraveling me without realizing it. She does not need to know every facet of my feelings.” Wednesday glanced at Yoko, her dark eyes shadowed but glinting with something vulnerable. “Her mere presence is enough to unsettle and comfort me simultaneously.”

“Wow, Wednesday Addams, poetic about a werewolf.” Yoko smirked again, but this time it was softer. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Wednesday gave her a pointed look. “Mockery does not become you.”

“It’s not mockery,” Yoko said, holding up her hands defensively. “It’s just... I think it’s cool. You’re, like, the embodiment of doom and gloom, but even you can’t escape this love thing. Kind of makes the rest of us feel a little less doomed, you know?”

“Love, Tanaka, is the most potent poison of all.” Wednesday turned her gaze back to the night, her expression softening ever so slightly. “And yet, it is the only one I find myself willingly ingesting.”

“There it is, the Addams flair for the dramatic.” Yoko chuckled, shaking her head. “But seriously, it sounds like you’re figuring it out in your own way. Enid’s lucky, you know.”

Wednesday didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she took another drag of her cigarette, the smoke curling around her like a shroud. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, but firm. “No. It is I who am fortunate. Enid possesses a brightness that terrifies and fascinates me. And yet, despite her radiance, she chose to stay.”

Yoko smiled faintly, letting the silence stretch between them. Wednesday stared into the vast expanse of the night, the wind tugging at the ends of her braided hair. She took one last drag of her cigarette before snuffing it out against the rooftop, her movements sharp but calculated. For a moment, she was silent, as if grappling with the weight of her own thoughts.

“When it comes to Enid,” Wednesday began, her voice softer than she ever allowed herself to be, “there are truths I have come to accept. The most pressing of which is that I will never tell her how I feel.”

“Never? Why not?” Yoko, startled by the bluntness of the admission, straightened up. “She clearly cares about you. Anyone with half a brain can see that.”

“It is not a matter of care, Yoko.” Wednesday shook her head, her expression unreadable. “It is a matter of compatibility—or rather, the lack thereof. The life of an Addams is not one easily shared. We are a family steeped in danger, drawn to it like moths to flame. I am no exception. I seek peril with open arms, and I embrace chaos as though it were a long-lost relative.”

“So?” Yoko tilted her head, watching her friend carefully. “Enid’s not exactly a stranger to danger either. She faced the Hyde for you, didn’t she?”

“That is precisely my point,” Wednesday replied, her gaze darkening. “Enid is light. She is warmth, optimism, and joy personified. She deserves a life unburdened by the shadows I bring. I see the world through a lens of morbidity and despair, and while that perspective serves me well, it would do her no favors. She deserves better than what I can offer.”

“But isn’t that for her to decide?” Yoko frowned, her brows knitting together. “She knows who you are, Wednesday. She’s your roommate, your best friend. If she didn’t want to stick around, she wouldn’t have.”

“You misunderstand. It is not about whether Enid would choose to stay.” Wednesday’s jaw tightened, and she exhaled through her nose, a rare show of frustration. “It is about what she deserves. My blunt nature, my intensity, my inability to conform to social niceties—they are not conducive to the kind of love she should experience. My presence alone has caused her hurt, even if unintentionally. To love her would be to overwhelm her, and I refuse to subject her to that.”

Yoko let the words settle between them, the weight of Wednesday’s conviction pressing against the stillness of the night. Finally, she spoke, her tone gentle but firm. “And what about you, Wednesday? How do you feel about all this? About not saying anything?”

Wednesday hesitated, her gaze falling to her hands, which rested primly in her lap. Her voice, when it came, was low and strained, as though the admission itself was a dagger to her chest.

“It hurts,” she said simply. “To yearn for a love you cannot have is a torment I was not prepared for. It is like a phantom pain, constant and unrelenting, yet impossible to soothe.”

Yoko’s expression softened, but she said nothing, letting Wednesday continue.

“Yet, despite the ache, I know what must be done,” Wednesday said, lifting her head, her expression resolute. “I will be by her side. I will protect her, care for her, and ensure that no harm befalls her. But I will never succumb to my own desires. To do so would be selfish, and I will not allow my selfishness to bring her pain.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rustling of leaves in the wind. Yoko finally leaned back, exhaling softly. “That’s… intense, even for you. But I get it. You love her in your own way, and this is how you’re showing it.”

Wednesday inclined her head slightly, the closest she’d come to an agreement. “Love, in its truest form, is selfless. And for Enid, I would sooner bury my feelings than see her suffer.”

Yoko nodded, her respect for Wednesday growing in that moment. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, you know.”

Wednesday’s lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smile, a shadow of her usual smirk. “Strength has nothing to do with it, Tanaka. It is simply a matter of what must be done.”

The two sat in contemplative silence after that, the weight of the conversation settling around them like a second skin. Yoko pulled another cigarette from her pocket, holding it out to Wednesday before lighting her own. The soft glow of the lighter flickered against the darkness, casting fleeting shadows across their faces. Wednesday accepted the cigarette, placing it delicately between her fingers as Yoko leaned in to light it for her.

After taking a long drag, Yoko exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the night air. “You know,” she started, her tone casual but pointed, “for someone who’s so analytical, you’re kind of an idiot.”

Wednesday turned her head sharply, her brow furrowing. “Elaborate.”

Yoko smirked. “Enid adores you. Like, can’t-stop-talking-about-you levels of adoration. It’s honestly nauseating sometimes, but in a weirdly endearing way. She’s constantly talking about how clever you are, how strong you are, how you somehow manage to make her feel safe and exasperated at the same time.”

Wednesday’s expression remained neutral, but the slight tightening of her jaw betrayed her discomfort.

“And honestly,” Yoko continued, “you two shouldn’t work. You’re oil and water, night and day, death metal and bubblegum pop. But somehow, you do. She gets you in a way no one else does, and you balance her out without even trying. So why not give her a little more credit? Why not take the leap?”

Wednesday took a slow drag of her cigarette, letting the silence stretch between them before responding. “Because it is not about her adoration, nor about the oddity of our dynamic,” she said, her voice measured. “It is about what she deserves. Enid is a sunbeam in a world of shadows. She brings light and warmth to everything she touches, while I… I am a creature of darkness. My presence is a stain on her brilliance.”

Yoko sighed, rolling her eyes. “You’re so dramatic, you know that?”

“It is not dramatics; it is fact,” Wednesday replied coolly. She turned her gaze back to the horizon, the cigarette glowing faintly between her fingers. “My devotion to Enid knows no bounds, and it is for that reason I cannot allow myself to indulge in my feelings. To love her, truly love her, would mean to put her above all else—even myself. And that is precisely what I do.”

“Okay, fine. How much do you love her, then?” Yoko leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Humor me.”

Wednesday hesitated, the weight of the question pressing against her. She stared at the cigarette in her hand, watching the ash crumble and fall. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost reverent.

“I love her in a way that defies reason,” Wednesday admitted. “It is not merely an affection or an attraction; it is an unrelenting force that drives me. When she is near, the world feels less oppressive. Her laughter, as insipid as I once found it, has become a melody I crave. Her presence is… grounding. She softens the edges of my existence in ways I never thought possible.”

She paused, her grip on the cigarette tightening. “If she were to ask, I would burn the world to cinders for her. If she were in danger, I would stand between her and the reaper himself. She takes precedence over my own desires, my own fears, my own life. And that, Tanaka, is why I cannot tell her. To do so would risk unraveling the delicate balance we have.”

Yoko was quiet for a moment, taking in Wednesday’s words. She finally exhaled a long plume of smoke, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless, you know that? But also, kind of… incredible. That’s some next-level devotion.”

“It is the Addams way.” Wednesday offered a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Love is not something we give lightly, nor is it something we fear. But for her sake, I must remain restrained.”

“Look, I get it.” Yoko tapped the ash from her cigarette, her tone softening. “You’re trying to protect her. But maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t need protecting from you. Maybe she needs you, all of you, the good, the bad, and the morbidly terrifying. Have you ever thought about that?”

Wednesday didn’t respond immediately, her dark eyes fixed on the horizon. The silence stretched, heavy and contemplative, until she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I have,” she admitted. “And it terrifies me.”

Wednesday took another drag of her cigarette, the ember flaring briefly as she exhaled a stream of smoke into the cold night air. Her hands, usually so steady, betrayed the slightest tremor. She shifted her gaze from the horizon to Yoko, her dark eyes uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"Fear is not a stranger to me," she began, her voice quiet but steady. "I have faced death countless times, stared into its void, and dared it to claim me. I have waded through danger, suffering, and uncertainty with an unflinching resolve. Yet... nothing, nothing, has frightened me as much as this."

“Why?” Yoko tilted her head, studying Wednesday. “What about it scares you so much?”

"Because love,” Wednesday hesitated, her fingers tightening around the cigarette. “true love, is not something that can be controlled or calculated. It is chaotic, unpredictable. It is an entity that demands vulnerability, and vulnerability is... anathema to my nature. With Enid, I am vulnerable in ways I never anticipated. She has the power to break me, to unravel everything I thought I knew about myself."

She looked away, the weight of her words thickening the air between them. "But it is not just that," she continued, her voice softening. "Loving her requires more than vulnerability. It demands trust. Trust that I will not harm her, that my intensity will not suffocate her. I fear my devotion may consume her, that my darkness will taint her light. Enid deserves a partner who can complement her brilliance, not drown it in shadows."

"Wednesday, you’re not giving her enough credit.” Yoko took a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling as she leaned back against the sloped roof. “Enid’s stronger than you think. She’s been through her own hell and comes out of it shining. Maybe she doesn’t need someone to shield her from your darkness. Maybe she just needs someone to walk through it with her."

“That is precisely the problem. My darkness is not a path to be walked; it is a chasm, endless and consuming.” Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “Enid should not have to navigate it simply to love me.”

Yoko raised an eyebrow. “But isn’t that her choice to make?”

Wednesday froze, the question striking her like a dagger. She pressed her lips together, the cigarette dangling forgotten between her fingers. “Perhaps,” she admitted after a long pause. “But the weight of that choice... it terrifies me. What if I fail her? What if I become the very thing that destroys her?”

“You’re overthinking this, as usual.” Yoko gave a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Relationships aren’t about guarantees, Wednesday. They’re about trying, failing, learning, and trying again. You’re not perfect—none of us are—but if you love her as much as you say you do, then you owe it to her to let her decide if she wants to take that leap with you.”

Wednesday stared at Yoko, her expression unreadable. Slowly, she lifted the cigarette to her lips, taking a measured drag. She exhaled the smoke in a thin stream, her voice barely above a whisper. “I do not know if I am capable of giving her that choice.”

“You are. And if it doesn’t work out?” Yoko reached over, placing a hand on Wednesday’s shoulder. “You’ll survive. You’re an Addams, after all. But don’t let fear hold you back from something that could be amazing.”

Wednesday didn’t reply, her gaze drifting back to the horizon. The cigarette burned down to its end, the embers falling away into the darkness below. For a moment, the only sound was the faint rustle of the wind and the distant chirping of crickets.

“I will consider it,” Wednesday finally said, her voice barely audible.

Yoko smiled, leaning back and taking another drag of her cigarette. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The night stretched on with Yoko and Wednesday diving into stories and musings, their conversation flowing effortlessly between the profound and the mundane. Yoko, leaning back on her elbows, gave Wednesday a playful nudge.

“Alright, Addams, hit me with another one. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done as a kid?”

Wednesday’s expression turned contemplative, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “There was an incident when I was eight,” she began, her tone matter-of-fact. “I found a collection of medieval torture devices in the attic—one of which was an iron maiden. I was curious about its structural integrity and decided to test it.”

Yoko froze mid-drag, blinking at her. “You’re telling me... you got inside an iron maiden?”

“Precisely.” Wednesday tilted her head slightly, her braid shifting over her shoulder. “My father was less than pleased when he found me. It seems the family heirloom was more fragile than anticipated. It required extensive repairs afterward.”

“Wednesday,” Yoko stared at her for a long moment before bursting into laughter. “you are seriously something else. I can’t tell if you’re joking or if that’s just another Tuesday in the Addams household.”

“It was, in fact, a Wednesday,” she replied evenly.

“Alright, my turn.” Yoko shook her head, still chuckling. “You ever wondered what vampirism does to a siren?”

Wednesday’s gaze sharpened with curiosity. “An intriguing question. You speak from personal experience?”

“Divina brought it up.” Yoko hesitated, her usual nonchalant demeanor slipping. She tapped her cigarette against the roof’s edge. “She... wants me to turn her. To live beside me forever.”

“That is quite the request.”

“Yeah,” Yoko muttered. “I mean, I love her. I do. But vampirism isn’t exactly a gift, you know? There are so many unknowns. Sirens are tied to the water, their voices, their magic. I don’t know what would happen if I turned her. What if it messes her up? What if she regrets it?”

“It is a heavy decision,” Wednesday’s voice was quieter, almost thoughtful. “one that cannot be undone. Have you spoken to her about your concerns?”

“Yeah, but she’s stubborn.” Yoko gave a small nod. “Says it’s her choice and she’ll take the risk. I just... I don’t want to screw this up.”

Wednesday regarded her silently for a moment before speaking. “It seems the curse of love is its ability to complicate even the simplest of choices. But perhaps... that is what makes it worth enduring.”

“You’re getting poetic on me now, Addams.” Yoko snorted, smirking. “Must be the lack of sleep.”

They fell into a more relaxed rhythm, sharing their experiences with other recreational vices—Yoko out of sheer boredom during her sleepless nights, Wednesday out of scientific curiosity about the effects of marijuana on vampires. They traded stories, jokes, and idle musings until the sky began to lighten with the approaching dawn.

As the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, Enid appeared on the rooftop, still in her brightly patterned pajamas and slippers. Her golden hair was tousled from sleep, and her face bore a mix of concern and exasperation.

“Wednesday?” she called, crossing her arms as she spotted the pair. “Have you slept at all?”

She didn’t even spare Enid a glance.

“No,” Wednesday replied bluntly, her tone devoid of any apology.

Enid’s brows knitted in worry as she approached. “Wens, you need to take better care of yourself. This insomnia is getting out of hand.” Her gaze fell on the scattered cigarette butts near Wednesday and Yoko, her expression shifting to one of disapproval. “And smoking? Really? You’d better not make our dorm room smell like this.”

“Smoking does not affect an Addams as it would a mere human.” Wednesday glanced at her, unimpressed. “The physiological impact is negligible.”

“I’m already dead,” Yoko shrugged from her spot on the roof. “so it’s not like it matters for me.”

Enid shot Yoko a glare, clearly unimpressed with the both of them. “That’s not the point!” She crouched next to Wednesday, brushing her braid over her shoulder with a gentle touch. “Is the insomnia worse than usual?”

Wednesday’s gaze softened imperceptibly, her hand twitching as though she wanted to reach out but restrained herself. “It was manageable,” she said quietly, though her exhausted features betrayed the truth.

Yoko watched the exchange, her usual smirk replaced by something more subdued. As Enid fretted over Wednesday, brushing ash off her black coat and adjusting her collar, Yoko noticed the subtle shifts in Wednesday’s demeanor—how her posture softened, how her sharp gaze lingered on Enid with an intensity that was both tender and restrained.

The vampire took a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling thoughtfully. For all Wednesday’s stoicism, her love for Enid was obvious, woven into every glance, every word, every small gesture of self-restraint. Yoko could see the quiet pain in Wednesday’s eyes, the unspoken yearning she buried beneath her careful facade.

As Enid fussed and scolded in equal measure, oblivious to the depth of Wednesday’s emotions, Yoko muttered under her breath, “Damn, Addams, you’ve got it bad.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to Yoko briefly, but she said nothing, her attention returning to Enid.

It was clear to Yoko now—the devotion, the restraint, the self-imposed torment. Wednesday Addams had fallen harder than even she realized, and though it pained her to see it, Yoko couldn’t help but feel a pang of admiration for the intensity of Wednesday’s love.

Enid frowned at Yoko’s muttered remark, completely missing its true meaning. “Wait, Yoko, how bad is it? The insomnia, I mean?” she asked, her tone rising with concern.

“Pretty bad, I guess.” Yoko, recovering quickly, gave a nonchalant shrug. “She’s been up all night.”

Enid turned back to Wednesday, her lips pressing into a tight line as she crouched beside her. “Wednesday, you need to take the day off. Seriously. If you don’t rest, you’re going to collapse eventually.”

“I am more than capable of attending class in my current state, Enid.” Wednesday’s expression hardened, her pride evident in the slight lift of her chin. “Physical exhaustion is merely a temporary inconvenience.”

“Wens,” Enid said firmly, placing a hand on Wednesday’s arm. Her touch was gentle but insistent. “Please. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this. I don’t care how tough you are. Just this once, listen to me.”

Wednesday’s dark eyes met Enid’s bright, pleading gaze, and for a moment, she hesitated. The usual fire of her defiance flickered uncertainly, tempered by something softer. With a small sigh, she relented, her voice low. “Very well. I will… take the morning to rest. But only because your concern is persistently aggravating.”

Enid grinned, clearly relieved. “Thank you. I’ll let our homeroom advisor know, okay? And you—” she pointed a finger at Yoko “—make sure she doesn’t try to sneak off somewhere while I’m not looking.”

“Don’t worry,” Yoko raised her hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Let’s get you back to the dorm, Wens.” Satisfied, Enid helped Wednesday to her feet, her hands brushing over her coat to straighten it. “I’ll make sure you’re all set before I head to class.”

Wednesday inclined her head, allowing Enid to guide her toward the stairs. As they walked away, Yoko leaned back against the sloped roof, watching the two of them. She noticed the minute shifts in Wednesday’s posture, the way she seemed to tilt ever so slightly toward Enid as they walked. Her usually rigid movements were more fluid, almost unconsciously aligning with Enid’s rhythm.

It was subtle, but undeniable. Yoko could see it now—the quiet devotion that Wednesday had tried so hard to conceal. Her sharp edges softened, her walls lowered, all in the presence of Enid Sinclair.

Yoko glanced at the mess of cigarette butts and the two empty boxes surrounding her. She took a final drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out on the roof’s edge.

“Of course the Addams leaves me to clean up the mess,” she muttered to herself, amused despite the mild annoyance. With a chuckle, she began gathering the remnants of their sleepless night, shaking her head. “Damn, she’s got it bad. Poor, oblivious Enid doesn’t even realize it.”

As Yoko cleaned up the rooftop, the first bell of the day rang in the distance. The sunrise painted the school grounds in soft golds and pinks, a peaceful start to what promised to be anything but an ordinary day at Nevermore.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since that rooftop escapade with Wednesday—fourteen long, aching days since the wind tangled their hair and silence hung between them like a noose. Unsurprisingly, neither of them had brought it up since. Not a word, not even a flicker of acknowledgment passed between them about what happened under that moon-drenched sky. Yoko hadn’t expected otherwise. Wednesday was the queen of repression, after all, and Yoko? She knew better than to ask for more than what was given.

Enid, though—bright, sugar-spun Enid—had her own way of responding. The morning after, she’d marched into her room like a girl on a mission, sunshine radiating from every dramatic sigh, and demanded that they gather every last cigarette they had hidden away in coat linings and drawer corners. Yoko had tried to joke, made some crack about selling them to desperate underclassmen, but Enid wasn’t having it. She had taken the crumpled pack from Yoko’s hands, gave her a look that was too serious for someone in a pastel hoodie, and walked straight to the nearest trash chute. No drama, no theatrics. Just a clean break.

“No one should be inhaling tar,” she’d said, arms crossed, eyes glowing with indignation. That wolf-girl stubbornness was hard to argue with. Even for Yoko.

It stung more than Yoko thought it would. Not because she’d miss the smokes—well, maybe a little—but because Enid’s disapproval carried weight. The girl had a way of making you feel like you could be better. Like you should be.

And yet, even that moment on the roof, the strange intimacy they shared while the stars looked on, hadn’t softened the bite of Yoko’s teasing. She still lobbed her usual jabs at Wednesday during shared classes or awkward lunch encounters. Her words still had claws, and Wednesday still met them with a deadpan stare sharp enough to cut glass. But something had shifted. Something in the way they no longer flinched at one another’s presence. They were held in orbit by a shared sun: Enid.

It was that connection that forced them into the same airspace time and again. Yoko wasn’t going to be the one to point it out, but Wednesday didn’t seem to loathe her anymore. Not the way she did sophomore year when Yoko’s laugh alone seemed to provoke eye-rolls and barbed threats. These days, Wednesday tolerated her. 

And in that reluctant tolerance, Yoko began to understand what Enid had meant all those times she defended Wednesday. She wasn’t cruel for the sake of cruelty—well, not usually. The threats, though still stomach-turning in their creativity, weren’t soaked in venom unless you deserved it. Unless you were a threat. Beneath that granite glare and razor-edged vocabulary was someone... loyal. Dangerous, yes, but loyal.

"She doesn’t use the word ‘friends,’" Enid had told her once while braiding her hair absentmindedly. "She calls Eugene and me her consiglieres ."

Yoko had blinked at her, mind stumbling over the unfamiliar word, fingers twitching toward her phone to Google it—until Enid burst out laughing and confessed she’d done the same thing. That little moment stuck with Yoko more than it should’ve. Not just because of the humor, but because of the implication behind the word. Not friends. Advisors. Trusted. Necessary. Loved, in her own cold-blooded way.

Yoko had laid in bed that night, staring up at the canopy of her bunk, wondering if she, too, was being tolerated now. Or maybe even trusted. Maybe that night on the roof meant something, even if neither of them had the guts to say it out loud. 

Not ever, maybe.

And every time she saw Wednesday now, even in the flicker of fluorescent lights during group studies or the sharp edge of her silhouette walking past Ophelia Hall’s windows, Yoko couldn’t help but wonder if Wednesday remembered it, too. Maybe the whole encounter was a fever dream and Enid just decided to throw out both of their cigarette stash on a concerned whim. 

Quitting cold turkey had done absolutely nothing for Yoko’s mood. If anything, it had made everything worse—jagged. For the past few weeks, she had been skimming the edge of irritability like a knife along glass, constantly one sharp moment away from shattering. She had tried. Bought chewing gum in bulk. Kept her mouth busy with anything she could reasonably bite down on. Carrots, pickles, apples, celery, jawbreakers that threatened to crack her teeth—anything to distract from the ache in her chest, the phantom burn in her lungs.

It didn’t help.

Her pens and pencils fared the worst. The ends were chewed into frayed plastic and splintered wood, teeth marks like tiny battle scars. By the time her afternoon classes rolled around, she was already digging through her bag for spares from the emergency stash. She’d started carrying an entire box. It was pathetic.

The chewing didn’t scratch the same itch. It only reminded her of what she was missing, amplified it. The dry ache behind her throat, the grounding pull of smoke exhaled through her nose—it wasn’t just about nicotine. All this chewing only made her crave it more. And it was cutting into her weekly allowance.

She was halfway through dismantling yet another pen—clicking it compulsively, rotating it against her teeth like a cigarette when the ache was especially cruel—when she noticed it.

Wednesday was wearing something new.

Around her neck, nestled against the collar of her uniform and almost hidden by the familiar “W” pendant, was a shape Yoko hadn’t seen before. Not at first. It took a second glance—third, really—to make it out clearly. A dull-gray object shaped like a saber tooth, made from silicone, it looked like. If she squinted, she could see the tiny ridges on the surface, the faint indents from where it had been chewed.

A chew pendant. A stim toy.

Yoko stared, momentarily stunned—not at the object itself, but at the implication. Wednesday Addams, Miss Death Stare Incarnate, who walked like she owned every room she entered, who wielded silence like a scalpel— chewed things?

Before she could decide how she felt about it—surprised, maybe, or weirdly touched—Wednesday’s eyes flicked to her. Just a glance. Cool, unreadable, unbothered. Yoko’s breath caught in her throat.

She didn’t know whether to look away, like she'd been caught doing something intimate and uninvited, or roll into one of their usual exchanges. She could tease her about the new accessory, throw a barb with a grin, pretend she hadn’t just been gut-punched by the quiet proof of vulnerability.

But before she could make that choice—before the thought even fully crystallized—Wednesday turned her head and answered Eugene’s question about numeracy and magical traditions, shoving the silicone into her vest as if she hadn’t just been caught with it in the first place.

Yoko blinked, mouth dry.

Plastic cracked between her molars. Yoko chewed through her third pen that day. 

It was the night after the full moon when Yoko couldn’t take it anymore.

The craving had been gnawing at her for days— louder than her guilt. Enid had crashed early, curled beneath her mountain of blankets and dead to the world after the drain of the transformation. Yoko took that as her chance. She moved silently, guilt clinging to her fingers as she slipped a sealed box of menthol Newports into the inner pocket of her coat. The carton felt heavier than it should have—weighted by shame.

She had tried to be better. For Enid. But tonight the ache in her lungs screamed louder than her conscience.

The halls of Ophelia Hall were silent, bathed in moonlight and the faint, flickering buzz of half-asleep sconces. Yoko slipped past them, breath caught in her throat, not from fear of being caught but from the familiar anticipation of relief. Her fingers were trembling by the time she climbed the last few rungs of the rooftop ladder and pushed open the hatch.

The cold night air rushed over her face as she lit the cigarette tucked between her lips. One hand held the lighter steady, the other slowly eased the hatch closed behind her. Her first inhale was deep— too deep—but she welcomed the burn. Smoke seared her throat, clawed down her lungs, and wrapped its cold menthol fingers around her insides. It felt like being stitched back together, one breath at a time.

She exhaled, shaky, eyes half-lidded with something like release.

There she sat, half-swallowed by the stone base of one of the gargoyles. Her body was folded into itself—one leg dangling off the edge of the roof, the other drawn tight to her chest. Her cheek rested on her bent arm. In one hand, a glass filled with something amber and dangerous dangled over the abyss. In the other, a cigarette burned slowly, its ash building unnoticed by her thigh. The moonlight caught the curve of her cheekbone, the glint in her obsidian eyes. She looked like a painting left no one dared to finish.

Yoko approached, slower than usual.

“Alcohol is prohibited on campus grounds, Addams,” she said lightly, easing down beside her. Her legs folded beneath her at the ankles. 

No greeting, no smile. Of course not. 

Wednesday lifted her head, her gaze flicking sideways to acknowledge Yoko’s presence, but she didn’t speak. She raised the glass to her lips and drank—no grimace, no reaction to the burn.

Yoko followed her gaze downward, where the old bottle rested half-hidden by shadow. It was something imported, something rare—nothing sold in Jericho’s sleepy liquor shops. The scent alone was sharp enough to sting from the glass in Wednesday’s hand..

Wednesday’s tongue darted out to trace the edge of her lips, catching the remnants of the drink with a flicker of hunger she didn’t try to hide.

“And so is smoking tobacco, Tanaka,” she replied, her voice dry and low, eyes drifting toward the box of cigarettes in Yoko’s palm.

Yoko smirked, unbothered by the hypocrisy. “Now what brings you back here?”

“Why else would either of us be up here, Tanaka?” Wednesday asked, exhaling. “Partaking in the spilling of tea?”

Yoko chuckled, smoke trailing from her lips. “Well, that is what we did last time. Unless you truly believe Enid and I make tea just to spill it across my floor twice a week.”

Wednesday didn’t reply.

But Yoko didn’t miss the way her ears tinged pink beneath the moonlight. Maybe Wednesday did think that at some point before. She was sure Thing had enlightened her on what the phrase actually meant.

The silence stretched between them, suspended like smoke curling into the dark. Wednesday took another slow sip from her glass, letting the burn linger in her throat like a secret.

Then, out of nowhere, she said:

“I take great pleasure in suffering that is woefully delightful to indulge in.”

Yoko nearly choked. Which should have been funny when Wednesday Addams just admitted to being a masochist.

The inhale caught sharp in her throat, breaking the night’s quiet with a sudden cough. Smoke sputtered from her lips in a mess of surprise, her shoulders jerking forward with the force of it. Eyes wide, she turned to Wednesday, incredulous.

“I—” she wheezed, pressing a hand instinctively to her chest. Her fingers hovered just above her heart, where no beat thudded beneath them. She was dead, had been for years—but still, the gesture came like muscle memory. Old habits didn’t just die hard. They lingered. “You can’t just say that like it’s the weather, Addams.”

Wednesday didn’t so much as blink. Her expression remained utterly composed, like the surface of still water. Only the faintest arch of her brow betrayed any reaction at all—less amusement than clinical curiosity, as though Yoko were an insect doing something unexpected under a microscope.

“I can ,” Wednesday said coolly, tapping the ash from her cigarette with an elegant flick of her fingers. “And I did .”

She turned her head back toward the moon, its silver light casting pale outlines along the edges of her cheekbones. Her gaze was sharp, but distant now—half-lidded, as if the night sky had grown dull to her. “I understand masochism as a concept. Even find it… enlightening, in its own way. There’s merit in suffering, when it’s chosen. When there’s purpose behind it.”

She paused, lifting her glass and swirling the amber liquid within. It caught the moonlight like honey—viscous and heavy, slow to move. “But what baffles me,” she continued, her voice dipping softer, darker, “is the kind that isn’t chosen. The agony that people wake up to and walk into—again and again—with no gratification, no reward. Just pain for pain’s sake.”

A faint scoff ghosted past her lips. “Self-flagellation without any poetry to it.”

Yoko blinked slowly, her thoughts lagging behind like a machine trying to reboot. The sharp pivot in the conversation had disarmed her—one minute she was choking on cigarette smoke, the next she was adrift in philosophical musings about suffering and meaning. Her cigarette drooped between two fingers, still smoldering.

There was a pause. A long one.

Then, dryly, “...Are you talking about Ms. Lathurna?”

She probably wouldn’t have guessed what Wednesday was referring to—if not for the incident earlier in the week.

Normally, Wednesday didn’t waste time verbally sparring with teachers. Most of them, in her opinion, weren’t worth the effort. If their incompetence didn’t directly impede her, she’d let them flounder in peace. As long as she could breeze through the class undisturbed, it was better for everyone involved. Maybe it helped that Wednesday rarely struggled—she completed her readings early, took meticulous notes, and consistently exceeded expectations. She was, by all accounts, a model student. Albeit an unsettling one.

Once, Yoko had pointed out that the material Wednesday was studying wasn’t even on the syllabus.

Wednesday had barely glanced up from her book as she replied, “The syllabus is a suggestion. Excellence is an uprising.” She continued writing as her eyes scanned the page. “Perfection may be a myth, but mediocrity is a plague—and I am immune to both delusion and disease. If your ambitions can nap, they deserve to be buried.”

Dramatics aside, Wednesday was an overachiever. Yoko couldn’t tell if it was because she was the firstborn heir to the Addams estate or if overachievement was simply her default setting.

Either way, Ms. Lathurna had been in a particularly foul mood that Tuesday. She sprung a surprise quiz on the class—a quiz based on a topic that had only been mentioned in passing the week before. Most of the class floundered. Besides, of course, Wednesday, the only person who finished with confidence—and well before the halfway mark.

When Ms. Lathurna began collecting the papers, her scowl deepened with every stack. The tension in the room was suffocating. It didn’t take long before she erupted into a condescending tirade, questioning the intelligence of everyone in the class and accusing them of wasting their time loitering around Jericho instead of studying.

Wednesday rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed, and turned back to her notebook, tuning out the tirade.

“Ms. Tanaka,” Ms. Lathurna snapped.

Wednesday’s hand froze mid-stroke.

“You couldn’t even answer half of the content on this quiz. You either think this course is a joke or you’re somehow more—”

“Ms. Lathurna,” Wednesday interrupted calmly, but her tone was edged like the glint of moonlight on a blade. “While I do share your sentiment that the student body’s collective intelligence is questionable at best, it is entirely unrealistic to expect anyone in this room to comprehend material you failed to teach in any meaningful capacity.”

The entire class held its breath as Ms. Lathurna’s face turned a spectacular shade of purple.

“Ms. Addams, I wasn’t speaking to you. I was addressing Ms. Tanaka’s inco—”

Wednesday stood. There was a flash in her eyes, the kind that made Yoko instinctively reach for her hand—just in time to stop it from dipping behind her back into the blazer. Ever since Crackstone, Wednesday had taken to carrying at least five concealed weapons. The dagger strapped at her waist beneath her skirt was her default in confrontations. And while Yoko agreed the teacher might’ve deserved a scare, a full-blown incident wouldn’t have looked great on Wednesday’s record.

"While I do indulge in the art of a sharp tongue—especially when egos are long overdue for an exorcism," Wednesday hissed, withdrawing her hand from Yoko’s grip, thankfully not reaching for steel, "I never waste silk-threaded spite on the undeserving."

She shifted her gaze back to Ms. Lathurna, eyes narrowing. “It would be wise to resume the lesson this class was intended for—before I commit unspeakable atrocities in retaliation for the migraine-inducing squeal of your incessant yapping.”

Despite the venom of her words, Wednesday’s tone remained cold and even. The same could not be said for Ms. Lathurna, whose composure crumbled completely in front of the class. The shouting that followed echoed into the hall and drew the attention of the principal, who came down in person to address the situation.

Wednesday received detention. Ms. Lathurna was formally reprimanded after nearly the entire class submitted written complaints.

And though no weapons had been drawn that day, Yoko knew well enough—Wednesday had still come out swinging.

Wednesday’s lips twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile—more a knowing tilt of her mouth, like she was proud at the fact Yoko can keep up with her cryptic bullshit.

“Who else?” she replied, her voice as light as ash.

Yoko let out a breath—half laugh, half groan—and brought two fingers to her temple as if she could rub away the ridiculousness of it all. Her eyes flicked to Wednesday again, who still hadn’t looked back at her. She was somewhere else now, drifting through her own thoughts.

“She teaches the subject of outcast identity like it’s a pathology,” Wednesday said, voice calm but laden with disdain. “As though being what we are is some shared affliction, something shameful that must be dissected and atoned for. She stares at us like we’re insects. Not quite worth crushing, but definitely worth despising.”

Yoko turned slightly to watch her. But Wednesday wasn’t really there with her anymore—her eyes had gone glassy, distant, fixed on something far within.

“She sits in that classroom every day, subjecting herself to a horde of hormonal, ungrateful adolescents,” Wednesday continued, “all while clearly loathing the sound of youth, the mess of aliveness. Misery without indulgence. If you’re going to drown in your own bitterness, at least have the decency to enjoy the flavor.”

She exhaled slowly, then flicked the ash again—precise, practiced. “If I’m to bleed, I’d rather it be by my own hand. Not by drudgery.”

The night wind tugged gently at the edges of their coats. Somewhere below, a door slammed. A distant car passed. The rooftop was quiet again, save for the occasional hiss of burning tobacco and the faint clink of glass.

Yoko laughed—low, tired, but warm. She leaned into her hand, resting her forehead briefly against her knuckles.

“You really know how to comfort a girl after a long day, don’t you?”

Wednesday finally turned her head. Her gaze was sidelong, unreadable.

“If comfort is what you’re after,” she said evenly, “you’ve chosen the wrong rooftop.”

“No kidding,” Yoko murmured, lips curving slightly.

Yoko inhaled deeply, the glowing tip of her cigarette briefly illuminating the hollow of her cheeks, her brow, the corner of her lip tugged in thought. The smoke curled from her nostrils, slow like steam escaping something long-pressured.

Beside her, Wednesday tilted back the remainder of her drink, throat bobbing as the amber liquid vanished in a single practiced motion. She did not wince. Her glass clicked softly against the stone as she set it down just long enough to retrieve the bottle. Without ceremony, she poured herself another—halfway full this time.

The sound of it, liquid against glass, felt oddly loud in the quiet air.

Yoko finally spoke, voice low and even. “Maybe she used to like teaching.” She didn’t look at Wednesday, just let her eyes drift across the moonlit treetops in the distance. “Or maybe she never did. Maybe she just… ended up here.”

She took another drag, letting the silence carry her thoughts a moment longer.

“Not everyone gets to have a job and find joy in it. Most don’t. There’s a thousand things between what someone wants to do and what they’re allowed to do. Economics, timing, what’s available, what you’re good at—or not good enough at. Maybe Ms. Lathurna burned through the things she cared about and all that was left was this.”

Her cigarette was almost finished now. She crushed it slowly against the stone with two fingers, her voice softening.

“Maybe she figured if she’s miserable, she may as well share it.”

Wednesday made a quiet, disgruntled sound in the back of her throat. A huff that could have been a cough, a laugh, or a sigh. She scowled anyway, her mouth twisting as if tasting something bitter.

“I loathe that you make sense,” she muttered.

Yoko glanced at her, amused. “I’ll try not to make it a habit.”

Wednesday didn’t smile, but her scowl lacked conviction now. Her fingers toyed with the rim of her glass, tracing a slow circle. “It’s a strange thing to call privilege,” she said after a moment. “But I suppose I have it.”

Her gaze turned downward, not to the ground, but to her hands. The moonlight caught the curve of her glass, the small reflection that flickered in her black nail polish.

“I have the freedom to choose. Nepotism, perhaps, or simply a byproduct of being an Addams. I could take over the family business if I wanted. I could become a mortician, or a criminal defense attorney, or a composer of avant-garde funeral dirges—and they’d support me in any of it.”

Her voice dropped, quieter now, honest.

“They’ve never discouraged me. Not once. Not when I dissected my first frog at five. Not when I performed an autopsy on a squirrel I found flattened on the road. Not when I told them I’d rather correspond with murderers than ever consider marriage.”

A brief pause.

“Certainly not when I announced I’d be digging up Poe’s original manuscript, just to prove a point to the curator.”

Yoko raised an eyebrow, slow and skeptical. “Did you?”

Wednesday took a measured sip, her expression unchanged. “Only partially. The exhibit was underwhelming.”

Yoko exhaled through her nose, the faintest laugh buried in the sound. She leaned back on her palms, eyes drifting skyward again.

“God, you’re exhausting,” she murmured, though there was no heat in it.

Wednesday leaned back, her spine against the cool stone, the shadows sharpening the edges of her features. “I think… I forget, sometimes, that choice isn’t a guarantee. I’ve never been told ‘no’ in a way that meant ‘never.’ Only in ways that invited a cleverer yes .”

She looked over at Yoko now, really looked, and something in her eyes was quieter than usual. Not soft—Wednesday Addams was rarely soft—but still , like the moment before a candle goes out.

“I don’t take it lightly. But I still don’t understand living in misery and calling it life.”

Yoko met her gaze. There was no smile on her face either, but a heaviness that resonated between them, a quiet acknowledgment that Wednesday’s words hit somewhere close to her own chest.

“I think some people don’t call it life at all,” she said. “They just… survive.”

Wednesday didn’t answer, not right away. She took a slow drink, the taste sinking into her tongue like something to be endured.

“Survival is an art,” she said eventually. “But I prefer the kind that leaves scars worth admiring.”

Yoko turned her face toward the sky again. “And you think you can always choose the kind of scars you get?”

“No,” Wednesday said, without hesitation. “But I can choose which ones I earn.”

Yoko let the silence stretch a little longer, like a thread she was deciding whether to pull. Then, with the barest nudge of breath and voice, she cut through it.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out like it was tethered on a leash, cautious and curious, “are you going to tell me why you’re up here smoking like a Victorian widow—or do I have to guess?”

No answer.

“Are we pretending you just woke up tonight and thought: Hm, nothing says insomnia like a rooftop bender with artisanal whiskey and a nicotine chaser? ” Her tone was light, but the sharpness in her eyes betrayed something more pointed. She tilted her head toward Wednesday, gaze narrowing slightly. “Or was there a reason for this little gothic happy hour?”

Still nothing.

Wednesday simply swirled the whiskey in her glass, slow and deliberate, as if she could summon meaning from the motion. Her posture was stiff, her profile revealing nothing in the moonlight. She didn’t speak. Didn’t look away. Just waited—either for the right words to arrive, or for Yoko to give up.

But Yoko pressed on, undeterred. 

“I thought you quit,” she said, her voice lower now, softened by concern. “Went cold turkey after Enid threw out all our stash. You were doing better than me, at least.”

She hesitated, searching for the right tone, the one that wouldn’t sound like accusation. “Rough night? Or just… nostalgic for the taste of ash?”

Wednesday’s gaze never lifted. Her fingers slowed over the rim of the glass, then stilled. When she spoke, her voice was detached.

“This whiskey,” she said, sharply, “was made by hand in a village on the western edge of Islay.”

Yoko blinked. The pivot was so abrupt it stunned her into silence.

Wednesday continued, her voice slipping into something near reverence. “The distiller uses ex-sherry casks, smoked with peat harvested from a family-owned bog. Three generations. You can taste it in the burn—damp earth, sea salt, rosemary. It’s filtered twice. First through charred birchwood. Then through cloth soaked in mineral oil. That’s where the finish comes from. Clean, but never sweet. Astringent. Bitter. Like swallowing fog and cinders.”

She paused, then added, without emotion, “I don’t like it.”

A breath passed.

“But I respect the craftsmanship.”

Yoko raised a brow. “You skipped over the part where you said why you’re actually drinking it, though.”

Wednesday’s jaw ticked. Only slightly. 

“That wasn’t part of the question I decided to answer.”

Yoko stared at her. Then raised her hands, mock-defeated. “Alright. Jesus. That’s a no to the question, then.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched—an involuntary flicker. Not quite a smile, but a hairline crack in the façade.

Yoko leaned back again, folding her arms behind her head as she turned her gaze to the stars. Her tone was casual now, but her words were laced with a quieter sort of care.

“You know, most people would’ve just said ‘I don’t wanna talk about it.’ You didn’t have to hit me with a whole TED Talk on bog mist and generational trauma whiskey.”

Wednesday’s reply came so quietly it almost faded into the wind. “I’m more useful when I redirect.”

Yoko blinked, caught by the shift. “Useful for what?”

A pause.

Then:

“For keeping the parts of me that matter hidden.”

The words weren’t thrown. They weren’t shielded in sarcasm or wit. They were bare. Small. Almost tender in their confession.

Yoko didn’t speak right away. She didn’t crack a joke, didn’t pry. Just let the silence gather around those words. Then, slowly, she leaned forward and plucked the glass from Wednesday’s hand, took a small sip—and coughed violently.

“Jesus,” she wheezed, voice rasping. “Tastes like forest fire and ghost tears.”

Wednesday finally turned her head, meeting her eyes for the first time. “You’re not supposed to gulp it like a frat house dropout.”

Yoko wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve, still laughing through the sting. “Then stop drinking like an immortal and share something cheap next time.”

For the first time that night, something warm passed through Wednesday’s expression—a softening, brief and breakable.

“I make no promises,” she said.

Yoko ground the end of her cigarette into the chipped plastic of the dollar store ashtray—an ugly thing that looked like it had survived several apocalypses and picked up trauma along the way. It let out a soft hiss as the ember died, curling smoke rising like the last breath of something once living.

She reached into the battered box beside her, tapping it twice against her open palm. The motion was practiced, casual, but not quite thoughtless. The cigarettes jutted out like a fan of brittle teeth, and she caught one in her mouth, the filter tucked between her lips as she reached for her lighter.

Click.

Click.

Clickclickclick.

Nothing. Just a couple of feeble sparks and the mechanical rasp of metal on metal.

“Son of a bitch,” Yoko muttered, shaking the thing like that would somehow restore its will to live.

Wednesday let out a breath somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. She didn’t even look—just reached into her coat with the kind of practiced ease that suggested she’d done this a thousand times before. From her inner pocket, she pulled a black zippo, its metal casing scratched and worn, the silver W etched into the side dulled from constant use. She flicked it toward Yoko in a sharp, underhanded toss.

Yoko nearly fumbled it. The corner caught between two fingers at the last second. She let out a sharp breath through her teeth, flashing Wednesday a quick, crooked grin. “God, warn a girl. Your trust in my reflexes is both flattering and dangerous.”

“Not trust,” Wednesday said flatly. “Indifference to potential consequences.”

Yoko snorted and flicked the lid open, the zippo’s familiar click cutting the air. A flame bloomed, briefly illuminating her face in amber. She lit the cigarette, inhaled, then exhaled through her nose like a dragon resigned to an office job.

She held out the box toward Wednesday without looking.

To her surprise, Wednesday pushed it away..

“I’m tapering off,” she said, voice low, like the words tasted strange in her mouth. “It’s easier to manage the withdrawal symptoms that way. Cold turkey didn’t… suit me.”

Yoko gave a small, thoughtful hum, sliding the box back into her pocket. “That’s why you’re the more stable one between the two of us these days?”

Wednesday didn’t answer right away. She pulled something from under her shirt—thin black cord strung through a smooth, black saber tooth stim toy. She ran her fingers over it, her hands moving in repetitive motions that looked like ritual more than habit.

“The first week wasn’t one of my better chapters,” she admitted, her voice so quiet it barely registered as sound. “Eugene noticed. Suggested I try chewelry. I preferred something less… overt.”

Yoko tilted her head back against the rooftop, watching the sky through a haze of smoke and starlight.

She remembered. That week had been a blur—Wednesday holed up in the beekeeping club more than usual, her hands always busy with bee frames or glass jars or violently scrubbing equipment long past clean. She hadn’t spoken much. Not even in her usual cryptic riddles or passive-aggressive aphorisms. Just… quiet. Hollowed out.

Enid had cornered Yoko outside the library one afternoon, eyes wide and worried, asking if Wednesday was angry about the cigarettes, if she’d ruined something. Her voice cracked a little when she said “She barely looks at me lately.”

Yoko had shrugged, but only on the outside. She’d told Enid the truth: that quitting was hard, even harder when it was something threaded into your rituals, your comforts, your sense of control. She and Wednesday had both been lighting up far before they met Enid. It wasn’t just a habit—it was part of the architecture of their lives in some way or form.

“She’s probably not mad,” Yoko had told her. “Just trying not to detonate. Might be her way of keeping things from breaking.”

But then she’d added, “Wouldn’t hurt if she actually said that out loud, though.”

Now, perched on the edge of the night with Wednesday beside her, Yoko blew out a ribbon of smoke and let her words come slowly.

“You know, Enid thought you were pissed at her. Thought she’d pushed too hard.”

Wednesday didn’t respond at first. Just kept her fingers tracing the grooves of the stim toy, the motion steady, methodical. Then she spoke, not quite looking at Yoko.

“I was… afraid I would be.”

Yoko turned her head to study her. The glass of the ashtray caught the light from the zippo, flickering like the echo of a fire long gone.

“I thought,” Wednesday continued, “that if quitting wouldn’t be much of a challenge, that it was as simple as turning off the lights. I found myself more volatile that I might say something I couldn’t unsay. Break something I didn’t know how to fix.”

Yoko let the silence fall again. 

She flicked the end of her cigarette toward the ashtray. It hit with a tiny tap.

“You’re an idiot,” she said finally, but not unkindly. “But you’re not the only one scared of wrecking things. Just… let her in next time, alright? Let us in.”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

But the stim toy slowed in her fingers. 

“She wasn’t angry,” she said aloud, eyes on the sky. “She was scared. That she’d mess something up. That if she let herself spiral, it’d hurt you more than it hurt her. She just… doesn’t always know how to say that.”

Wednesday didn’t respond, but her fingers paused for a heartbeat on the stim toy.

Yoko took another drag and sighed through her nose.

“You could’ve told her,” she added, not accusing—just stating.

“I know,” Wednesday said softly. “I didn’t want her to feel guilty.

“Enid always feels guilty,” Yoko replied with a snort. “It’s her tragic flaw. That, and letting you get away with your cryptic monologues.”

Wednesday’s eyes lifted to her, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I find them quite endearing.”

Yoko smirked. “You would.”

Wednesday’s pale fingers, reached for the bottle. The glass made a muted clink against the rooftop ledge as she uncorked it and tilted it into her glass, the liquid amber catching the moonlight in lazy, shimmering folds. 

Yoko watched, her eyes narrowing. “Jesus. That thing’s three-quarters empty.”

Without looking up, Wednesday replied, “I’ve consumed the preponderance of it since arriving.”

Yoko’s brows shot up. “ Preponderance ?”

Wednesday finally glanced at her, not even bothering to educate her on the meaning. “It was a gift. From my father. For surviving a genocidal undead pilgrim.” A pause, then a blink, as if recalling a family anecdote. “As did my ancestor, Goody Addams. It’s become a bit of a tradition.”

Yoko muttered a curse under her breath, reaching for the bottle with one hand, cigarette still tucked between her lips. She tilted the label toward the moonlight, squinting. Then froze.

“Seventy percent alcohol?!”

Her voice spiked up an octave, and she choked on the next inhale, coughing and sputtering as smoke clawed up her throat. She wheezed out a half-laugh, half-cough, glaring between the bottle and Wednesday like she was staring at a cryptid.

“Are you—how are you even talking right now? That’s… that’s not a drink, that’s industrial degreaser!”

Wednesday scoffed, utterly unfazed. “Please. We were weaned on high-proof grain alcohol and trace amounts of cyanide. Formula was too tame for our constitution.”

Yoko gawked at her. “You say that like it's a flex. ”

Wednesday’s lips twitched—again, not quite a smile. A shimmer of something sardonic passed through her expression like cloud shadow across snow.

“It is .”

Yoko sat back with a low whistle, still holding the bottle like it might bite her. “I’m starting to think your bloodstream is just vinegar and cursed ink.”

“That would explain the resilience,” Wednesday murmured, taking a slow sip from her glass. “And the taste in men.”

Yoko laughed—a sharp, involuntary bark. “Damn. No wonder Xavier never stood a chance.”

Wednesday inclined her head, mock solemn. “He didn’t.”

They lapsed into silence again, the easy kind. The wind tugged at their hair and clothes.

Yoko finally handed the bottle back, her fingers brushing against Wednesday’s. She stared down at the label one more time, then snorted. “Seriously, though. If this stuff doesn’t kill you, nothing will.”

Wednesday’s grip tightened on the bottle, her gaze turned toward the horizon—dark and distant and wide.

“That’s the idea,” she said softly.

Yoko leaned her weight back onto her elbows, cigarette dancing loosely between her fingers as she took another drag, letting the smoke slip slowly between her lips before glancing sideways at Wednesday.

“So,” she asked, voice half-curious, half-appalled, “if you were guzzling down ethanol and cyanide cocktails as a baby… when exactly did the smoking start?”

Wednesday didn’t look at her. Just tilted her glass toward the sky again, letting the whiskey catch a sliver of moonlight like it was a divining mirror.

“My father wanted me to start at five,” she said matter-of-factly, as though she were reciting the weather forecast. “It’s when his father gave him his first cigar. Something about building character, burning your lungs early so you learn not to flinch.”

Yoko gagged on her inhale. “ Five?! ”

“But my mother disagreed,” Wednesday continued, unmoved. “She thought that was far too early.”

Yoko sighed in relief. “Well, good. At least one of them had some—”

“She argued I should wait until I was ten.”

Yoko froze, the lit tip of her cigarette glowing like the warning light of a dying planet. “…You’re kidding.”

Wednesday turned to her, expression deadpan. “I am not. They compromised. I started at eight.”

Yoko groaned and tilted her head back to stare at the stars like they might explain any of this. “Of course they did. Of course they compromised. Because to them, the middle ground is still somewhere in the vicinity of child endangerment.”

Wednesday’s glass clinked softly against the ledge again as she set it down, fingers ghosting over the rim.

“Consider it a rite of passage,” she said. “My first inhalation was in a mausoleum in Prague. Very dramatic lighting. Excellent acoustics.”

“Jesus Christ,” Yoko muttered, pressing her fingers to her temple like she was trying to massage the disbelief out of her skull. “I don’t even know what to say. I thought my aunt was nuts for letting me try wine coolers at twelve. But you—your entire bloodline is a health code violation.”

Wednesday’s mouth twitched. “We’ve always been a little... niche.”

“Understatement of the century.” Yoko sat up again, dragging her legs into a cross-legged sprawl, her tone softening. “But you did warn us. From the start. That your family’s their own kind of outcast.”

“I did.” Wednesday looked out into the dark again, eyes distant. “We don’t fit cleanly into the molds. We come carved from obsidian and ash, stitched together with superstition and spite. There was never going to be a clean version of me.”

“Yeah, but,” Yoko said, nudging her lightly with a knee, “you still came out… you. Rough edges and all. And that version?” She gestured vaguely to the space between them, smoke curling like a ribbon between her fingers. “We kinda like her.”

Wednesday’s brows lifted slightly, not in surprise, but in acknowledgment. The silence stretched again, not cold, not heavy—just a space for the wind to breathe between them.

“I suppose,” she said finally, “eight wasn’t too young.”

Yoko laughed, hoarse and warm. “That’s the most terrifying sentence I’ve ever heard from you.”

“You haven’t asked about the acid drops my uncle used in lieu of bedtime stories.”

“ Wednesday. ”

Wednesday’s lips twitched, then she let out a chuckle—soft at first, almost hesitant, but it quickly grew, swelling into an open, joyful burst that balanced somewhere between a giggle and a hearty laugh. The sound was rare, a flicker of light in the dark night air, and it made Yoko freeze mid-drag, eyes wide and caught off guard.

Wednesday caught her reaction and rolled her eyes with mock annoyance. “Yes, I can laugh,” she said, voice dripping with dry amusement. “It’s just that I find most people’s humor… particularly lackluster.”

Yoko grinned, still a little stunned by the unexpected sound. “So, you’d rather the world stay none the wiser about that little moment of yours?”

Wednesday’s expression turned serious again, the warmth fading from her eyes. “Absolutely. Prefer none know what transpired up here tonight.” She tapped the empty glass against the stone ledge and pushed it aside, as if erasing the moment.

Yoko cocked her head, teasing. “I thought you didn’t care what anyone thought of you.”

Wednesday nodded, sharp and sure. “I don’t. I just prefer to keep the shock factor.” She pulled the bottle back toward her and took a slow sip, eyes never leaving the distant horizon. “When I do laugh in front of people—rare as it is—I enjoy watching their faces as they try to decide if they’ve lost their minds.”

Her smile was sly now, subtle but unmistakable. “There’s something satisfying about making them question their sanity.”

Yoko chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Only you could turn laughter into a psychological weapon.”

Wednesday reached into her coat pocket and, without a word, slid a notebook between them towards Yoko.

Wednesday had slid it to her without ceremony, its corner nudging the edge of the dollar store ashtray just enough to knock it slightly askew. She said nothing as she poured herself another round of amber death liquid, as if casually handing over a potentially cursed relic was the most natural thing in the world to hand someone a potentially cursed tome under the light of a half-shrouded moon.

She hadn’t even looked up as she poured.

Yoko glanced at Wednesday, then back at the closed notebook in her lap. Her cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, a chunk of gray ash dropping into the flimsy plastic as she reached forward and carefully picked it up. She hadn’t done anything to deserve a hex. Not recently. Not since they’d both been too miserable from quitting nicotine to even muster the energy to annoy one another. But with Wednesday? You never really knew. Not after Kent had tried to copy her homework and ended up speaking only in Latin for a week.

Yoko opened the notebook. The pages were filled in Wednesday’s immaculate, sharp script—precise strokes, margins aligned perfectly neat. She flipped through slowly, her breath catching once, twice. Skimming paragraphs. Words. Symbols. Names she didn’t recognize. Dates going back hundreds of years.

And then she asked, voice hoarse, "Why?"

Wednesday was still, only the faint sound of the glass tapping her teeth before she answered. "When I said that the Addams family is their own breed of outcast, I was not exaggerating. We possess certain... traits. Immunities to common poisons. Resistance to others. Heightened senses. Reflexes. Pain tolerance that borders on masochistic." Her eyes glinted. "These are not blessings. They are genetic anomalies honed by centuries of surviving in a world that would rather see us extinct than misunderstood."

Yoko blinked slowly, absorbing the words.

"We were hunted, you know. Because we never cared to conform. Because we married who we loved, regardless of species, power, appearance, or bloodline." Wednesday leaned back slightly, resting her spine against the cold parapet wall. "Interspecies coupling was one of the earliest forms of rebellion in our bloodline. Most of the world saw it as corruption. We saw it as evolution."

Yoko swallowed, gaze dropping to the notebook. “And… what’s this got to do with this?” she asked quietly, tapping the pages.

Wednesday’s gaze flicked to her, still as a cathedral gargoyle.

"You remember what I told you about how the Addams love?"

Yoko nodded.

"Some might call it obsession," Wednesday said, voice low, steady. "An unhealthy codependency. But it is nothing of the sort. It is devotion. My father would gut gods for my mother. My mother would feed him grapes while he did it. Their affection is nauseating, but it is real. And in that love—terrifying, dramatic, unwavering—there is nothing they would fear."

She leaned forward then, the last of the whiskey bottle swirling in her hand before she tilted it back and drained the rest. She set it down beside the ashtray with an eerie grace.

"And we fear nothing in the name of love."

Yoko looked down again at the notebook, her hands suddenly too warm.

"But…"

Wednesday's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Because we have every outcast strain in our blood. My mother’s gift as a dove enhanced the clairvoyant blood from another branch of the family. It… concentrated something. Made it more potent in me. And among those branches are sirens. And vampires."

She reached out and tapped the notebook once, a gentle but weighty gesture.

"My tenth great-aunt Naevys—sirensong incarnate—fell in love with Michi, a vampire from the Old Carpathians. What you’re holding are the notes I’ve transcribed from Naevys’ journals… and translated from Michi’s Romanian texts. It took time. Great Aunt Naevys had a flair for the dramatic and wrote like a Gothic poet mid-breakdown. Titi Michi preferred ancient dialects no one uses anymore."

Wednesday’s gaze softened—just slightly. Enough for someone like Yoko to notice.

"I thought… given what you’re going through with Divina, you might want to know you’re not alone. That this has happened before. That there’s a way forward."

Yoko didn’t say anything. Her fingers brushed the edge of the paper, tracing the ink like it might burn. Her voice, when it came, cracked with something older than words.

"...thank you."

Yoko stared down at the notebook again, surprisingly it felt warm to the touch,.

“…Did your family ever just pass down cookbooks or holiday stories like normal people?”

Wednesday’s mouth curled into a dark smile. “Of course. Right next to the grimoire for summoning familial spirits and the illustrated guide to medieval surgical techniques.”

Yoko groaned and buried her face in her hands, laughing despite herself.

Only Wednesday.

Yoko shifted her weight against the cool edge of the rooftop, the notebook still heavy in her lap, her fingers grazing its spine in thought. She glanced sideways at Wednesday, her tone dipping into something wry, playful—an attempt to pull her companion back from wherever her thoughts had spiraled.

“So if you feel the same kind of devotion your parents do… why aren’t you feeding Enid grapes off a silver tray or writing her poetry with your own blood or something?”

She meant it as a joke. Light, maybe even a little ridiculous. But the second the words left her mouth, she knew they had touched a nerve.

Wednesday’s expression shifted—not with anger. A tightened jaw. An intake of breath. A minuscule tension in the way her hand hovered over the bottle before she let it fall back to her side. Her gaze slid away from Yoko, across the courtyard below, toward the line of dark trees that etched the horizon. Her eyes weren’t on the forest though. They were somewhere else. Somewhere far.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. Taut. Bitter in its restraint with a smidge of acceptance.

“I’m my father’s daughter.”

The smile on Yoko’s lips faltered.

She didn’t ask for clarification—who would need to, when Gomez Addams was the epitome of a devoted husband, almost to the point of parody. He didn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve; he embroidered it there in crimson thread. Parents’ Weekend was a recurring exercise in secondhand embarrassment, as the entire student body was subjected to the Addamses' excessive public displays of affection. Even their smallest gestures—brushing lint from a collar, adjusting a glove—felt borderline indecent. It astounded everyone that Wednesday Addams had emerged from them .

Yoko had long since lost count of Gomez’s theatrical declarations of undying love, each monologue more operatic than the last. A man who mourned Morticia’s absence if she stepped out of the room for five minutes. Who turned every mild inconvenience into a stage-worthy tragedy.

Who wept into her gloves as if each fiber had been spun from his own veins.

Gomez Addams loved like it was a holy war.

And Wednesday? Wednesday was forged from that same fire.

Yoko looked at her then, really looked. At the way her fingers tensed around the neck of the empty bottle, how she avoided eye contact as if admitting anything more would break her open. She took a short sip—more of a mouthful, really—like she was trying to rinse the confession from her tongue. The scowl that followed was instinctive. 

Yoko didn’t speak right away. She watched the girl beside her, the one who could snap bones with words and hex someone into nightmares but couldn’t say I love you without flinching. And something in Yoko softened. She reached for the cigarette she’d nearly forgotten, lifting it with quiet fingers and taking in the familiar burn.

Then, gently—so quiet it almost didn’t exist—she said, “Could be worse.”

Wednesday’s gaze snapped back to her, sharp and narrowed. Vitriol at the tip of her tongue.

Yoko didn’t flinch. Just gave her a slow, easy grin.

“You could’ve inherited his fashion sense.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, slowly, Wednesday’s lips curved. Just barely. Not quite a smile—God forbid—but a smirk. 

“Even if I fed her grapes,” Wednesday murmured at last, “they’d be poisoned.”

Yoko arched an eyebrow, “Accidentally or on purpose?”

Wednesday’s smirk came back, sharp and sure. “That depends. Did she leave her laundry on my side of the dorm again?”