Work Text:
Everything is holding its breath inside me. Everything is waiting to explode like Christmas.
- Esperanza Cordero, from The House on Mango Street
Enid gets the call midway through December, nearly two months after leaving Nevermore. She’s sitting at her desk at home, painting her nails a shade of pink she’s never tried before, when her phone starts ringing and the screen flashes an unfamiliar number up at her.
Her first thought, panicked and illogical, is that it’s Ajax; that somehow, in the aftermath of the breakup, he got her number and called to yell at her, or worse, try to get back together. The thought is almost enough to make her screen the call, but in the end she can’t resist. Curiosity killed the wolf, or however that old saying goes.
She slides her thumb over the screen, careful not to smudge the fresh coat of polish on her nails, and taps the speaker button. “Hello?”
“Hello, Enid,” says the voice on the other end of the line. It’s a cool, impatient, disaffected voice with a dangerous undertone, and it’s as familiar to Enid as her own reflection.
A smile breaks over Enid’s face, quick and all-consuming. It’s been far too long since they’ve talked - she’d thought it would happen more often during the break, given everything that happened last semester, but apparently even a shape-shifting serial killer and a resurrection from the dead isn’t enough to make Wednesday Addams stay in touch.
“Wednesday? Wait, is this really you? You bought a phone?”
“No,” Wednesday replies. “It was given to me by Xavier in an attempt at what I can only assume was a romantic gesture.”
The smile slides from Enid’s face before she can help it. Somewhere along the way, for reasons she’s not willing to fully examine, she stopped being excited for Wednesday to find a boy and instead started thinking that none of them would ever be good enough for her. She chalks it up to the fact that the one boy Wednesday kissed last semester ended up being a shapeshifting, mass-murdering demon.
Yeah, that’s definitely it. There’s nothing else it could be. If Enid still feels a sickness rise in her stomach when she thinks about Xavier and Wednesday - if the idea of Xavier handing Wednesday a new phone makes her nauseous in a new and irrational way - well, there’s no need to unpack all of that right now.
“Xavier gave you a phone,” Enid says, her excitement dimming a little. “Pretty serious purchase, huh? Whatever happened to boys getting jewelry for girls?”
Wednesday makes a scathing noise, and Enid smiles again at the familiarity of it. “Hardly. I have no intention of ever being involved with him. I kept the phone, though.”
“Now there’s a surprise,” Enid teases. “Has Wednesday ‘I refuse to be a slave to technology’ Addams finally realized that social media isn’t so bad? OMG, does this mean I can make you an Instagram account?”
“Social media, as I've said before, is a soul-sucking void of meaningless affirmation,” Wednesday says dismissively. “But I do concede that perhaps, possibly, there are a few advantages to having a phone. Very, very few.”
“Oh, yeah? Name them.”
“For one,” Wednesday says, “I can communicate with the rare people I don’t entirely despise.”
A strange kind of feeling floods Enid’s body, rushing through her like electricity through a live wire. She’s had this feeling once before, she remembers - when she and Wednesday found each other at the gates of Nevermore, tired and dirt-streaked and covered in blood, and they hugged like the end of the world had come and gone already.
Enid shakes her head, trying to clear away the memory. “That’s so sweet, Wednesday. What’s the catch?”
“What reason do you have to believe there’s a catch?”
“Uh, every reason. I’d love to think that you’re calling me just to catch up and gossip, because that’s what besties do, but I also know that there’s no way that’s true. You don’t do anything without intention.”
“I’m flattered,” Wednesday says, and she sounds like she actually means it. “Fine, then. I’m calling to invite you to the Addams family manor for the remainder of Christmas break.”
Enid’s eyes go wide. She’s always wondered what Wednesday’s house looks like, but she figured she’d never get the chance to find out. “Really? You want me to visit? Are you sure?”
Wednesday’s voice takes on a touch of impatience. “Of course I’m sure. You’re my roommate.”
There’s the smallest pause between Wednesday’s words, a stretch of space that falls between my and roommate. It’s the kind of place where Enid could lose herself if she isn’t careful; she tries to step around it.
“Oh,” is all she can say.
“So? Will you?”
Enid ponders it for a minute. She thinks of her family and their traditions and a Christmas tree in their warm-lit living room - and then she thinks of Wednesday Addams in a Santa hat, below the mistletoe, and her heart folds like an origami crane.
“Yeah, of course,” she says, excitement welling up inside of her as she speaks. “I’d love to come visit. Oh, and I’ll bring all my holiday stuff - fuzzy socks and matching pajamas and Home Alone on DVD and - ”
“If you have any visions of getting me to wear a matching pajama set,” Wednesday interrupts, “you should forget them right now, or you’ll find a horde of tarantulas in your room when you arrive.”
Wednesday’s being serious, and Enid knows it, but she can’t help laughing anyway. She’s missed hearing Wednesday’s threats the same way she’s missed her quiet sleeping breaths and her late night orchestra music and the maddening click of her typewriter keys. “Whatever you say, Wednesday. I’ll get you in a Santa hat one way or another.”
“I’d rather perish.” There’s a pause, and then Wednesday speaks again. “I admit that I do have one ulterior motive in asking you to visit for the holidays.”
Enid laughs, unsurprised; there’s the Wednesday she knows, even a phone line and a coast away. “What is it?”
“I told my parents that I’m in a relationship,” Wednesday says, offhand, like it’s just another sentence and not a lightning strike to Enid’s heart. “With you, specifically.”
Enid’s mouth falls open, her breaths becoming strangely shallow. “I - uh, you what? But I, I mean, you don’t - I’m not - ” She fumbles for more words, better ones, and manages to come up with: “You aren’t mine. My girlfriend. We aren’t…Not dating.”
It’s the verbal equivalent of a seven car pile-up, and there’s no one coming to the rescue. Enid covers her eyes in shame, hoping the phone will swallow her whole and she’ll never have to speak to Wednesday again.
“I know that,” Wednesday says, graciously ignoring Enid’s complete and sudden inability to form compound sentences. “I was thinking we could employ a little subterfuge.”
Enid’s thoughts run slow, tripping over themselves in their effort to stand straight. “Um. So. Just to get this clear, are you like…asking me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”
A quiet sigh from the other end of the line. “Yes, Enid, that is exactly what I’m asking. Try to keep up.”
Enid holds back a near-hysterical laugh. Her and Wednesday. The idea is so insane that it makes perfect sense; she tries to picture it, and the painting dries in perfect living color. She remembers something she said to Wednesday once, on a day that seems like it was one day and one year ago all at once: We work. We shouldn’t, but we do.
She thinks, quick and unbidden, of that live-wire feeling in her veins when Wednesday hugged her for the first time, and then she pushes it away. That’s not important now, or ever.
“Okay,” Enid says slowly. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. Additionally, my parents are hosting a ball on New Year’s. They will expect you to be there.”
“Got it. I’ll pack a nice dress.”
“Very well,” Wednesday says. “And, Enid…”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For doing this.”
The words are flat and monotone, and they sound like they’ve been dragged out of Wednesday like blood from stones. Enid, knowing the significance here, takes them for what they are: true gratitude.
“Of course,” she says, glad that Wednesday can’t see the smile breaking over her face right now. “Any time.”
--
Her parents, when she tells them she won’t be home for Christmas, are completely unbothered by the news. Enid wishes she could say this comes as a surprise, but it’s exactly what she’d been expecting. Even after she began wolfing out, there’s something about Enid that lives as a perpetual disappointment in her mother’s long shadow.
The matter isn’t helped, of course, by the fact that her wolf-out at Nevermore seems to be a one-time thing. A full moon has come and gone since, and Enid couldn’t manage to shift. The shame of it still burns like tar in the back of her throat whenever she thinks about it.
No wonder her mother wants to get rid of her.
“Do give my regards to your roommate and her family,” her mother tells her, casting Enid a half-glance from the corner of her eye as she tries to balance a cutting board piled high with blood-rare steaks. “And try to be a good houseguest.”
Enid sighs heavily. “I will, Mom.”
“And,” her mother continues, reaching for a dish towel and using her free hand to sweep the kitchen counter clean, “bring some decent clothes along. I saw your roommate’s family at Parent’s Weekend, and they seem far too rich and fancy for us. You don’t want to look like a ragamuffin cub around them. Maybe you should take those awful streaks out of your hair, too.”
The tips of Enid’s fingers flare hot with annoyance, her claws ready to spring out. She forces them back with a grimace that she quickly smooths into a smile when her mother looks her way again. “Okay, Mom.”
“Okay what?” her mother questions, throwing the steaks into a large glass dish and reaching for the salt shaker. “Okay, you’re going to listen to me?”
“Okay, I hear you,” Enid says. Then, under her breath: “Unfortunately.”
There’s a clamor at the back door, which swings open to reveal two of Enid’s brothers and three of her cousins piling into the kitchen. There’s not a single girl among them. Enid sighs deeply.
“Oh, hello boys,” Enid’s mother says cheerfully. “Sit down, dinner’s almost ready.”
Enid’s cousins cheer loudly and then start wrestling with her brothers until they trip and fall into the hallway in a pile of fur and fists. Enid sighs yet again, wishing that anyone in her family could be nice and normal for even one minute.
“You’re sure you don’t want to stay for Christmas, though?” her mother asks, disregarding the snarls and shrieks coming from the hall. “The whole extended family is coming, and I’d love to tell them all about how you finally wolfed out. It may have been a fluke, but at least it happened once.”
The last trace of doubt that Enid had about going melts away into nothing. The prospect of being surrounded by an entire pack of family members wanting to hear about her first wolf-out is nothing short of awful, especially when there’s a lingering, constant fear at the back of her mind that thinks her transformation at Nevermore was exactly that: a once in a lifetime chance turned lucky, never to be repeated. She’s no stranger to failure, but that would be more than she could bear.
“No, Mom,” she says. “I’m fine. I want to go to Wednesday’s.” Then, with a slight bitterness to her tone: “It’s not like you’ll even notice I’m gone, really. You’ll have my brothers and cousins, after all.”
“That’s true,” her mother answers, only half listening. “Alright, go pack your things and I’ll take you to the airport in the morning.”
Enid turns to go, but something keeps her in the doorway for just a moment longer. Her mother is busy with dinner again, no longer paying the slightest attention to anything else. As Enid watches, her mother sets out steaks on massive plates. She counts them: seven, one for each of her parents, brothers, and cousins. For Enid herself, there is nothing.
Enid leaves the kitchen and goes upstairs to pack for the trip, her ribs aching with a mix of hurt and anger.
--
Yoko texts her later that night for the first time in two days. Enid wonders how she can possibly tell her best friend about the Wednesday situation; knowing Yoko, it’ll lead to a two hour conversation analyzing every detail and every possible outcome.
She picks up her phone, preparing herself to explain something she can’t even explain to herself, but it turns out she doesn’t have to.
yoko
Sorry I’ve been MIA!!! Parents j told me last night that we’re going to europe for christmas n staying for THREE WEEKS I’ve been packing like crazy
I’m so excited we’re literally on the plane rn
but the place we’re staying doesn’t have cell service :/// i’ll miss u sm hope u have a great christmas
enid
OMGGGG have so much fun !! bring me back a souvenir
btw i’m going to wednesday’s for christmas
oh and i’m pretending to be her girlfriend
yoko
You what
Enid Sinclair
What do you mean you’re pretending to be her girlfriend
Get back here we’re not done talking abt this oh god the plane is taking off the flight attendant lady is yelling at me GOODBYE MERRY CHRISTM
Enid laughs to herself, relieved. She’s sure Yoko will give her absolute hell over this when she gets back, but whatever. That’s a problem for future Enid.
--
The next day, the flight to Massachusetts is quiet and uneventful. Enid sits in the window seat, keeping the shade pulled all the way open. The country unfolds beneath her, an endless tapestry of brown and green and blue, and she wonders how many lives she’s passing over with every mile.
She wonders, too, if anyone’s outside looking up at her. If anyone sees her. She worries, not for the first time, that no one does.
Her phone lights up from its place on the in-flight tray table, and Enid tilts her head to read the notification. It’s a text from Wednesday.
wednesday
I have sent Lurch to the airport to get you. Look for a tall and somewhat mournful looking man holding a sign with your name on it. Do not get lost in baggage claim; I don’t trust you not to hop onto the conveyor belt just to see where it goes, or something equally asinine.
Enid reads the message once and then reads it again, not even bothering to question the logistics of receiving a text while she’s thirty thousand feet in the air. If anyone could make that happen, it’s Wednesday.
A smile breaks over Enid’s face as she looks down at Wednesday’s photo on her screen, chasing away the melancholy blue of minutes before. She faces the window again just in time to see a golden cloud drift by. As the shadow of the plane’s wing passes over it, the gold fades gently into black.
--
Logan Airport is a sprawling mess of chaos, and Enid nearly loses a limb trying to get through a crush of people spilling from the Dunkin’ donuts line into the main walkway. She’s thankful that she only brought a carry-on; if this is what it’s like at the coffee shop, she can’t imagine trying to fight her way through baggage claim.
She drags herself out the doors to the pick-up area and looks around, surrounded by a sea of luggage and Massachusetts license plates. People are hurrying away in every direction around her: boarding buses, jumping into taxis, piling bags into minivans. Enid thinks back to Wednesday’s text and reflects on the sheer impossibility of finding one tall, mournful man in the middle of this mess.
There’s a disturbance among the people, a break in the rhythm of rush. Enid looks to her right and realizes that the crowd is dividing rapidly in halves, a sea parted by some unknown force. She takes a step closer, craning her neck for a better view. Whatever this force is, it must be near godly to control such a chaotic clusterfuck of people.
The last of the crowd disperses and Wednesday Addams steps forward. Trailing in her wake is a man holding a sign that reads Sinclair. He’s very tall, and Enid has to admit - his expression is quite mournful. She barely notices him, though, because all of her attention is focused on Wednesday.
It’s only been a month since they last saw each other, but Wednesday looks subtly different: she stands a little taller, and her braids fall a little longer. She’s wearing a black argyle sweater over a black lace long-sleeve, a black skirt, and her standard black boots; despite the familiar monochrome of her outfit, there’s a kind of glow surrounding her. Enid can’t tear her eyes away.
“You’re staring,” Wednesday says. “Is there something offensive about my appearance?”
“What? No, I was just - no, you’re fine. I mean, your face is fine.” Enid pushes one hand through her hair, flustered. “I was just, uh. Anyways. Howdy, roomie!”
“A remarkably eloquent response,” Wednesday says, deadpan as usual.
Enid reaches forward instinctively, arms half-outstretched, before she remembers - this isn’t their normal. One hug two months ago isn’t enough to change the fact that Wednesday isn’t a hugger.
She begins to lower her arms again, embarrassed, when Wednesday does something unexpected, something that Enid had barely dared to hope for: she steps forward and wraps her arms around Enid, awkwardly but unmistakably.
Enid sinks into it, her eyes fluttering closed involuntarily. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get to have this again; she hadn’t been naive enough to hope that one delirious night and a blood moon of adrenaline would be enough to break one habit and build another, but here it is anyway - the two of them together again, falling into each other like they did at the gates of Nevermore, all of the comfort and none of the bloodshed. She buries her head into Wednesday’s shoulder, one hand rising on instinct to cradle the back of her head, and lets the rest of the world fade to the edges of her consciousness.
Wednesday draws back, her eyes fixed on the left side of Enid’s face. “I didn’t realize your wounds left scars.”
Enid puts a hand to her cheek, self-conscious despite the many pep talks she’s given herself in the mirror during the last month. “Oh. Yeah. They’ve healed pretty well, but I think I’m stuck with what’s left of them.”
“You should be glad,” Wednesday says. “They were honorably won.”
Lurch clears his throat, and the two of them separate quickly. Enid looks down at the ground, feeling her face burn hot. She doesn’t dare look at Wednesday.
“Come,” Wednesday says. “The car is parked in the fire lane. Leave your luggage, Lurch will get it.”
“Oh,” Enid says, startled to realize that the chauffeur has already picked up her bag. “Sure. Thanks, Lurch.”
Lurch nods, still wearing that same mournful expression. He kind of gives Enid the creeps, and she makes a mental note to stay clear of him.
The car is sleek and black, parked neatly on top of the painted notice that reads FIRE LANE: KEEP CLEAR. Wednesday pulls open the door and steps back to let Enid in first, then climbs in after her.
“Enid,” Wednesday says quietly, leaning closer. Enid stops marveling at the expensive leather seats and tries to remember how to breathe; Wednesday’s so close to her now, close enough that Enid can trace the long dark curl of her eyelashes. “Well done. I think the hug looked authentic.”
And then Enid remembers: the scheme, the subterfuge. She’s here as Wednesday’s friend and roommate, but she’s also here as Wednesday’s fake girlfriend - and judging by the satisfied look on Wednesday’s face, the third of those things is the most important.
This is what Enid agreed to. It shouldn’t hurt. It still does.
Wednesday sits back in her seat, posture perfect and polished, and turns to look out the window. Her leg presses against Enid’s; even through two layers of clothing, Enid feels the touch burning into her like a brand.
“I admit, it isn’t terrible to see you again,” Wednesday says, quiet, the words soft enough that they won’t leave the backseat. Enid sneaks a glance at her. She’s still looking out the window, but there’s a slight softness around her mouth that to Enid is as good as a blinding smile.
“I’m happy to see you too,” Enid says, and tries not to weigh the meaning behind her reply.
--
They drive for over an hour, and Enid slides into half-consciousness; she woke up early to catch her flight, and she didn’t sleep on the plane. She drifts in and out of dreams, conscious of nothing but the warmth of Wednesday next to her, until the car’s tires rattle over gravel and Wednesday’s fingers tap at her knee.
“Wake up,” Wednesday says, but the command is lacking its usual imperative tone. “We’re here. I don’t want you to miss this.”
Enid blinks, disoriented, and then realizes her position: she’s leaning against Wednesday’s shoulder, her head tucked into the curve of her neck. Her hair is static-blown and messy, looking more like a heap of straw than anything else, and she’s pretty sure her mouth was open while she was sleeping.
“Oh, god,” she mumbles. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
Wednesday just stares at her with an unreadable expression. Enid is saved from having to say anything else as the car rounds a bend in the seemingly endless driveway and the Addams manor comes into view. “Oh, whoa.”
The manor is three stories tall and pitch black, rising like some great and terrible beast against the darkening sky. Sharply angled dormer windows jut forth from the roof like teeth from the mouth of a shark; in the center, a tower reaches toward the clouds like it’s trying to pull them down to earth. Detailed iron scrollwork frames the massive front doors, and the circular driveway that runs from the garage to the edge of the yard is pure obsidian.
In other words, it’s very terrifying and very goth. Enid can easily see how Wednesday turned out the way she did.
Wednesday’s looking at her now, her face carefully blank, but Enid can tell that she’s waiting for a reaction.
“Your house,” Enid says, “is really depressing and really creepy.”
“Thank you,” Wednesday says, sounding genuinely pleased. “I’m glad you enjoy it.”
“That wasn’t really supposed to be a compliment, but okay.” Enid opens the car door and steps out onto the sleek black driveway, grabbing her bag from the backseat before Lurch can get to it. “Um, is that a graveyard over there?”
“A cemetery,” Wednesday corrects. “A graveyard is a burial plot specifically attached to a church. Yes, there’s a cemetery on each side of the house. My great-grandfather had a lot of victims he deemed too special to part ways with after murdering them.” Wednesday raises her hand, makes a beckoning gesture. “Come on, I’ll show you around once we’re inside.”
Enid tips her head back as they walk the black and silver path to the front doors, doubting whether even her werewolf strength will be enough to open them, but it turns out that her doubt was unnecessary. Wednesday merely raises one hand as they approach, and the doors fall open, moved by some invisible power.
“Whoa,” Enid says. “That is so fetch.”
Wednesday gives her a blank look. “Fetch what?”
“No, that’s fetch. From Mean Girls. Have you seriously never seen that movie?”
“I don’t watch contemporary films,” Wednesday says primly.
“Mean Girls isn’t even that contemporary! It came out in 2004. That’s like, forever ago.” Enid bites at her lower lip, suddenly nervous for some reason as she adds: “We should watch it together sometime. Everyone needs to see it at least once in their life.”
“Hm,” Wednesday says, sounding extremely unconvinced, and Enid’s heart drops. Then, as she crosses the threshold, Wednesday turns back and says, “Maybe. If you promise to watch one of my favorite films as well.”
“Oh, great,” Enid says apprehensively. “What’s your favorite? I bet it’s some pretentious black and white movie with a French or Spanish title that translates to Night of the Eternal Evil Demon Possession 3 or something like tha - oh, no way.”
The Addams manor is, if possible, even more impressively creepy on the inside. The ceiling is high and vaulted, soaring yards above their heads like the mouth of a cathedral. The foyer is inlaid with alternating tiles of black and white, and an elaborate black staircase sweeps grandly upwards to the second floor. The rounded dome of the ceiling bears a mural of a skeletal ship sailing a dark and stormy sea.
It’s also freezing. Enid is glad she wore one of her warmer sweaters, the one with the fleece lining; she’s pretty sure she’d be an icicle within minutes.
“It’s a morgue in here,” she says, and then instantly regrets it when Wednesday looks pleased again. “Are you going to give me the grand tour?”
She’d meant it as a joke, but she’s not at all surprised when Wednesday straightens her already immaculate posture, places her hands behind her back, and begins speaking in a formal tour guide voice.
“The Addams manor,” Wednesday says, “was first built during the nineteenth century by my ancestor, Andromedus Addams, for his wife Lucretia. The original building was half the size it is now, with less sophisticated architecture. The manor was occupied for three generations of the Addams family before it briefly passed out of our hands and became appropriated by normal civilians for use as an asylum.” There’s a gleam of morbid interest in Wednesday’s eyes as she says this part, and it’s slightly worrying to Enid that she finds this endearing. “However, the asylum closed after ten years, and - ”
“Wednesday, is this your girlfriend?”
Enid whips around, every one of her senses dialed to high alert in this unnerving new environment. Her claws are halfway out before she sees the source of the voice: a small and somewhat soft-looking boy who reminds her forcibly of Eugene, if Eugene ditched the glasses and picked up a pint of hair gel.
“Enid, put your claws away,” Wednesday says. “Pugsley, mind your own business, or I’ll fill your bed with night howlers again.”
Pugsley goes pale. “Wednesday, don’t. I couldn’t sleep for two weeks when you did that last time.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Enid smothers a laugh, retracts her claws, and holds out a hand. “Hi, Pugsley. I’m Enid - and yes, I am Wednesday’s girlfriend.” The word feels strange in her mouth - not because it doesn’t fit, but because it fits all too well, like the title of Wednesday’s girlfriend is an old cardigan that Enid’s putting on for the first time in a long time only to realize that it’s still the perfect shape.
Pugsley shakes her hand delicately, then examines her for a long moment. His gaze is less intense than Wednesday’s, but somehow more uncomfortable.
“Your hair is weird,” he declares finally. “And too colorful.”
“Wednesday, cariño, is this her? Is this your paramour?”
Wednesday’s parents appear in the foyer, just as tall and intimidating as they were on Family Day. Enid swallows hard, fighting the urge to shrink down and hide.
“Hello,” Wednesday’s mother says, giving Enid a smile far warmer than she’d expected. “I’m Morticia. This is Gomez. We’re so thrilled to finally meet you properly.”
Enid gives them a small wave, feeling incredibly awkward. “Hi. I’m Enid.”
“Mother,” Wednesday says flatly. “Father. This is Enid Sinclair. We’re going upstairs now, where we will be staying until dinner. Don’t bother us, and don’t even think about trying to eavesdrop.”
Without another word, Wednesday turns on her heel and starts up the staircase. Enid follows, giving Wednesday’s parents a look that she hopes conveys both an apology and a plea to not be dismembered.
“Shouldn’t I, you know, talk to them?” Enid asks as she hurries to keep up with Wednesday, who’s already turning at the top of the stairs and sweeping down a massive corridor illuminated by a line of torches. “I want to make a good first impression.”
“You will during dinner,” Wednesday says. “Trust me, you want to avoid talking to them for as long as possible. The experience is similar to being locked inside a haunted prison cell with a hundred rabid cats. And you don’t have to worry; you’ve already made a good first impression.”
Enid almost trips over her own feet. “You’ve been locked in a haunted prison cell? With rabid cats?”
“I had an interesting childhood,” Wednesday says, like that explains everything. “Here, this is my room.”
She pushes open a black lacquer door and steps inside. Enid follows, trying to erase the unpleasant image of a hundred rabid cats from her mind.
--
Wednesday’s room is exactly what Enid pictured: a study in darkness, clean as a crypt. It’s an expanded version of her side back at Nevermore - the walls and ceiling are painted a dark black, and two tall bonework windows overlook the forest on one side and the vast lake at the back of the manor on the other. The bed has black silk sheets turned over a black satin comforter, perfectly made, and two black pillows rest against an ebony headboard with a flock of ravens carved into the wooden scrollwork.
It’s endlessly dark and elaborate, and in a word: Wednesday.
“Is this what the inside of your mind looks like?” Enid asks, only partly joking.
Wednesday takes a seat on the edge of her bed. “More or less, although my room has a lot less blood and murder in it.”
Enid drifts over to the bookshelf, which reaches from floor to ceiling, and tilts her head sideways to read the names on the spines: Shelley, Poe, Rice, Le Fanu, Proust, Dickinson. Next to the bookshelf is an elegant writing desk; Wednesday’s typewriter rests there, along with a stack of loose-leaf pages. Nearby, an old-fashioned gramophone sits on its own circular table next to a record player and a pile of large, square albums. Wednesday’s cello stands upright in the corner, propped against a metal stand.
The only decorations in the room are two wall-mounted shelves filled with additional books and one small painting above the bed that depicts a scorpion beneath a crescent moon. Enid, in her pink hoodie and blue sweatpants, is the only splash of color in the endless landscape of black and white.
All in all, it’s exactly what Enid would expect from Wednesday. It’s not off-putting, though; not disturbing, the way it was when Enid first walked into their room back at Nevermore and realized that Wednesday had completely stripped the color from one side. It feels familiar now, almost comforting, like she’s opened a door and walked right into the halls of Wednesday’s heart.
She quickly pushes that thought away. No good will come from waxing poetic about her fake girlfriend.
“So,” she says, mostly to distract herself. “We should probably agree on some rules for this whole thing. I think we should be on the same page with, like…you know. Stuff.”
“Stuff,” Wednesday repeats, pensive. “What stuff do you mean, exactly?”
“Like…” Enid feels a flush spreading across her face, burning at her ears and the tops of her cheekbones. “Physical stuff. Holding hands. Other things.”
Wednesday nods, unfazed. Enid’s never been so grateful for the other girl’s lack of visible emotion.
“Physical contact is okay,” Wednesday decides. “You can hold my hand, or hug me, if you deem it necessary. Although I abhor public displays of affection and would normally rather lobotomize myself than partake in them, I recognize that they will be needed in order to sell our deception. As for other things, we’ll cross that poorly constructed bridge when we come to it.”
Enid nods, half disappointed and half relieved. “Hey, can I ask you something? Why did you tell your parents we’re dating?”
“My parents, for whatever reason, have always regarded me as somewhat of a problem. After the events at Nevermore, they began to worry about me more than ever. They were quite against the idea of me ever returning. When I told them about you, however, they seemed to think you were a good influence. Father actually wept when I explained that you saved my life.”
Enid reaches for the scar above her eyebrow, touching it like a reflex at the memory.
“Based on this reaction,” Wednesday explains, “I gathered that your presence would calm them, so I told them that we’re in a relationship to make them stop worrying about me and allow me to return to Nevermore next semester. I would have returned one way or another, of course, but I’d prefer to avoid more tedious conflict.”
“Oh, so now you want to go back to Nevermore,” Enid says, just a trifle smug. “Funny, because when you first got there you were dying to leave.”
“Don’t misinterpret my reasons. In my first semester alone Nevermore provided me with a gruesome mystery, a mass murderer, and an daily opportunity to torture dozens of my so-called peers without fear of legal retribution. Of course I would return.”
“Hm. Whatever you say.” Wednesday’s looking particularly murderous now, so Enid moves on to: “Your parents think I’m a good influence?”
“Yes. Why are you smiling like that?”
Enid shrugs happily. “I like being liked, and I like that your parents like me. And I like that you like me enough to tell them about me.”
“Of course I told them about you,” Wednesday says, impatient. “You’re my roommate. And don’t take my parents’ approval as a compliment; it places you in the same category as cacti, public displays of affection, and Italian opera.”
“I don’t mind,” Enid replies, and then reconsiders for a second. “Okay, opera’s pretty bad, but still. I like knowing that your parents like me.”
Wednesday shakes her head, but there’s something almost fond about the movement. At least, Enid thinks it’s fond; it might just be wishful thinking on her part. She’s searching for something else to say when there’s a scrabbling sound from across the room and Thing pops up, scurrying across the desk and leaping to the bed.
“Thing!” Enid exclaims. “How have you been? I missed you!”
I missed you too, Thing signs. He points to Wednesday, then back at Enid. No fun without you.
“Thing,” Wednesday says calmly. “I will confiscate your manicure kit.”
Thing shudders, then hops onto Enid’s shoulder. Enid laughs, raising her own hand for a fist bump that Thing happily returns. “We have to catch up, buddy. Want to paint each other’s nails and gossip?”
Yes, Thing signs. Now! He hurries back to the desk and pulls open one of the drawers, pulling out Q-tips and bottles of nail polish.
Wednesday watches, her hands folded in her lap. “It’s quite rude of you to like Thing more than you like me.”
Enid looks at her, eyes tracing the dark and elegant lines of her profile, and thinks: If only that were true.
“Sorry, Wednesday,” she says out loud, teasing. “Maybe if you ever painted my nails I’d like you better.”
Wednesday’s usual scowl spreads wider. Thing signs something too fast for Enid to follow, and Wednesday shoots him a glare.
“I do not,” she says firmly. “Just for that, you can buy your own moisturizer this week.”
“What’d he say?” Enid asks, trying to sound casual and not like she’s desperately curious to know if it was something about her.
“Something that Thing won’t be repeating, unless he wants to lose a finger.” Wednesday stands from the bed, reaching for her cello. “I’ll let you two catch up while I practice.”
The word stay lies restless on Enid’s lips. She swallows it down and watches Wednesday leave with her cello and a book of sheet music, then sighs and turns to Thing.
“At least I still have you,” she says. “Okay, what color do you want this time?”
Thing taps one finger against a dark, sparkling blue, then spreads flat against the bed. Enid uncaps the bottle and starts painting, doing her best to ignore the strains of classical music drifting through the air.
--
The north wing guest room is cold and drafty, and the bed feels like an arctic tundra. Enid shivers, curling herself into a ball beneath the covers. She’d been relieved earlier when Wednesday had managed to cut dinner short, claiming that Enid needed a night to combat the jet lag before facing a full-frontal interrogation, but now she’s regretting every moment that she could’ve spent somewhere other than this bed.
Seriously, it’s frigid in here. Even Enid’s fuzziest pair of socks isn’t enough to keep her warm enough. She closes her eyes tightly, hoping she can force herself to sleep through sheer willpower, and she’s just beginning to relax into semi-consciousness when there’s a sudden whooshing sound from the corner of the room.
Enid sits bolt upright, all five senses straining to identify the threat. Something soars by her in a cold gust of wind, close enough to rustle her hair, and she fights back a yelp.
“Hello?” she says, aiming for a fierce growl and landing somewhere near a frightened whimper. “Who’s there?”
Another cold rush of wind flies past with an eerie keening sound. The hair on the back of Enid’s neck stands up.
“Whoever’s there, you better leave right now,” she says. “I’m a werewolf, and I’ll wolf out if I have to.” If I can.
More cold, more wind. High-pitched laughter rings through the room this time, echoing in the corners.
Enid’s resolve, which was already fragile, breaks completely. She leaps from her bed and throws herself out of the guest room, sprinting down the hall until she reaches Wednesday’s door and bangs on it frantically.
It opens to reveal Wednesday, barefoot and dressed in a long black nightgown with her hair in loose braids. “Enid?”
“My room,” Enid gasps. “I think it’s haunted. Guest room? More like ghost room.”
“Ghosts don’t exist; those are just ghouls in the guest room. You’ll be fine.”
“You put me in a room with ghouls? No. Nope. Uh-uh. I am not sleeping in a haunted ghost bed.”
Wednesday gives her an exasperated look, then swings the door wider open to let her inside. “Fine.”
“Wait,” Enid says, watching as Wednesday climbs back into her bed. “What - ”
“Get in or get lost,” Wednesday says. “Your choice.”
Enid slowly slides under the covers, her heartbeat a deafening riot in her ears. Wednesday’s bed is so much warmer than the one in the guest room, and the covers smell like her, like the clean sharp scent of soap and the heaviness of a slate-grey sky right before the rain begins to fall. It’s enough to make Enid’s head spin in a new and dizzying way she can’t quite explain.
“Thanks,” she whispers, not trusting herself to say anything else.
“Hog the covers and I’ll make sure you never wake up,” Wednesday replies. “Goodnight, Enid.”
She rolls onto her back and closes her eyes, her breaths quickly settling into the rhythmic pattern of sleep. Enid rolls to the side, facing away from her. Even then, it takes hours for her to fall asleep.
--
Enid wakes up disoriented, still partly lost in a dream where she was running through an endless field of lavender. Midwinter sunlight streams weakly through the window’s heavy black curtains, blinding her; her vision fades to a golden haze for a moment, and she blinks until it returns to normal.
And then she remembers exactly where she is, and she almost falls right out of bed. Wednesday’s bed.
Wednesday is still asleep next to her, flat on her back. Enid steals a glance at her, feeling oddly guilty about it. She’s seen Wednesday sleeping a hundred times before, but never this closely.
Wednesday is softer in sleep, the sharp lines of her face sliding into relaxed curves. Her braids have loosened overnight, and a strand of hair falls over one side of her face; Enid’s fingers ache with the sudden desire to tuck it carefully behind her ear. This is a side of Wednesday she’s hardly ever seen before: walls lowered, guard down. It’s something like watching the night sky fade from black to blue.
“I can feel you staring,” Wednesday says without opening her eyes, and Enid flinches away from her so fast that she really does fall off the bed this time.
“I didn’t know you were awake,” she mumbles, getting to her feet again and rubbing at her elbow. “God, you have uncomfortable floors.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t - never mind.” Enid crosses over to the bathroom. “Do you have an extra toothbrush? I think I forgot mine.”
“Look in the cupboard under the sink,” Wednesday answers, the words somewhat muffled by the door between them. “Be careful, though. The water basilisks may have crawled up through the pipes again.”
Enid opens the cupboard gingerly and takes a clean toothbrush from a metal holder - it’s all black, even the bristles. Of course. “You have water basilisks too? How many monsters live in this house?”
“Three hundred and seven at last count,” Wednesday says, sliding through the gap between the door and the frame and joining Enid at the sink. “That may have changed, though. Winter is breeding season for many of the lesser species.”
Enid pointedly ignores the fact that they’re standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the black marble sink, their reflections in the mirror pressed side by side as they brush their teeth together like they’re a real couple. It’s not like this is anything special; it’s happened dozens of times before.
But that was back at Nevermore, she reminds herself, and this is at Wednesday’s ancestral home, in Wednesday’s personal bathroom.
Wednesday sets down her toothbrush and picks up a cup, and it’s only then that Enid realizes she’s been standing there like an idiot with her own brush motionless in her mouth. She quickly spits out the toothpaste foam and rinses her mouth with cold water from the faucet, which is shaped like a dragon arching its neck.
“I would ask why there’s fancy animals carved into all your furniture,” Enid says, placing her toothbrush in the silver rack next to Wednesday’s, “but I have to admit, the dragon sink is pretty cool.”
“The architect in charge of the manor’s most recent renovations had a penchant for mythical creatures,” Wednesday explains. “He was eaten by the lake kraken before he finished the job.”
Enid’s eyes widen. “There’s a kraken in the lake?”
“Just a small one,” Wednesday says, like that makes it any less terrifying. “It’s less than forty meters in length, which officially classifies it as a lesser instance of its species.”
“Size is irrelevant,” Enid protests. “A kraken is a kraken.”
Wednesday falls silent, studying Enid intently. Enid, who was rather cold up until this moment, feels all the blood in her body suddenly run hot. The change is so abrupt it’s almost like shifting.
“There’s toothpaste on your mouth,” Wednesday announces.
Enid swipes at the corner of her mouth. “Here?”
Wednesday shakes her head and tilts her head towards Enid’s, considering. “Lower.”
Enid wipes at her lips again, barely conscious of what she’s doing. Wednesday’s so close to her now, her features clean and shining in the light of the bathroom. There’s a drop of water caught at the turn of her jaw; Enid finds herself envying it.
A bell tolls loudly from the depths of the house, a clear and striking note that echoes through the walls and splits the moment cleanly in two. Enid moves backwards almost mechanically, wondering if being in this manor is driving her insane. It must be, she thinks - there’s no other explanation for the strange new emotions she’s been feeling lately.
Another voice, one that lives somewhere deep inside her, whispers that the emotions may be strange but they are not at all new. Enid pushes down on that voice until it goes silent, then hurries out of the bathroom.
“That bell was a summons,” Wednesday says, a trace of resignation in her tone. “Prepare yourself for the worst.”
Enid arches an eyebrow. “Death by lake kraken?”
“Worse,” Wednesday says grimly. “Breakfast with my parents.”
--
Breakfast takes place in the manor’s dining room, which is less of a room and more of a grand hall that happens to have a polished oakwood table big enough for twenty people in its center. Enid can barely wrap her head around it all. To her, breakfast is a one-plate event that happens in a cramped and messy kitchen full of siblings and arguments. To the Addams family, it’s a three-course affair that happens in a room five times the size of Enid’s entire house.
Morticia sits at the head of the table, with Gomez to her right and Pugsley to her left. Wednesday sits next to her brother, and Enid remains standing, unsure if she should balance the table and sit next to Gomez or follow her instinct and sit next to Morticia.
“Here,” Wednesday says quietly, indicating the place next to her. A glint of yellow shines against the black of the cloth; unlike every other place at the table, the utensils at the plate next to Wednesday’s are gold rather than silver.
Wednesday set this place for her. The realization is a flower blooming in Enid’s chest, and she has to fight down a wave of sudden emotion.
Food appears on the table in an endless stream of plates, all served by invisible hands. Enid widens her eyes at Wednesday in a what is going on gesture and gets the usual unblinking stare in response.
“Okay, then,” Enid says under her breath. “They have ghost servants. Totally normal and not at all weird.”
“So,” Morticia says, fixing her gaze on Enid. “Enid, is it? Tell me about yourself. I would love to know more about the girl who has my daughter so infatuated.”
Enid almost chokes on a piece of bacon at the word infatuated. Next to her, the lines of Wednesday’s body tense subtly. The movement would go unnoticed by anyone else, but Enid reads it like a page from her favorite book.
“Mother, please,” Wednesday says. “You embarrass me enough already; don’t add to it by interrogating my girlfriend.”
Wednesday’s words fall over Enid like stars. It’s the first time she’s ever called Enid her girlfriend, and hearing it is enough to make Enid feel like she’s downed a bottle of gasoline and dropped a lit match on her tongue.
God, what’s wrong with her? It’s a fake relationship, not a marriage proposal. She doesn’t even like Wednesday, not like that. She likes Wednesday in every way she’s allowed to, and that’s all. To ask for anything more would just be selfish.
Morticia continues talking, thankfully oblivious to the panicked state of Enid’s inner monologue. “I’m just trying to get to know her, dear. Something tells me she’s going to be around for a long time, and I would like to be slightly more than a stranger to her.”
Rather than fire back a caustic remark, Wednesday remains uncharacteristically silent. Enid looks over, surprised, and finds her methodically using two cheese knives to dissect a grape.
There’s a look of fierce concentration on Wednesday’s face that Enid knows better than the back of her own hand, the kind of intense focus that usually ends in violence. That’s normal. What isn’t normal is the faint stain of pink that paints the tops of Wednesday’s cheekbones.
Is Wednesday blushing?
“Look away,” Wednesday murmurs without moving her mouth. “Now.”
Enid pulls her gaze away, but she can’t stop a smile from spreading across her face. Even without looking, she can tell that Wednesday’s scowl is growing.
“I’d be happy to tell you more about myself, Mrs Addams,” Enid says, “if you’ll tell me what Wednesday’s been saying about me.”
“I’d be glad to,” Wednesday’s mother says, “but darling, please. We’re Morticia and Gomez - call me Tish, even.”
“Yeah, not doing that,” Enid mumbles to herself. Then, louder: “Okay, I’ll tell you a little bit about me. I’m a second-year student at Nevermore, I have three brothers, I’m from San Francisco…Um, I really like pink. The color, not the artist - I think Taylor Swift is probably my favorite artist, but Blackpink is up there too. I knit things, but I’m still working on learning how to crochet, and…that’s all I can think of right now. I’m a pretty unremarkable person, honestly.”
“Now, now, that’s not the impression I’ve gotten at all,” Gomez says. He gives Enid a smile, his eyes bright with kindness. “From what we’ve heard from our little death trap, you are one of the brightest cactus flowers in the desert of her life.”
Enid turns to Wednesday, raising one eyebrow when their eyes meet. “One of the brightest flowers in your desert, huh?”
“But of course,” Wednesday replies. Her voice drops lower: quieter, more intimate. “Enid, dearest, you are my North star. You are the only thing on this earth worth following.”
There’s a gleam in Wednesday’s eyes, one that says she knows the game they’re playing and she wants Enid to know that the rules were penned by her hand and no one else’s. Usually, Enid would rise to the challenge; right now, she’s just trying to remember how to breathe properly.
“Ah,” Gomez sighs. “Young love. Tish, don’t they remind you of us at that age?”
Pugsley, who’s been eating quietly for the duration of the meal, breaks his silence long enough to make a loud gagging noise and then goes back to refilling his plate.
Wednesday gives her mother a cold-eyed look of deep disgust. “That may be the most revolting sentiment I’ve ever heard, and I’ve been hearing the two of you exchange nausea-inducing drivel since I developed auditory processing abilities.”
“So, hey,” Enid breaks in, only vaguely aware of what she’s saying. “When do you guys usually decorate for Christmas?”
“We already did.”
Enid looks left, then right, then left again. There’s not a Christmas decoration in sight. “You did?”
“There,” Morticia says, pointing toward the ceiling.
Enid squints around the room for a minute, finally catching sight of the small green wreaths hung above the door. “That’s it?”
“That’s ilex,” Wednesday says. “Commonly known as holly, part of the family Aquifoliaceae.”
“Hm,” Enid says. “Yeah, no. That’s not gonna cut it.”
Wednesday frowns. “The leaves and berries contain toxins. It’s the best holiday flora the forest has to offer.”
“Maybe when it comes to being poisonous,” Enid says, “but it’s kind of lacking in the holiday spirit department. Come on, Wednesday, Christmas is in three days! Don’t you want to decorate a little?”
Wednesday scowls. Enid adjusts her inner wolf to inner kicked puppy sitting out in the rain and gives Wednesday the most pleading look she can.
“Fine,” Wednesday sighs. “Where do you propose we get these decorations?”
Enid grins. “You guys got a mall around here?”
--
The stand-alone Target in town is much bigger than the mall outlets Enid is used to, but it’s just the same on the inside. Enid skips happily through the aisles, inhaling the familiar smell of peppermint and fake balsam that always fills Target during the holiday season.
Wednesday trails reluctantly behind, her usual black outfit a dark cloud against the bright red and white of the walls. “This store is an abomination.”
“Hey,” Enid says, steering her into the holiday aisle. “Don’t talk about Target like that. This is the land of my people.”
“This is not the land,” Wednesday says with distaste. “This is an insidious chain department store contributing to the epidemic of capitalism.”
“The best chain department store,” Enid corrects, “with the best Christmas decorations money can buy.” She plucks two bundles of string lights from the shelf. “Your house has outlets, right?”
“It’s a refurbished Gothic mansion, not a cave.”
“So is that a yes, or…”
“Give me patience,” Wednesday deadpans. “Yes, it has outlets.”
“Well, in that case,” Enid says, sweeping the entire contents of the string lights section into her arms. Then, off Wednesday’s unimpressed stare: “What? It’s a big house.”
“I resent being made a witness to your materialistic insanity,” Wednesday declares. “But if you insist on doing this, you may as well do it right. Stay here.”
Wednesday disappears around the end of the aisle. Enid waits right where she is, standing by the snow globe shelf with her arms full of tiny lightbulbs, and wonders where Wednesday’s going.
She doesn’t have to wonder for long. Wednesday returns within two minutes, pushing a bright red shopping cart.
Enid lights up at the sight - no pun intended, she swears. “You got me a cart?”
“I did,” Wednesday confirms. “The middle school girl who was using it became quite eager to give it up after I showed her the knives that I keep in my boots.”
Enid gives her a look. “Wednesday.”
Wednesday waves her hand dismissively. “She’ll be fine. I didn’t even unsheathe them.”
“Still,” Enid chastises. “You can’t just go around showing knives to children.”
“On my second birthday, Uncle Fester gave me a dagger and made sure I could accurately throw it through the heart of a mannequin by the end of the day. I turned out fine.”
Enid drops her lights into the cart, shaking her head fondly. “I give up.”
“On this travesty of a shopping trip? Good.”
“No, on you. You’re a Grinch. You’re such a Grinch that you can’t even understand why I’m calling you a Grinch.” Enid pushes the cart farther along the aisle, grabbing every Christmas-related item that catches her eye: tinsel, candy canes, snowman wrapping paper, an oversized snow globe that houses tiny ceramic reindeer grazing on a tiny ceramic tundra. When they reach the end of the aisle, Enid takes a sharp right into the clothing section. “I’m never giving up on this shopping trip.”
“Lamentably, you seem to be right about that.” Wednesday pauses by a rack of reindeer onesies, clearly appalled. “These are hideous.”
Enid takes one and holds it up, considering. “I think they’re cute. Look, they even have little antlers. We could - ”
“If you say ‘we could match,’ I will strangle you with your own Christmas lights.”
“Wednesday,” Enid whines. “It’s Christmas. Can you find one thing in the holiday section that you at least don’t hate?”
Wednesday casts a dubious eye over the closest racks, which are mostly onesies and pajama sets bearing holiday puns in glittery red and green letters. “No. This establishment is a cultural wasteland.”
Enid lets out a heartfelt sigh. “You’re impossible.”
“Of course I am,” Wednesday says, like this is a given - and, well, maybe it is. “You wouldn’t like me any other way.”
Enid’s mouth is half-open around a denial, but it falls to pieces as she realizes just how much truth that statement contains. Wednesday is a monochrome portrait of individualism, a constant and contrary collection of complexities. She’s both thorn and rose, one wrapped in the other; she’s been a stone in the shoe of Enid’s life since the very first day they met, and Enid wouldn’t trade that for heaven or earth.
“No,” Enid says, soft. Too soft. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”
Wednesday stays silent, and Enid wishes she could take the words back. They feel too much like a confession, like gospel from a religion Enid hasn’t yet studied. She searches the sea of tacky holiday gear for a distraction - and, to her relief, finds one hanging from the edge of the bargain bin.
“This is perfect,” Enid gasps, yanking the black Santa hat free of the 50% off - Clearance! sign that’s stuck to its side. “You have to buy it. It’s literally meant for you.”
“Funny,” Wednesday comments, “because I’m not some naive shopper who buys into the epidemic of capitalism for the sake of a holiday that has long since forgone religious significance for consumerist satisfaction, which is clearly the audience that this cheap, mass-produced item was meant to appeal to.”
“Just try it on?” Enid holds the hat out enticingly. “It’s your favorite color and everything.”
Wednesday heaves a long-suffering sigh and snatches the hat from Enid’s hand before jamming it onto her head. It looks adorable on her, and Enid can’t help but let out a little “Aw” at the sight.
“I’m taking a picture,” she says, whipping out her phone and snapping a photo as she speaks, “for posterity.”
“If you post that on any of your far too numerous social media accounts, I will disembowel you in your sleep.”
“Aw,” Enid says again. “Sorry, you’re just too cute in that hat. I can’t take your death threats seriously.”
Wednesday huffs, indignant. The Santa hat sits slightly crooked, cocked lower on one side than the other, and a few loose strands of her hair are escaping from beneath it.
In this hat, with her usual braids, she looks years younger. Enid feels a strange ache at the thought, a deep and nostalgic wish that the two of them could have grown up together. She imagines, in the space between one breath and the next, an entire childhood shared like sunshine in summer, a version of herself that moved through the years with Wednesday at her side.
Wednesday yanks the hat off again, and the illusion shatters; she’s Enid’s Wednesday again, looking irritated and static-haired and every one of her seventeen years.
“Happy?” Wednesday asks, sounding like she doesn’t care if Enid never experiences joy again.
“Oh, yeah.” Enid flashes her phone at Wednesday, the screen open to her camera roll. “I’m going to frame this picture and hang it on my bedroom wall.”
“If you were anyone else,” Wednesday grumbles as they start walking again, “you’d be dead right now.”
Enid just grins. “I know.”
--
They spend the afternoon hanging strings of soft white lights and silver tinsel all around the ground floor of the manor. Enid and Gomez do most of the work - Wednesday refuses to be involved, Gomez refuses to let Morticia lift a hand, and Pugsley’s main contribution is sitting in a comfy chair and calling out directions - but Enid doesn’t mind.
“I must say, I’m impressed,” Gomez says as Enid lifts a table out of the way with one hand and plugs in a string of lights with the other. “Your strength quite outweighs mine. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that you’re nearly as strong as Tish.”
“Oh, thanks,” Enid says, flattered at the comparison. Morticia Addams is one of the coolest women she’s ever met; she’s definitely better than Enid’s own mother. “It’s a werewolf thing. Hey, me being here for Christmas isn’t a problem for you guys, right? I know I'm dating Wednesday, but I showed up on super short notice. I can totally go home again, if you want.”
“Cariño, no.” Gomez sets down the armful of tinsel that he’s carrying and rests a hand on Enid’s shoulder. The touch is everything that Enid never receives in her own household: gentle, parental, reassuring. It’s almost enough to make her cry.
“Listen to me,” Gomez says. “You are always welcome here, Enid. Always. Our door will never be closed to you, do you understand?
Enid nods slowly, overwhelmed by the kindness. “Yes, I think so, but why? I know I’m - I’m dating Wednesday, but you’ve only just met me.”
“We of the Addams family tend to love quickly and easily,” Gomez says with a bashful shrug. “Just look at me and Morticia. For us, it was love at first sight.”
Enid casts her mind back to the first time she walked through the door of her dorm room to find Wednesday there, remembering the strange and instant magnetism that drew Enid toward her like a ship to harbor, and reflects that maybe, for them, it was much the same.
“Besides,” Gomez continues. “You saved my daughter’s life. For that I will always be grateful.” He correctly interprets the shock on Enid’s face. “Sí, claro. Wednesday made it very clear that without you, she would not be alive today.”
“I don’t know about that,” Enid says, sneaking a look at Wednesday now. She’s sitting in a straight-backed leather chair, an oversized book spread open in her lap. “Wednesday doesn’t usually need anyone’s help.”
“She doesn’t,” Gomez agrees. “But she wants yours.”
Enid’s heart leaps in her chest. “You really think so?”
“You’re together, aren’t you?” There’s a merry sparkle in Gomez’s eyes. “You make her very happy, Enid.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Wednesday calls over to them, her gaze still fixed on the pages of her book. Her voice is so dangerously calm it sounds like a weapon.
“Yes, yes,” Gomez says. “Lo siento, mi diablita.” He unspools another thread of tinsel and hands one end to Enid. Then he says, more quietly: “Stay as long as you would like, Enid. You are family now.”
Enid nods, dazed. Gomez smiles at her and begins to loop tinsel over the frame of the door.
Family, Enid thinks as she lets her gaze drift back to Wednesday like a magnet to steel. She could get used to the sound of that.
--
That night, dinner is served entirely on gold plates and eaten entirely with gold utensils - a gesture that leaves Enid deeply touched, even though it hadn’t been entirely necessary.
“It’s okay,” she’d tried to explain, “if I’m in the same room as silver, as long as I’m not touching it. Really, I’m fine. Wednesday already got me all the stuff I need.”
“Nonsense, dear,” Morticia had answered. “We want you to be as safe and comfortable here as possible. Besides, we have to do something with our golden cutlery other than melting it down for the alchemical process of reviving the dead.”
And that had been the end of it. Now, back in Wednesday’s room, Enid’s still warm with the glow of the Addams family’s approval.
“Dude,” she says, flopping down in Wednesday’s wooden desk chair. “Your parents are the best.”
Wednesday, stretched out on her bed, makes a skeptical sound from behind the pages of her book. “I suppose they are occasionally above adequate parental figures.”
“Trust me. Compared to my parents, yours are like…I don’t know, unicorns.” Enid runs one finger lightly across the keys of Wednesday’s typewriter. “Your mom and dad - and Pugsley - have been nicer to me in two days than my family has in seventeen years.”
Wednesday closes her book with a carefully controlled movement. “Your parents are still treating you poorly, then.”
“Yeah,” Enid sighs. “I thought I’d caught a break when I finally wolfed out, but then I couldn’t do it again the next full moon. They were all excited about it, expecting me to run with the pack, and I…I couldn’t.” The shame burns hot in her mouth at the memory: the way she stretched her bones half-broken trying to shift a body that refused to change, the way pride slid from her mother’s face like blood from an open wound.
“I know they’re your parents,” Wednesday says after a minute, “but if you wish, I will see to it that neither of them ever see the moon rise again.”
The threat is, once again, endearing where it once would have been concerning. Enid briefly considers that maybe this means she needs to do some self-reflection, and then decides against it. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating your friend’s loyalty, even if said loyalty is expressed in the form of promised violence against your enemies.
“No, it’s okay,” Enid says, a little reluctantly. “They’ll come around someday, I guess. I hope. Annnnd…that’s enough about my angsty teenage struggle for acceptance. Let’s change the subject.”
Thing, who’s resting on top of the typewriter, taps a consoling message against the metal casing. Enid gives him a grateful smile. “Thanks, bud.”
Wednesday doesn’t say anything, and Enid’s just starting to think she’s fallen asleep when she sits up straight and asks, apropos of nothing: “Do you have any of those lights left?”
“Yeah,” Enid says, confused at the non-sequitur but following Wednesday blind anyway. “They’re colored ones, though.”
“Hand them over.”
Enid digs into the Target bag and tosses the coil of lights to Wednesday, who rises from the bed and catches them in one fluid motion. She unwinds them, tossing one end back to Enid. “Help me hang them up.”
“Wednesday,” Enid says, uncomprehending. “They’re colored.”
“Enid,” Wednesday replies, impatient. “I know.”
Enid’s mouth abruptly closes as she recognizes this gift for what it is. She helps Wednesday adjust the lights until they form a circle around the room, draping down around the headboard of the bed and coming to rest by the foot of the desk. Thing takes the cord from Enid and plugs it into the outlet by the baseboard, then scurries back up onto the desk and poses smugly.
The lights come to life, suffusing the room with soft color. Wednesday, standing by the window, is washed in shades of gentle pink. It’s the first time Enid has ever seen her so colorful, and it’s something like staring into the moon.
“Look at that,” Enid says. “A little color’s not so bad after all.”
Wednesday purses her lips. “It’s hideous. Don’t get used to it.”
That’s the thing, Enid thinks; she can’t get used to this, but she wants to anyway.
“Thank you,” she says instead.
Wednesday just glares at her. Somehow, it’s still enough.
They fall into bed together like they’ve done it a hundred times before, heads touching and bodies angled away from each other to form the shape of a triangle. Enid’s close enough to smell Wednesday’s soap and hear her heartbeat, and it’s dizzying. She wonders how she’ll ever be able to go back to separate sides at Nevermore now that she knows how it feels to fall asleep by Wednesday’s side.
“Enid,” Wednesday says, when they’ve been lying in comfortable silence for a while. “Why did you and Ajax break up? I assumed the two of you would carry on your nauseating dalliance for a far longer period of time.”
Enid gets the sensation, suddenly and definitely, that she’s suffocating beneath the heat of the blankets. She shifts around, feeling the question work itself beneath her skin like a thorn.
“We just weren’t good together,” she says, and it’s mostly true - there was never anything substantial between them. Ajax had liked her for whatever reason, and Enid had liked his eyes and his smile and the way he felt like the safest choice.
If Enid’s being honest with herself, though, that’s not all there is to it. She’d known deep down that there was something wrong about the two of them. Every time she’d seen him, her heart would beat the same predictable rhythm; every time she kissed him, it had been like playing out her role in the last scene of a cliché teen movie. She could never quite shake the desire for a love that was something more than safe.
“He was never good enough for you,” Wednesday says, an unexpected note of bitterness to her tone.
“Oh,” Enid says, startled. She hadn’t realized that Wednesday had any particular feelings about Ajax beyond a willingness to rip him apart if he hurt Enid. “Why - what makes you say that?”
“He didn’t see you,” Wednesday replies. “He didn’t even try.”
Enid raises a hand to her mouth and bites at her thumbnail, conflicted. She had sometimes gotten the sense that Ajax didn’t truly see her - and then there was the time he literally didn’t see her, when she’d waited alone for hours and left in tears. Then again, Ajax had tried most of the time. Sort of.
“I can’t really blame him for that,” Enid sighs. “He’s a boy, and boys are always dumb. He’s still a person.”
Wednesday makes a noise of disgust. “Boys aren’t people.”
Enid giggles, and Wednesday turns sideways to give her a deadpan look. “I’m not joking.”
“I know.” Enid turns too, until they’re facing each other. “Is that why it didn’t work out with you and Tyler? Besides, you know, the fact that he turned out to be a shapeshifting, psychopathic murderer?”
“As unlikely as it may sound, Tyler’s status as a Hyde was the least of my issues with him,” Wednesday says. “I was only ever using him for my own gain. He and I would never have worked.”
The moment seems to stretch out endlessly before them, poised like a diver in the split-second breath before impact. Enid breathes in, breathes out. “Why not?”
“As a child,” Wednesday begins slowly, “I always believed myself to be above such embarrassing, insignificant matters as love. I did not believe myself capable of such a weakness, and I was glad of it; I told myself I would never waste my time in such a thankless manner, and I scorned those who would not agree.”
Wednesday’s eyes are like galaxies in this low light, reflecting a riot of color across the iridescent darkness of her irises. Enid watches, dazed and half-bewitched, as a beautiful new universe takes shape before her.
“And now?” she asks, barely above a whisper.
Wednesday’s exhale is a tense, defensive thing. “Now, if in some unlikely and far-fetched future I found myself capable of weakness, it would not be for someone like him. That was always wrong for me, and I think I’ve known it from the start.”
There are a thousand questions piled up like boulders in Enid’s throat, but before she can ask any of them, Wednesday rolls over abruptly onto her back.
“That’s quite enough vulnerability for one night,” she says. “Enough for one lifetime, I think. I’m going to bed.”
Enid waves goodnight to Thing, who waves back and clicks off the lights. The darkness descends around them quickly, sealing them into safety.
“You’re not swearing me to secrecy or death by gruesome murder,” Enid whispers. “Are you going soft on me, Addams?”
“Hardly, and you insult me by insinuating that such a thing is possible.” Wednesday shifts beneath the covers, and her leg brushes against Enid’s for the barest hint of a second. “I trust you, Enid. That is all.”
Wednesday shuts her eyes like the matter is settled, like the conversation is a coffin she’s lowering into the ground. Enid shuts her eyes too, lost in a way she’s never been before.
--
Enid wakes somewhere between midnight and dawn, drawn back to consciousness by some mysterious force. The room is still mostly dark; she can tell that moonrise was only a few hours ago. It’s a waxing gibbous, nearly full, and Enid’s stomach hurts briefly at the prospect of another full moon passing by without touching her.
Next to her, fast asleep, Wednesday sighs quietly and lets her head fall to one side of the pillow. Enid lets herself watch, feeling a little like she’s stealing something. Wednesday’s face is a study in light and shadow, so much like the fine art she loves that Enid doesn’t understand, and her hair is messy in a way she would never tolerate if she were awake.
Guilt sweeps through Enid, along with a humbling realization that she’s watching her best friend sleep like a total creeper, but she can’t bring herself to look away. She so rarely gets to see this side of Wednesday.
Like this, asleep and peaceful, Wednesday is a portrait drawn in softer strokes. Enid thinks, not for the first or last time, that despite whatever else she may be, Wednesday Addams is beautiful. She’s beautiful like fresh-carved marble, like midnight rain, and she has been ever since that very first day at Nevermore.
Wednesday shifts, and the blankets slide down. Enid pulls them back up, covering her carefully. There’s a warm, tender feeling in Enid’s chest right now that steals her breaths and pulls at every piece of her, lighting her up from the inside out, and oh - she’s never felt this before, not even with boys she’s liked. Not even with Ajax.
No, she corrects herself - especially not with Ajax. This is the feeling she was missing with him; it’s an overwhelming, all-consuming, how’d-we-get-here-so-soon love that overflows in Enid like the ocean under a full moon, and it’s all because of Wednesday.
Oh.
“Oh,” Enid whispers to herself, her blood turning to lava at the realization. “Oh, no.”
--
Enid doesn’t know how she falls asleep again after that, but the next thing she knows, she’s being shaken awake by someone with cold hands.
“Go away,” Enid mumbles, closing her eyes tighter.
The shaking stops abruptly. Seconds later, a pillow hits Enid in the head.
“Ow!” Enid yelps, bursting out of bed and falling to the floor in an ungainly heap with the pillow over her face. “What was that for?”
“You weren’t responding to my gentler methods, and we have things to do.” The pillow disappears to reveal Wednesday, fully dressed and standing over Enid’s body with her arms crossed. “You’re a surprisingly deep sleeper. Aren’t werewolves supposed to be alert at all times?”
“I was tired,” Enid huffs, picking herself up from the floor. “And your gentler methods weren’t gentle enough. Your hands are like blocks of ice.”
“Unless you’d like to find actual ice on your side of the bed tonight, I’d stop talking so much,” Wednesday says. “Now get dressed, and make sure your clothes are warm enough.”
“Why? What are we doing?”
Wednesday flashes a rare hint of a smile - which is to say, the corner of her mouth twitches once before settling into its usual flat line. To anyone else, it would be imperfectible; to Enid, it’s clear as day. It’s nearly blinding, and Enid almost falls over again as she remembers, suddenly and clearly, the breakthrough she’d had last night.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
Okay, she tells herself; okay, calm down. This isn’t that bad. There’s no way she really has feelings for Wednesday. Last night’s realization was a delusion, a simple mistake fueled by loneliness and sleep deprivation.
“Since you shared one of your Christmas traditions yesterday, I thought I’d return the favor,” Wednesday says. “We’re going ice hunting. If you don’t have a weapon, I’ll get you one from the armory.”
“Yeah, no. They don’t exactly let weapons through TSA.” Enid rummages through her bag, pulling out her favorite fleece pants and a heavy pink flannel. “Wait, what’s ice hunting?”
“An Addams tradition that occurs every year during the first snowfall,” Wednesday replies. “It’s reserved for family members only.”
“Oh, I see,” Enid says, understanding now - she’s meant to be a spectator, nothing more. “Well, I’m sure it’ll be fun to watch. Ooh, should I make some popcorn?”
“Don’t be obtuse,” Wednesday says shortly. “You’re participating.”
Enid’s head snaps up. “What?”
“You’re participating,” Wednesday repeats. “Enid, like it or not, you are part of this family now. Get dressed and meet me downstairs; I’ll get you a pair of skates.”
Enid’s heart threatens to beat right out of her chest. Part of this family. She’s an Addams now.
Wednesday widens her eyes at Enid, dark and impatient and breathtaking. Enid’s stomach drops like a comet falling through the sky, and oh. Yeah.
She absolutely has feelings for Wednesday.
Wednesday, who’s not a hugger. Wednesday, who’s never worn a stitch of color. Wednesday, who’s the bane of every society she’s ever been part of.
Wednesday, who is currently her fake girlfriend.
Well. This is going to suck.
No, Enid tells herself firmly. She can get through this. Question: WWWD? Answer: Wednesday, in the unlikely and earth-shattering event that she experienced some type of emotion, would take it to the grave and beyond.
Denial, then. Enid can handle that.
“Uh, yeah,” she babbles. “Right. Clothes. I own those. I’m just going to - yeah. Right.” She grabs an armful of clothes from her bag and sprints for the bathroom, and it’s only once she’s safely behind the door that Wednesday’s words register in her mind. “Wait, skates?”
--
The second Enid steps out of the house, she’s shocked to see a thick blanket of snow painting the landscape a dazzling white. Everything is cleaner, quieter; it’s like stepping onto a blank sheet of paper full of possibility.
“Oh my god,” Enid says, scooping up a handful. It’s cold against her skin, but she doesn’t mind. “It’s amazing.”
Pugsley looks up at her, frowning. “Haven’t you ever seen snow before?”
“I’m from San Francisco,” Enid reminds him. “We’re lucky if we get a few snowflakes a year.”
“Well, in that case…” Pugsley bends over and grabs a handful of snow, then rolls it into a snowball. “Welcome to New England.”
The snowball smacks Enid in the face and explodes into powder. Enid sneezes once, twice, and then three times as the cold hits her. “Okay, rude.”
Pugsley gives her a smug grin. Enid bends down to make her own snowball, but before she can throw it, Pugsley disappears beneath an avalanche of snow. His startled yell is quickly buried, along with the rest of him, until only the top of his hat is visible.
“No one tortures my girlfriend but me,” Wednesday says calmly, wiping her hands clean. “That includes you, my benighted brother.”
Wednesday steps closer, stretches out a hand, gently brushes a dusting of snow from where it’s settled on Enid’s collarbones. Enid feels the touch like a blizzard in her stomach.
“Are you alright?” Wednesday asks.
Enid does her best not to lean into Wednesday’s touch. She only partly succeeds. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just snow. It was kind of exciting, actually. That was my first snowball fight ever.”
“To call that a fight would be generous.” Wednesday casts a glance at the pile of snow where Pugsley used to be. “My brother is never much use in a battle.”
“Hey,” the pile of snow protests. “I am too. Sort of. Sometimes.”
The doors of the manor fly open again and Gomez and Morticia step outside. Morticia is wearing an elegant set of furs; Gomez, on the other hand, is wearing what looks like a designer snowsuit. Enid holds back a giggle at the sight.
“Good morning, my beautiful family,” Gomez says. “Who’s ready for a little ice hunting?”
Enid raises her hand tentatively. “Yeah, about that? I still don’t really know what it - ”
“Nonsense,” Gomez declares, producing a pair of skates and a long pointed stick from behind his back and thrusting them at her. “Don’t worry, Wednesday told me exactly what you’d need. You may keep these, of course; now that you’re part of the family, you’ll be needing them every year. Dale!”
Without another word, he and Morticia set off towards the lake. After a backward glance, Wednesday follows; Enid stays just long enough to pull Pugsley back onto his feet.
“Thanks,” Pugsley says, shaking the snow from his hair. Then, sheepishly: “Sorry for throwing that snowball at you.”
“No, it’s fine,” Enid reassures him as they start walking to the lake. “My brothers have done way worse to me. One time when I was seven, they gave me a garbage bag and pushed me off the roof because they thought it would act like a parachute.”
“That sounds fun,” Pugsley says with a shrug. “When I was seven, Wednesday shut me in a chamber in the lab so she could test the efficiency of distilled cyanide gas. Hey, want to race to the lake?”
--
Ice hunting, as it turns out, involves skating around the lake and using a weapon of choice to demolish the various types of demons that appeared overnight along with the snow. So far Enid’s seen hail gremlins, snow waifs, and chill-o-the-wisps, along with a few other creatures she doesn’t recognize.
Pugsley and Gomez are speeding around the lake together, racing in circles and laughing maniacally as they pile up the snowy carcasses. Morticia is skating in slower, more elegant laps and casually spearing snow demons on the tip of an ornate lance.
As for Enid, she’s just trying to move forward on her skates without face planting onto the ice.
“Enid,” Wednesday says, skating backwards past her while twirling a rapier casually at her side. Enid pointedly does not notice how attractive it is. “Are you aware that skating requires movement?”
“Yes,” Enid says indignantly. “I’m not stupid.”
“And yet you remain motionless. I’m fascinated to hear your rationale.”
“I’m not good at ice skating, okay? I’m from San Francisco. The only skating we do there happens on longboards.” Enid inches one foot forward experimentally, then yelps as she nearly goes sprawling into a snowbank. “And today is my first snow. Really, I’ve made huge progress just by going outside today.”
Wednesday shakes her head wordlessly, then sheathes her sword. “Give me your hands.”
Enid’s not moving anymore, but she still nearly falls over. “What?”
“Witnessing your incompetence is actively causing me pain, and not the enjoyable kind, so I’m going to help you.” Wednesday holds out her hands, clothed in fingerless black gloves, and takes hold of Enid’s. Her fingers are frigid against the warmth of Enid’s palms; Enid shivers, but not from the cold.
“There,” Wednesday says, slowly skating backwards. “When I move, you move.”
Enid slides tentatively forward, her grip closing tighter around Wednesday’s fingers with every passing second. She’s sure Wednesday’s hands must be losing circulation, but she can’t bring herself to let go. Without Wednesday, she’ll surely fall.
“Look up,” Wednesday orders. “You can’t make any progress if your eyes are on the ice.”
Enid raises her eyes and immediately wishes she hadn’t, because the sight of Wednesday before her is enough to ruin the rest of her life. Wednesday’s cheeks are slightly pink from the winter air, and her braids have faint white snowflakes twining through them. Her hands are sure and steady, an anchor to Enid’s unmoored ship - and Enid may still be standing, but she’s already fallen.
Denial is so, so not going to work out for her.
“Follow my lead,” Wednesday says, like Enid could ever do anything else. Wednesday glides slowly backwards; Enid forces herself to relax, despite every instinct that screams for her to brace for impact, and lets Wednesday guide her. Slowly but surely, they gain speed until they’re soaring around the edge of the lake.
Enid raises her head, wonderstruck, as they pass beneath a low-hanging lattice of snow-whitened trees. “This is so cool. I guess skating’s not that bad after all.”
“It’s like I said,” Wednesday answers. “When I move, you move.”
It’s spoken simply, but to Enid it binds like an oath. When Wednesday moves, Enid moves; where Wednesday goes, Enid goes too.
“Wednesday! Enid!” Gomez’s cheerful voice echoes around the lake. “Over here!”
“My parents are watching,” Wednesday murmurs as they skate closer. “Ready to try something new?”
“Um, it depends what.”
“Just trust me.”
“I do,” Enid says: automatic, no room for doubt. “You know I do.”
“Prepare yourself, then.”
“Prepare myself for what?” Enid wants to asks, but she only manages to get out “Pre- ” before Wednesday’s hands twist in her grip and the world spins before her eyes. Everything’s a blur of black and white and cold, her vision filled with alternating flashes of ice and sky; adrenaline rushes through her system, bracing for a hard landing.
And then it’s over and she’s landing safely in Wednesday’s arms, caught like a damsel in distress to Wednesday’s gallant hero.
“Bravo,” Gomez says, skating up to them and clapping politely. “Fabulous as always, Wednesday.”
“Impressive,” Morticia adds as she glides to a halt in front of them. “Wednesday, I did always say that you could have pursued figure skating.”
“Fabulous is a relative term,” Wednesday answers, releasing Enid, “and you should know, Mother, that I would rather cut my feet off than waste all my days skating endless, miserable circles on ice like some kind of trained dog. Pugsley would be far better suited for that sort of thing.”
“Hey,” Pugsley pouts. “I would not.”
“You would too.”
Enid’s only half listening to the conversation, lost in the sensation of Wednesday’s arms around her. They’re not touching anymore, but Enid still feels Wednesday everywhere: her left hand beneath Enid’s shoulders, her right hand resting at the small of Enid’s back. Enid can already tell that she’ll be dreaming about this for the next month, or maybe the rest of her life.
“Well, this was another highly successful year of ice hunting,” Gomez says.
It’s a gruesome definition of success, but Enid can’t exactly disagree; the ice is littered with corpses, and there are thin red trails of blood running like strings through the snow. It’s rather morbid, and Enid blames Wednesday for the fact that this now seems nearly normal to her when once it would have sent her into a screaming spiral. “Shall we go inside and drink the mulled blood of our enemies?”
“Don’t worry,” Wednesday says quietly to Enid, somehow cataloguing the expression on her face without looking at her. “I’ll mix something sweet into yours.”
Now there’s something to wonder about, Enid thinks as they start the journey back to the house; how Wednesday learned to read her like this, exactly where along the line the preservation of Enid’s comfort became another one of Wednesday’s meticulous habits.
Enid wants to ask so badly it makes her ache, but she can’t. Here she is, as with so many questions in Wednesday’s shape, at a loss for an answer.
--
The sitting room lies on the north side of the manor, with mullioned windows overlooking the lake. The stuff, formal furniture is carved from black wood, and the ceiling is high and drafty; in the corners, tall bookcases cast menacing shadows over the beast-skin rug. It’s a thoroughly intimidating room that would creep Enid out if not for two things: the fire burning in the massive hearth, and Wednesday’s presence next to her.
“Here you are, dear,” Morticia says, passing Enid a mug of dark, steaming liquid that smells like copper and cocoa. “It’s an old family recipe.”
Enid shoots a tentative look at Wednesday, who gives her a slight nod. Trusting that Wednesday wouldn’t let her be poisoned, Enid takes a sip.
Warmth floods her mouth, along with a taste that’s salty and sweet at the same time. Enid swipes her tongue against her bottom lip thoughtfully, trying to decipher the exact flavors - there’s the copper tang of blood, the rich earth of chocolate, and one more hint of spice that she can’t recognize.
“It’s not the traditional recipe,” Wednesday says, speaking low enough that only Enid can hear. “Knowing your inexplicable love for sugar, I added a frankly heinous amount of chocolate to yours.” She pulls a face, like even the mention of sugar is disgusting to her. “If it’s not to your liking, I’ll inform the kitchen staff.”
“No, it’s incredible. Thanks.” Enid licks her lips again, getting another subtle curl of spice. “Is there something else in here, though? There’s this one flavor I can’t place, but it’s really g- ”
She breaks off abruptly, realizing that Wednesday’s staring at her mouth. “Oh, crap. Is there chocolate on me? I know I’m a messy drinker sometimes, my brothers are always making fun of me for it.” She licks at her bottom lip again, self-consciously this time. “Just tell me when I’ve got it, okay?”
“Do you have to do that?” Wednesday asks, in a tone that sounds unmistakably pissed off.
Enid lowers her mug. “Do what?”
Wednesday glowers at her. “Nothing,” she snaps, pulling her legs up onto the sofa and lying back until she’s looking up at the ceiling rather than at Enid. “It’s none of your concern.”
Enid swirls the contents of her mug around with one hand, confused and a little hurt. She has no idea what she’s done, but she knows it must have been something for Wednesday’s mood to shift so suddenly.
She’s just about to swallow her pride along with another mouthful of blood chocolate and ask what’s wrong when Wednesday stretches out across the sofa to rest her legs across Enid’s lap. The motion is casual, like this is routine for them rather than something that would have earned Enid a one-way grave-digging trip if she’d ever suggested it back at Nevermore.
Wednesday feels cold even through two layers of clothing. Enid rests one hand below her knee and takes it as a good sign when Wednesday doesn’t cut her hand off for doing so.
“Are you comfortable?” Enid murmurs, sneaking a glance at Wednesday’s face. As usual, it’s unreadable.
“Stop asking inane questions,” Wednesday says, making no move to adjust her position. “I hate being comfortable.”
Enid just smiles, recognizing the approval for what it is, and leans back against the sofa’s stiff cushions. Outside, a fresh flurry of snowflakes drifts slowly past the window.
--
Enid wakes in a field, under an endless midnight-blue sky. There’s nothing else in sight, no hills or houses for miles and miles. The only living thing in this landscape is her.
“Hello?” she calls out, turning in a slow circle. There’s an unsettling aura to this place, a sense of malice that settles bone-deep within her. Enid’s claws spring out, ready for a fight, but there’s only dead air and darkness.
“Enid?”
Wednesday’s voice. Enid whips around; Wednesday’s standing there, but something’s wrong. Her limbs are twisted and broken, and dark rivers of black are streaming from her eyes like tears the real Wednesday would never allow herself to shed.
“Wednesday,” Enid gasps, stumbling towards her. “What happened, what’s wrong?”
“You did this,” Wednesday says accusingly. “It’s all your fault. You’re useless.”
Useless useless useless useless. The word echoes through the air, wrapping around Enid like a chain of sound and sending shivers through her body.
“No,” Enid says desperately. “No, it wasn’t me, Wednesday, I’d never hurt you.”
“You did this,” Wednesday repeats. She takes a step forward, grinning malevolently; the field starts to spin around Enid, faster and faster, and then Tyler’s there in his Hyde form, looming over them and blotting out the stars, his mouth full of all the teeth in the world, and Wednesday’s screaming in pain and there’s so much blood everywhere -
“Enid,” Wednesday’s voice booms, rolling like thunder. “Enid!”
--
Enid jolts awake violently, her heart beating so hard that her chest hurts. She gasps for breath, slowly taking in her surroundings - she’s in bed, in Wednesday’s room, and Wednesday’s hovering over her with concern on her face.
“You were having a nightmare,” Wednesday says. “I woke you up.”
Enid’s limbs thrash in panic as she remembers what she saw: the field, the blood, Wednesday being torn apart. Her heartbeat jumps, racing like it’s trying to reach safety.
A hand descends on her forehead, the touch cool against Enid’s fear-flushed skin. Wednesday. Enid relaxes into it, letting herself inhale fully for the first time in minutes.
“You’re okay,” Wednesday says softly. “Just breathe.”
Enid breathes. Her heartbeat slows, settles. “Thanks. Sorry.”
“What did you see?”
“Tyler,” Enid says, her throat tight with the memory of it. “And you. I couldn’t save you.”
Wednesday’s thumb strokes over Enid’s temple, light and comforting despite the stilted uncertainty of the gesture. “But you did. Back at Nevermore, in the forest. You saved me.”
Enid’s next inhale feels something like a knife to the lung. “I know, but - but I haven’t been able to shift since then, and maybe I never will again, and next time - ”
“Next time,” Wednesday interrupts, “is a vague hypothetical. Think only of now.”
Enid focuses, narrows her horizons. Thinks only of now: Wednesday’s bed, Wednesday’s touch, all of Wednesday here and alive with her. Slowly but surely, her breaths come easier.
“Okay,” she murmurs after a long interval. “I can do this. I’m okay.”
“Good.” Wednesday’s hand slides from her forehead, and Enid finds herself instantly missing the contact. “Can you sleep again?”
“I think so, but…” Enid hesitates for a moment, then lets the words spill out before she can overthink them. “Could we maybe, possibly…cuddle? Just for a little bit?”
Wednesday regards her in stony silence. Just when Enid’s wishing that the bed would open up and swallow her whole, the other girl lets out a deep sigh and raises one arm to let Enid in.
Enid gratefully curls into the embrace, tucking her head into the space between Wednesday’s head and shoulder and draping one arm over her stomach. Wednesday’s hand comes to rest against her back, the touch gentle and grounding.
“If you tell anyone this happened,” Wednesday warns, “you will be buried in an unmarked grave.”
Enid hums in response. “Sounds good.”
Wednesday makes an exasperated noise, then presses the side of her face to the top of Enid’s head. “Go to sleep, Enid.”
Enid adjusts her position slightly, curling even closer into Wednesday; she’s never had this chance before, and she’ll probably never get it again, so she wants to make the most of it. Wednesday feels warmer than usual, her body solid and real against Enid’s, and Enid wishes she could make this moment her home.
It strikes her, all at once, how strange this moment would have seemed only a few weeks ago. If someone had told Enid one month ago that she would be cuddling with Wednesday Addams before the end of the year, Enid would have laughed until her ribs started hurting.
“You used to hate it when anyone touched you,” Enid observes. “What changed?”
“You’re not anyone,” Wednesday says simply.
“Aw, Wednesday! You do care about me.”
Wednesday looks deeply affronted. “I never said that. Now stop smiling.”
“Okay,” Enid says, but her smile lingers. “Hey - can you talk to me for a minute? Say anything, recite depressing poetry, I don’t care. I just need some kind of reassurance that you’re really alive.”
“What a horribly morbid sentiment,” Wednesday says. “I adore it.” She clears her throat quietly, takes a deep breath, and begins to speak in a hushed, somber voice.
“It was many and many a year ago - in a kingdom by the sea - that a maiden there lived whom you may know - by the name of Annabel Lee; and this maiden she lived with no other thought - than to love and be loved by me.”
The words wash over Enid like waves against the shore, a slow-receding lull that pulls her towards sleep. Her eyes fall closed despite her best efforts, her breaths growing slower as Wednesday continues.
“I was a child and she was a child - in this kingdom by the sea - but we loved with a love that was more than love - I and my Annabel Lee - with a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven - coveted her and me.”
Enid slips unwillingly beneath the surface of consciousness, clinging to the ends of Wednesday’s sentences. Her last thought, drenched in sleep and poetry, is that she’d like to have an Annabel Lee kind of love with Wednesday.
She wakes up in Wednesday’s arms the next morning, warm and safe and whole, and it feels like a kingdom by the sea.
--
The day of Christmas Eve is one that Enid usually spends fighting with her brothers, drinking too much hot chocolate, and driving around neighborhoods in search of fancy Christmas light displays. This year, however, she’s spending it wandering the halls of a haunted mansion.
Surprisingly, it still feels like home. Enid doesn’t need to wonder whether it’s because of the girl at her side.
“And this,” Wednesday says, flinging open yet another ten-meter-tall arched door, “is the billiard room. It was built by Drusilla Addams and recently refurbished by my Uncle Fester, whose addiction to gambling on his billiard games has cost him ten thousand dollars, two marriages, and his right eyeball.”
“He gambled one of his eyes?”
“Believe it or not, he’s gambled far worse than that.”
“Sheesh.” Enid runs her hand along the smooth black side of the billiard table, noting the velvet inlay - black, of course - and then plucks a cue stick from a wicker basket. “That’s rough.”
“Uncle Fester’s always been a character.” Wednesday picks up a cue stick of her own, spins it deftly between her fingers. “He’s the family disappointment.”
“Damn,” Enid mumbles, feeling a sudden sense of kinship with Uncle Fester. “He’s just like me for real.”
“He’s one of my favorite people in this dreary world,” Wednesday remarks, “so in that regard, I suppose you are similar to him. It’s a shame you can’t meet him; he was supposed to visit for Christmas, but he’s landed himself in a mental asylum yet again.”
She lines up the cue stick and sinks a clean shot in the corner pocket. “Now that we’ve been to the billiard room, the attic, the wine cellar, the east wing, and the west wing, is there anything else you want to see? The torture chamber is my personal recommendation; the racks were just replaced last year.”
“You have a torture chamber? Never mind, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” Enid leans against the table, deliberating. “As much as I like walking through a life-size version of the Clue mansion, I think I’m ready to wrap it up soon. There’s just one more place I’d like to see.”
Wednesday collects the billiard balls and places them in the rack, then holds her hand out for Enid’s cue stick. “Do tell.”
“I want to see your favorite room.”
Wednesday looks perplexed. “I already told you. It’s the torture chamber.”
“Okay, fine,” Enid allows. “Your favorite room the house that isn’t the torture chamber.” She catches the devious quirk of Wednesday’s eyebrows. “Or the dungeon.”
“Sometimes I wonder how you find any enjoyment in life,” Wednesday comments. “Fine. I’ll show you my third favorite room of the manor. You should be warned, however, that it will be three times less exciting than the torture chamber would have been.”
“That’s okay with me,” Enid says as they leave the billiard room. “Not everything has to be a great big adventure. Sometimes it’s enough to just be there.”
--
“Here we are,” Wednesday announces, stopping in front of a tall door with iron hinges and large glass windows. “The Addams family greenhouse, home to the largest private collection of rare and toxic plants in the Northern Hemisphere.”
The air in the greenhouse is still and heavy, warm like the sky after midsummer rain. Enid lifts her head to the faraway ceiling, inhaling deeply: everything smells sweet and green and alive, a hundred different scents combining in a heady rush.
“Don’t inhale deeply near the plants on the left side,” Wednesday cautions. “Some of them have airborne toxins in the leaves.”
Enid stops inhaling. “Airborne toxins? Is it safe to be in here?”
“Quite safe. Every poison in this greenhouse also has an antidote.”
“My preferred antidote to poison is not being poisoned in the first place,” Enid mutters, but she follows Wednesday deeper into the greenhouse anyway.
It’s like walking through a forest; a thousand plants stretch toward the ceiling, vines and leaves unfurling in every direction. Flowers bloom among the greenery in explosions of color: scarlet reds, cobalt blues, royal purples. Everywhere Enid looks, she sees something new.
“This greenhouse is my mother’s pet project,” Wednesday says as they pass a row of virulent orange flowers shaped like trumpets. “She’s spent years collecting poisonous and carnivorous plants. It’s by far the most interesting of her life’s few accomplishments.”
Enid reads between the lines, finds the grudging pride in Wednesday’s tone. “Your mom is a badass,” she agrees. “Even though it’s low key making me fear for my life, this place is awesome.”
“It’s certainly better than Nevermore’s collection,” Wednesday concedes. She gestures at a spiky plant to their right, which has foot-long spines jutting from its dark green leaves. “For example, ours is the only greenhouse in New England to have a Serbian Sawtooth cactus.”
Despite the heat and color, Wednesday looks perfectly comfortable in the greenhouse. She fits here, like this: the blackness in the blossoms, the deadliest thing in a room full of deadly things. In this endless sea of flowers, Enid would still pick her.
“Look around on your own for a few minutes,” Wednesday says as they reach the end of the aisle. “I have something to show you, but it’s a surprise.”
“Um, okay, but if I get eaten by a toxic plant and die then I’m totally coming back to haunt you.” Enid starts off in the opposite direction from Wednesday, past a grove of trees with weeping branches that sweep the ground with purple flowers.
On her own, walking through the greenhouse feels like being lost in a forest. Enid turns left and right and left again, her eyes darting ceaselessly from side to side - partly so she doesn’t miss anything, partly so she’ll see it coming if any of the plants decide to attack her.
After a few minutes, she emerges from the maze of plants to find that there’s a rock pool in the corner of the greenhouse, fed by a small waterfall that spills gently from somewhere behind a pile of mossy rocks. The bottom of the pool is a volcanic black, and small green lily pads drift aimlessly on the crystal-clear water.
It’s a refuge from the relentless crush of color, and Enid gratefully steps closer to the edge of the pool. She looks down at her reflection, pale and distorted by lily pads, wondering if the water is poisonous too.
“I see you’ve found the greenhouse.”
Enid manages to avoid falling into the pool, although it’s a near miss. She jumps back from the edge, limbs flailing, and bites back a curse.
Morticia Addams is standing there, holding a watering can in one hand and a pair of wicked iron shears in the other. For a split second, Enid has the wild thought that maybe she’s about to be murdered by Wednesday’s mother - and then Morticia sets down the shears, and the fear passes.
Enid straightens her posture and tries to pull herself together. “Hi! Yeah, Wednesday brought me in here. It’s her third favorite room in the house, apparently.”
“High praise, coming from her.”
“She said it’s one of your biggest accomplishments,” Enid offers, paraphrasing a little for the sake of peace.
“Knowing her, she conveyed that in a far more derogatory way,” Morticia sighs. “Still, I suppose it’s better than nothing.”
“Oh no, Wednesday’s a softie at heart,” Enid assures her. “She just can’t admit it.”
“Wednesday and I have never had an easy relationship.” Morticia bends down, trails a hand through the water of the pool. “She abhors the comparison, but she reminds me so much of myself at the same age; perhaps it is that very same similarity that stands like a barrier between us. She has always gotten on better with her father.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Enid hurries to say. “Seriously, Wednesday respects you so much. Every time she talks about you, I can tell.”
The ghost of a smile traces the corner of Morticia’s mouth, there and then instantly gone again. “She has had such little happiness in her life, you know. But you, Enid - you make her happy, no matter how much she’d like to hide it. I am glad that you have such a special place in her heart. I was worried about her returning to Nevermore semester, but I feel better now that I know she has you.”
A thread of guilt pulls tight in Enid’s chest, an unwelcome reminder of the lie they’ve been weaving all this time. “R- right. Thanks.”
“Enid?” Wednesday calls out from somewhere deep in the greenhouse.
“I’ll leave you to her,” Morticia says, gathering her shears. “And again, Enid. Thank you.”
Morticia vanishes out a side door. Enid follows the sound of Wednesday’s voice, her head still spinning from their conversation.
Wednesday’s waiting by a grove of pomegranate trees, something small and pink cupped in her hands. Enid’s eyebrows rise curiously. “What is that?”
“Here,” Wednesday says, holding it out. “It’s for you.”
Enid takes it. It’s a small ceramic pot that holds a thin, dawn-pink flower with a trumpet-shaped stem and five triangular petals blooming at its top. The flower is beautiful and delicate and alive with color, and it's everything Wednesday should hate, but Enid knows from the way she handled it that it’s something precious to her.
“It’s amazing,” Enid says, her voice hushed for some reason. “What kind of flower is it?”
“A nerium moonflower,” Wednesday explains. “A crossbreed of the regular moonflower and the highly poisonous pink oleander, which takes the shape of the former and the hue of the latter. I thought you’d like it.”
Moonflower. The significance isn’t lost on Enid; she ducks her head to hide the heat rising in her cheeks, suddenly and mortifyingly close to tears.
“You don’t have to take it,” Wednesday says. “I can replace it with a harmless flower if you’d like.”
Enid cradles the flower to her chest. “No, I…I love it.”
“That is…pleasing news.” Wednesday’s gaze, usually so steady and unblinking, flicks away from Enid’s for a moment. “Well, that concludes the tour.”
Enid looks at Wednesday, and Wednesday looks back at her. Their eyes meet like flowers blossoming simultaneously - and they may be standing in the middle of a garden of death, but Enid’s never felt this alive in her life.
The guilt from earlier rises in Enid’s throat, and she swallows it down again. She can’t give this up. She won’t. One more week and it’ll all be over, anyway; she won’t let go of a single moment before it’s time.
--
They go out that night, and somehow it’s all because of Pugsley; well, there’s no wingman quite like the twelve year old brother of the girl you’re pretending to date and secretly in love with. It starts with one simple comment, and the rest is a forgone conclusion.
“You’re staying in again?” Pugsley says later that evening, throwing a disbelieving look at the couch where Enid and Wednesday are sitting together. “You guys are so lame. Don’t you ever go on dates? God, even Mom and Dad have a better love life than you.”
That’s how Enid finds herself where she is now: behind the wheel of Gomez’s black vintage Mercedes, heading into town with Wednesday riding shotgun.
“This is so cool,” Enid marvels, barely resisting the urge to open her window and hang one arm outside as she drives. She wonders if there’s a pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment. “I can’t believe your dad let me take this car. I’ve only had my license for like, six months.”
“I can’t believe it either. He just likes you, for whatever reason.”
“Totally runs in the family, then,” Enid jokes, looking over as the car rolls to a stop before a red light.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” Wednesday instructs. Then, quieter: “I suppose that conclusion is not entirely incorrect.”
Enid tries to hide her grin, but she’s not entirely successful.
They’re getting into town now, rolling through streetlights and passing by businesses illuminated by strings of golden lights: bookstores, coffee shops. Everything is warm-lit and cozy, so small-town Christmas it could bring a tear to Enid’s city-girl eye.
“Oh, I meant to ask earlier,” Enid says as they drive by a shabby little building with a burnt-out neon sign that reads PSYCHIC - TAROT - DIVINING blinking apathetically in the window. “Have you been having any more visions?”
“No,” Wednesday replies shortly. “The last one was weeks ago, and it showed me a scenario that seemed quite unlikely. Since then, I’ve been free of them.”
“Ooh, what kind of scenario?”
“One that will never come to pass.” Wednesday folds her arms across her chest, scowling. “More important, one that’s none of your business. My visions are my own.”
“Okay…” Enid says, drawing the word out slowly, “but maybe you could see my future! Here, touch my hand.” She takes one hand off the wheel, extending it into the space between them.
Wednesday’s tone is exasperated. “That’s not how it works, Enid. I’m not a crystal ball; I can’t just take your hand and magically see what will happen to you an hour or a week from now.”
“Well, you could try.”
“This is a waste of time,” Wednesday mutters, but she places her hand flat in Enid’s palm anyway. “Goody told me that my visions were incomplete and unreliable, anyway. It’s not as I’ll be able to see any- ohhhh.”
Wednesday’s head jerks back, her body stiffening and her eyes glazing over as the vision overwhelms her. Enid nearly swerves the car through a red light at the intersection, Wednesday’s hand in hers the only thing that keeps her steady.
“Wednesday! Are you okay?”
Wednesday snaps back into her body and pulls her hand away from Enid’s, looking disgruntled. “I’m fine.”
Enid raises her eyebrows, excited. “Well? Did it work?”
“Somehow,” Wednesday says, “yes. I would advise you to avoid ordering the steak tartare tonight; the vision wasn’t entirely clear, but I saw you looking like a plague victim on my bathroom floor. I find the Black Death as intriguing as anyone, but some things are too disgusting even by my standards.”
Enid bids a wistful goodbye to the dinner she’d been planning to order. “Eighty-six the steak. Got it.”
The light turns green, and she steps on the gas pedal. After a moment, Wednesday’s hand falls away from hers.
--
The restaurant is on the east side of town, overlooking the ocean. Enid parks neatly between a BMW and a Bentley - “neatly” meaning that she only has to back out and readjust twice - then gets out and hurries around to Wednesday’s side to open her door.
“I don’t need your ridiculous attempts at chivalry,” Wednesday scoffs, but she lets Enid close the door behind her too.
Inside, the restaurant is classy but charming; soft yellow lights hang from the ceiling, and white-clothed tables sit in neat rows. It’s crowded, almost impossibly so - Enid can’t see a single empty table in the place. She thinks, belatedly, that they probably should have made a reservation.
The hostess looks up as they enter. “How can I help you tonight?”
“A table for two, please,” Wednesday says.
The hostess flicks through her register, frowning. “Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any openings for tonight. We have a lot of reservations…”
“That’s a shame,” Wednesday observes, staring the hostess dead in the eye. There’s nothing intentionally menacing about it; Enid’s seen Wednesday’s menacing face, and that’s a thousand times scarier. It is, however, enough to make the hostess look very nervous.
“Ah…” The hostess scans her register again. “I think we can make something work. Right this way, please.” She takes two menus from the stand and hurries into the dining area, beckoning for them to follow.
“Wednesday,” Enid scolds quietly. “You can’t just intimidate people into doing things for you.”
Wednesday shrugs. “I see no issue.”
“Oh my god, you’re impossible.”
“Far better than being possible.”
“Here you are, ladies,” the hostess says, setting the menus down on a two-person table right next to the window. “Enjoy, and have a wonderful Christmas Eve.”
“See,” Wednesday says the instant she’s gone. “Intimidation yields results.”
“Fine, maybe you’re right,” Enid admits, “but still. She was nice, and now she’s terrified.”
“Again, I see no issue.” Wednesday takes off her coat and hangs it from the back of her chair, effectively ending the conversation. Tonight she’s wearing a black knit vest over a white button down, the sleeves rolled back at the elbow, and her hair is hanging in its customary braids. It’s a variation on her style that Enid’s rarely seen before, two steps to the left of where she usually stands with regards to fashion, and it’s stunning. Now that she’s not focused on driving, Enid’s having trouble remembering how to function.
She looks down at the table for a distraction, noticing that the baby blue napkins are folded to look like cravats. “Whoa, check out these fancy napkins.” And please don’t notice how hard I’m trying not to stare at you.
Wednesday glances at her own napkin, scoffs, and plucks it from the table. Her hands move in a flurry too fast to follow, and then she places the refolded napkin in front of Enid; it’s now in the shape of a crane, far more elaborate and realistic than the cravat had been. “There. Now you have a piece of napkin origami actually worth being impressed by.”
“It’s incredible,” Enid says in amazement, touching one finger gently to the crane’s tail. “OMG, wait. I have to post this. Hold on.” She pulls her phone from her pocket, swiping away a flood of notifications that remind her just how little she’s been online for the last few days, and opens the camera app. “Okay, smile.”
Wednesday does not smile. “Why are you taking a picture of me?”
“To post on Instagram, duh! You want to sell our relationship, don’t you?”
“To my parents, yes. Not to half of Nevermore’s student body.”
“Pugsley will see it,” Enid reminds her. “That counts, doesn’t it?”
Wednesday lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I’m not smiling.”
“Typical,” Enid says fondly as she sets up the shot, making sure to perfectly center Wednesday, then snaps the photo. “There. Perfect. I’m posting it right away.”
“I despise you,” Wednesday mutters, taking a sip of water.
Enid opens Instagram and selects the photo, quickly adding a caption before hitting the post button. She watches it upload, and there it is: proof of her and Wednesday, in living color.
enid.sinclair all i want for christmas (eve) is you #datenight #girlfriendreveal
The picture shows Wednesday staring directly into the camera, one hand resting on the knife by the side of her placemat. She looks equal parts bored, irritated, and breathtaking; Enid can’t imagine a more accurate portrayal.
“There, look,” she says, spinning the phone around and sliding it over to Wednesday. “Our hard launch is complete.”
“I have no idea what that idiotic phrase means, and I don’t wish to.” Wednesday peers at the screen warily. “What are all these replies?”
“Already?” Enid takes the phone back, curious. Wednesday was right; her comment section is blowing up.
— biancabarclayofficial so u two finally got together? about damn time
— xavierdraws is this some kind of joke lol
— biancabarclayofficial @xavierdraws true love is not a joke tf? glad i dumped ur ass
— eugene_otinger_likes_bees OMG??? wednesday when you finally answer one of my calls you will never hear the end of this also omg you guys are so cute i’ll send you some honey jars
— snakemasterajax wait what
“They all know,” Wednesday says, in tones of deep disgust. “You’re dead to me.”
Enid’s finger hovers over the screen. “Do you want me to delete it?”
“No” Wednesday says immediately. “Leave it.”
“Ha!” Enid exclaims, pointing an accusing finger at her. “So you do like it.”
“It will contribute to our deception,” Wednesday says primly, flipping open her menu. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
Enid opens her menu too, holding it in front of her face to hide her smile.
“And stop smiling,” Wednesday says, not in the least deceived. “It’s ruining my appetite.”
--
The night goes on, minutes slipping slowly into hours. Plates lie scattered across the table between them, bearing the remains of their dinner: the seared swordfish for Wednesday, the grilled chicken for Enid, who decided to steer clear of all steak products after Wednesday’s vision, and a platter of roasted brussels sprouts they shared after Wednesday’s abject refusal to try the deep-fried mac and cheese bites.
It’s nearly ten o’clock and quieter now, the earlier clamor of the restaurant dimmed to a sleepy murmur. A candle burns on the table between Enid and Wednesday, placed there by an apologetic waiter halfway through their meal; Wednesday’s been swiping her index finger through the flame for the last few minutes, pulling away more slowly every time.
Their table has been silent for the last few minutes, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable; it feels like they’re back in their room at Nevermore, existing separately but together. Enid’s content to simply sit across from Wednesday and watch as she plays with fire in a way that would earn her the title of pyromaniac from anyone else. For Enid, this is just typical Wednesday behavior.
“This meal has been…not entirely unpleasant,” Wednesday says at last, folding her hands in front of her. “The food was sufficiently edible.”
“It was nice,” Enid agrees. “A lot less chaotic than Christmas Eve with my family, that’s for sure.”
“Have you talked to your family at all since you’ve been here?” Wednesday asks bluntly.
Enid shrugs. There’s been a few points of contact - a series of scattered texts, and a brief call from her mother earlier this morning where she managed to casually criticize four different things about Enid in the span of three minutes before wishing her a merry Christmas Eve and hanging up - but nothing more than that.
“Not really, but honestly, that’s fine with me. They’d just find a way to twist it into another conversation about sending me to lycanthropy conversion camp next summer, like I haven’t told them a hundred times that I’m never going to a place like that. Like, I won’t even get to open my presents until I get home, but I’m pretty sure my mom wrapped my Christmas presents in camp brochures.”
Enid heaves a sigh, then forces out the worry that’s been eating at her like a starving dog for the last six weeks. “The worst part is, sometimes I have to wonder if they’re right. Maybe there is something wrong with me, you know? Maybe I’m defective - and maybe, now that I can’t wolf out, I’ll never find a mate.”
“No,” Wednesday says, instantly dismissive. “You may have a myriad of other issues, but this is not one of them.”
Enid squares her shoulders, feeling a sudden ache in her ribs. “I want to hate them for it, sometimes, but I can’t. They’re my family.”
“Family isn’t everything,” Wednesday says. “And you deserve better than that kind of treatment.”
Enid looks up, across the table, and their eyes meet. Wednesday’s gaze is darkly intense as always, and there’s an extra weight to it now that makes Enid’s knees go weak.
“Thanks,” Enid mumbles. Then, before she can say something more embarrassing, she adds: “And by the way, I do not have a myriad of other issues.”
“Really,” Wednesday says flatly. “What about your obsession with saccharine, overproduced noise masquerading as music?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my music. And for the record, my playlists are amazing.”
“Then shall we discuss your eye-injuring choices of clothing?”
“Better than looking like a funeral home director every day of my life,” Enid huffs.
Wednesday leans forward slightly, like she’s ready for battle. Recognizing the challenge, Enid leans in too.
“You have an extra social media account,” Wednesday says, “specifically for your stuffed animals, of which you have far too many.”
“You own a gramophone. Even my grandmother doesn’t have one of those.”
“You talk in your sleep.”
“And you sleep like a dead person! I had to check your pulse when I woke up this morning just to make sure you didn’t pass away during the night.”
Wednesday snorts. “If only I had. It would have spared me from waking up to find pink fuzz all over my blankets from your ridiculous fleece pajamas.”
Enid’s heart leaps in her chest, like it's following their words as they fly back and forth across the table. There’s a lingering undertone to this conversation, a softer echo of a former fight; it looks like an argument, but lands like affection. It’s light and familiar, and to Enid it feels dangerously comfortable - she could live like this forever and still not get tired of it.
“Yeah?” Enid says belatedly, fumbling for an insult that will flatten the emotions rising in her chest. “Well, you - your house doesn’t even have a Christmas tree.”
She says it scathingly - like it’s the world’s worst crime, because at this time of the year it is - but something about it must fall flat, because Wednesday narrows her eyes in that way she only does when she’s trying to uncover a truth.
“You want a Christmas tree, then,” Wednesday says. “Is that traditional for your family?”
Enid thinks of the place she grew up, of the faded yellow walls of her living room and the many Christmas trees they’ve housed over the years: the living pine, the tinsel shrub, the evergreen destroyed by her brothers one Christmas morning as they fought each other over the new Playstation. Unexpectedly, a wave of wistfulness washes over her.
“I - yeah, it is. We’ve always had a tree in the living room, and decorating it together is always the one time our house is peaceful. Never lasts, of course, but it’s nice while it does.”
Wednesday nods once, sharply, then signals for the bill; their waiter comes over immediately and slides it onto the table.
Enid pulls out her wallet, digging in the side pocket for the credit card her father gave her for emergencies last year. (She’s since learned the hard way that a ten-foot-tall Djungelskog from IKEA doesn’t qualify as an emergency purchase.) “Here, I got it.”
“You don’t have to. Our family has more than sufficient funds.”
“No, I can pay.” Enid gently pries the bill from Wednesday’s hands, then slots her card into the top. “You’ve done enough for me already, and it’s not even really my money - my dad gave me this credit card.” She laughs bitterly. “Pretty much the only thing he’s ever given me.”
Wednesday tilts her head to the side, considering.
“Plus,” Enid adds with a wink. “I’m your girlfriend, right? I’m supposed to treat you.”
Wednesday opens her mouth, glares, closes it again. “Fine.”
“Why are you in such a rush, anyway?” Enid asks as the waiter hands her the receipt. “Where do we have to be?”
“The Christmas tree farm,” Wednesday says, like this is a given. “They’re closed at this time of night, but their security is laughable. We should be in and out quite quickly.”
Enid’s jaw drops. “Call me Santa in denial, cause I’m saying ho ho no to that. It’s so against the holiday spirit, Wednesday. We can’t steal a Christmas tree!”
--
They do, in fact, steal a Christmas tree.
Wednesday is right; security at the farm is lax at best, and it takes her a mere five minutes to pick the lock on the gate, select a tree, and drag it back to the car. Enid helps her lift it onto the roof and secure it, feeling a little like the Grinch.
“I’m literally stealing Christmas,” she frets as they pull out of the lot. “Well, one Christmas tree, but still. This has to be some kind of seriously bad karma.”
“Karma is an incorrect notion made up to dissuade people from immorality,” Wednesday replies. “I think you’ll survive.”
Once they’re back at the house, they carry the tree inside and set it up in the living room. The room is empty, but a fire still burns low in the hearth as Enid hauls the tree into an upright position between two of the windows and then stands back to admire her work.
“Happy now?” Wednesday asks dryly.
“Yes. No! Not yet. It needs to be decorated.” Enid scrounges around the room, coming up with two leftover rolls of tinsel and one remaining string of lights, and tries her best to drape them around the tree.
Wednesday strides over and takes the lights from Enid, wrapping them around the branches with startling efficiency. “I was planning to remain uninvolved in this procedure, but this is too sad to watch anymore.”
“Maybe,” Enid says, grinning, “or maybe you secretly wanted to decorate a Christmas tree with me this whole time.”
“Your delusion is admirable.” Wednesday tucks the lights over one last branch before plugging them in; the tree comes suddenly to life in tiny bursts of sunset-hued color. “Now let’s go to bed.”
“Okay,” Enid agrees, but she lingers one moment longer. Here in this room with Wednesday on Christmas Eve, bathed in the warmth of the fire and the glow of pink and white and orange, she feels surrounded by magic - and if this is a spell, she doesn’t want it to break just yet.
--
The next morning, Enid is woken by Thing tapping politely at her shoulder. She yawns and stretches, not at all fazed, and she’s about to roll over and go back to sleep when she remembers exactly what day it is.
“OMG, Thing! Merry Christmas!”
Merry Christmas, Thing signs in return, then moves onto Wednesday’s shoulder and starts tapping again.
There’s a slapping sound, and Thing hurries quickly away from Wednesday’s side of the bed. Wednesday raises her head from a mess of pillows, disgruntled. “Yes, Thing, a very miserable Christmas to you, too. Now let me sleep, or I swear I’ll stick you in that Chinese finger trap again.”
“You can’t go back to sleep,” Enid protests, even though she’d been planning on doing the exact same thing only minutes before. “It’s Christmas morning!”
“Lamentable. Wake me again when it’s Christmas evening - or better yet, when Christmas is over and done with.”
“Ugh, I give up. Thing, a little help?”
Thing flashes Enid a quick okay, then takes Wednesday’s phone from the nightstand and shoves it under Wednesday’s nose, tapping against its edge until she raises her head again. Wednesday grudgingly cracks one eye open, then suddenly grabs the phone from Thing’s grip and sits bolt upright.
“Enid,” Wednesday says in a very calm tone.
Enid winces. “Uh oh. I’m in danger.”
Wednesday holds out her phone, which Enid hasn’t seen her use once since her arrival. The screen is displaying an ungodly amount of text message notifications; as Enid watches, several more appear.
“Look,” Wednesday says, unlocking the phone and handing it over. “This is your doing.”
Unknown Number
U DID NOT TELL ME U LIKED ENID
AND U DID NOT TELL ME U WERE *DATING* ENID
Also
It’s Eugene lol
Hi!!!
The bees miss u
And I miss u
U have to try some of their new honey
It’s so good
But srsly y didn’t u tell me abt liking Enid I wouldn’t have tried to hit on her if I’d known
Call me back ASAP!
Or at least text me
Btw merry Christmas!
“He keeps messaging,” Wednesday says, displeased. “Why did you feel the need to give him my contact information?”
“OMG, of course he does. He’s your friend.” Enid laughs. “Eugene is such a sweetie, I can even forgive him for terribly flirting with me last semester. I adore him - and I know you do too, deep down.”
Wednesday makes a noise of dissent, locking her phone again. Enid gives her what she hopes is a stern look. “Wednesday. Are you really going to leave him on read? On Christmas, too?”
“I don’t want to encourage him. Rewarding unwanted behavior creates the false notion that said behavior is acceptable.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Enid says, pushing at Wednesday’s knee. “You say that now, but watch. You’ll end up answering.”
“I will not.”
Thing, still resting on the nightstand, taps out a quick message: Yes, you will.
“Alright, alright,” Enid says, sliding out of bed and scooping Thing onto her shoulder before opening her duffel bag and pulling out the smaller bag that’s been buried at the bottom for the last few days. “Forget Eugene, then. Let's go downstairs and open presents.”
“Fine by me. Lead the way.”
Enid pushes the door open, waiting for Wednesday to follow. For one brief second, from the corner of her eye, she sees Wednesday laboriously typing a brief message into her phone before dropping it on the bed like it’s personally offended her.
--
Downstairs, Pugsley is already perched on the couch with a heap of black-wrapped presents piled at his feet. Morticia and Gomez are sitting on the loveseat by the fire, exchanging loving glances; Enid and Wednesday both avert their eyes, which Enid does quietly and Wednesday does with a loud retching noise.
“The only thing I want for Christmas is for the two of you to act your age for more than five minutes in a row,” Wednesday remarks as she sits down on the other sofa. Enid sits next to her, curling into her side and hiding her smile when Wednesday doesn’t pull away from the contact.
“Feliz navidad, mi familia,” Gomez says happily, seemingly undeterred by Wednesday’s comment. “Wednesday, mija, open this first. It’s from me and your mother.”
He passes over a thin box wrapped in glossy black paper. When Wednesday sets it down in her lap, it’s long enough that it stretches across Enid’s legs too.
“And this is for you, Enid,” Gomez adds. He hands over another package, this one also wrapped in black and tied with silver ribbons.
“Oh,” Enid says, deeply flattered to be included in the gift exchange. She’d brought presents from San Francisco for everyone in the household - she’s not an inconsiderate guest - but she hadn’t expected to receive any in return. “Thank you! Here, this is from me.”
She reaches into the bag that she brought downstairs, digs out the two identical packages she wrapped in smiling reindeer paper, and passes them to Gomez and Morticia, who regard them with deep interest.
“Everyone stop giving out presents,” Pugsley says. “Enid has to open mine first. Here, Enid, catch!”
He chucks a large, square box across the room; Enid catches it with a laugh. “Sure, of course I’ll open yours first. Do I get any kind of hint about what it is?”
“It’s my favorite bait,” Pugsley says happily. “Now you can come fishing with me and Enid once it’s spring again.”
Enid slides a finger under the wrapping paper, pulling it off in one long piece. “Sounds good, but won’t fish bait get kind of old and gross by then?”
Pugsley just grins. “Not this bait.”
Enid gives him a quizzical look as she yanks the top off the box. “What do you mean - holy shit these are hand grenades!”
Thing, still resting on Enid’s shoulder, taps out a calming pattern for her. Wednesday looks into the box, then nods approvingly. “Those are Pugsley’s favorite form of bait. We’ve caught thousands of fish that way.”
“Can you eat them afterwards, or…”
“No, not at all,” Pugsley assures her. “We just keep going until the pond is full of dead fish.”
“Um,” Enid says, inching away from the box of grenades in what she hopes is a subtle manner. “Yeah. Totally. Hey, is anyone else hungry right now? How about a snack break?”
--
An hour later, breakfast has been eaten and nearly all the presents have been unwrapped; gifts lie scattered at will across the living room. As Christmas hauls go, today’s is a pretty good one.
Wednesday has a new cello bow from her parents - with a sword hidden in the spine - as well as a dagger from Pugsley and a new pair of boots from Thing - who, judging by his smug stance, definitely didn’t pay for them.
Pugsley has a towering stack of presents, including something that looks worryingly like a bomb-making kit; Enid won’t be surprised if the manor blows up in the next few days.
Thing has a new tube of hand lotion from Wednesday and a new set of nail clippers from Gomez and Morticia. He’s currently resting on the table by the fireplace, completely absorbed by the fidget spinner that Enid bought for him.
Pugsley, Gomez, and Morticia are all wearing the matching black snoods that Enid brought for them, and it’s giving Enid some much-needed validation. Enid’s own family members never wear her creations, claiming that they’re too hideous to be seen in public - and sure, maybe the first one she made for her brother’s birthday turned out looking like a hairball, but whatever. She’s gotten so much better at knitting since then.
Enid glances down yet again at the small wooden box in her lap, tracing her fingers over the carving on the lid. Gomez and Morticia’s present is one that moved her nearly to tears when she opened it: a writing set complete with two bottles of ink and a set of fancy quills, all stored in a box engraved with the Addams family crest.
“You are one of the family now,” Morticia had told her, “and that will never change, no matter what comes to pass.”
Enid had planned to answer with an eloquent statement of gratitude, or at least in a complete sentence. Instead, she’d just clutched the box to her chest and tried, not entirely successfully, to fight back tears.
She’s calmer now, after a cup of hot chocolate and a quick sign-language conversation with Thing about the magic of Christmas spirit. When she settles back onto the couch next to Wednesday for the last exchange of presents, she feels normal again.
It doesn’t last very long.
“Here’s your present,” Wednesday remarks, passing over a small package wrapped in black. “Try not to ruin it when you open it.”
Enid reaches into her bag for the one remaining gift and hands it to Wednesday. “Can we open them at the exact same time? It’ll be like one of those Christmas morning gift-exchange videos on Youtube. Or like an eclipse.”
“Your mind works in such absurd ways,” Wednesday says, but her fingers go still against the bright pink paper of her present. “Very well, then. On three?”
“On three,” Enid confirms. “One…two…three.”
They both start opening their presents, Enid tearing the paper from hers eagerly while Wednesday extracts hers from the shell of its wrappings with a surgical precision, and then there’s a short silence while they process what they’ve just been given.
Enid’s holding a thin black scarf patterned with a series of small pink shapes: birds, she realizes, ravens added to the pattern in a rose-pink wool. The scarf is impossibly soft to the touch, clearly handmade, and it’s beautiful.
“Wednesday,” she says, stunned almost beyond speech. “Did - did you make this for me?”
“You made me a garment once. I thought it would be appropriate to return the favor - and besides, you need a less colorful item for your wardrobe. Once I did some research, it was easy enough to learn the so-called skill of knitting.”
“It’s really, really good,” Enid says. “I love it so much. Thank you.”
Wednesday holds up her own gift: the small pink bag that Enid crocheted for her, only slightly lumpy on one side. “I appreciate your gift as well. It’s quite…unique.”
Enid laughs. “That’s only part of the gift. Open the bag.”
Wednesday does so, reaching inside to pull out the real gift: an ornate black pocket watch, complete with a set of clockwork gears and a tiny wolf embossed on the casing, howling up at the moon. Enid had found it at a thrift store last month before she even knew she’d be seeing Wednesday over the holidays: she’d winced at the price tag but purchased it anyway, thinking of how much Wednesday would love it.
Now, seeing the way that Wednesday holds it like a living heart between her hands, Enid’s glad she did.
“This is immaculate craftsmanship,” Wednesday says, running a finger along the curves of the case. “The level of mastery here is one that I’ve rarely seen, if ever. Where did you get it?”
Enid waves a hand. “Oh, I made it myself. No big deal.”
Wednesday stares at her, unblinking. Enid laughs. “Just kidding. I found it at a thrift store.”
“It will fit perfectly with my wardrobe,” Wednesday says. “Thank you. This is a miserable Christmas indeed.”
Enid frowns. “What? Why miserable?”
“Misery is one of my favorite feelings. A miserable Christmas is far better than a merry one.”
“Okay, sure,” Enid says fondly, shaking her head. “Whatever you say. A miserable Christmas to you too.”
--
Christmas dinner is served late in the evening, but it’s worth the wait; the massive ebony table is covered in golden plates and dishes, each one holding a different kind of food. Enid’s never seen a spread like this before. Back at home, Christmas dinner is usually just a pile of rare steaks and a few sides of mashed potatoes and green beans.
Here at the Addams manor, things are different. The main dish is a roast that takes up half the table, and Enid isn’t sure exactly what kind of meat it is, but it smells amazing. The plates surrounding it are filled with sides and appetizers, some normal and some not - there’s a plate of potatoes side by side with a plate of bat wings, and the gravy boat sits next to a bowl of what looks like blood.
The roast is carved, the food is served, and the meal flies by in a warm, comfortable haze of conversation and company. It’s the first time in years that Enid’s had a Christmas dinner without at least one fight breaking out before dessert; instead of her brothers all shouting over each other and her mother criticizing her, there’s just the easy exchange of Wednesday and Gomez discussing fencing tactics, and Gomez teasing Pugsley for gloating so much over his Christmas presents, and Morticia asking about Enid’s favorite classes at Nevermore.
Throughout it all, Enid is vividly aware of Wednesday in her peripheral, at her side. She thinks, fleetingly and with a pain like a burn in her chest, that in some ways she feels more at home here than she ever has back in San Francisco.
She thinks, too, that she doesn’t want to leave.
Dessert comes and goes in the form of a towering dark chocolate mousse, and all too soon the meal is over and the clock’s hands are pointing to ten. Enid, weighed down by far too much food and dizzy from the joy of it all, stumbles slightly as she gets up from her chair.
Wednesday’s there in an instant, steadying her at the elbow. “You should be more careful,” she says as she steers Enid toward the hall. “There isn’t - ”
She stops dead on the threshold between the room and the hallway, staring up at something above them. Enid follows her gaze, then immediately feels like she’s taken a baseball bat to the head.
There, hanging from the top of the doorway by a bright red ribbon, is a branch of mistletoe so large it nearly brushes both sides of the door.
“Oh, gross,” Pugsley complains, pausing halfway up the staircase. “Now they’re going to kiss.”
Enid risks a look at Wednesday’s expression, which is darker than a thunderstorm and twice as dangerous.
“Mother,” Wednesday accuses. “Father. Did either of you hang this arboreal abomination?”
Morticia shakes her head. Gomez says, “No,” but there’s a knowing gleam in his eye.
“Thing, then,” Wednesday says. “Of course. He’s a dead hand walking.”
“Hey, come on,” Enid says quietly. “Where’s your Christmas spirit? Besides, your parents are watching.”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth twitches once in what Enid knows is a suppressed grimace. It’s like a knife to Enid’s stomach; of course this is too far for them to go, too much for her to hope for. Of course Wednesday would never actually -
“Fine,” Wednesday mutters. “Kiss me.”
Enid’s mouth nearly falls open, and she just barely manages to keep a straight face. “I - you - really?”
“Just hurry up and do it before they get suspicious.”
Enid gathers her courage, pulls Wednesday closer. She takes one second to consider what she’s about to do, and one more to acknowledge that her life will never be the same after this, and then she leans in and kisses Wednesday.
It’s careful and delicate, and they’ve never been here before but there’s something about it that feels familiar anyway. Wednesday’s lips are soft against hers, and Enid feels a sensation like a dying star exploding in her chest when Wednesday’s hand rises to cradle her jaw. She knows, deep and instinctual, that this kiss is something she’ll never be able to get over. She’ll live it, breathe it, carry this memory in her heart like a sentient thing; when she dies, it will probably be with Wednesday’s name and the ghost of this kiss on her lips.
And then it’s over, and Wednesday is drawing back with an inscrutable look on her face. Enid touches one hand to her own mouth, wondering if Wednesday can see every place inside her that’s shattering.
“Ew,” Pugsley declares, and the spell is broken. “Get a room, you guys.”
“And leave the door open,” Morticia adds, stern but amused. “I noticed, Enid, that our guest room has been vacant for days now.”
“The ghouls disturb her,” Wednesday says, her tone maddeningly neutral. “We’re going upstairs now, where our sleeping arrangements will continue as they have been and nobody will interfere unless they wish to meet an untimely demise. A miserable Christmas to you all.”
She turns on her heel and makes her way up the stairs gracefully. Enid follows with shaky steps, feeling the world renew itself around her.
--
Back in Wednesday’s room, the silence is deafening.
Enid sits on the right side of the bed, her body still on fire from their kiss and her brain nervous in a way that it hasn’t been around Wednesday for months now. Wednesday sits on the left, her expression an impenetrable fortress that tells Enid a useless, infuriating tale of nothing.
Finally, Enid can’t take it anymore.
“Should we talk about this?” she asks apprehensively. “I mean, I feel like maybe we should.”
“No,” Wednesday says immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Yeah, but…” Enid waves her hands, trying to find words for the endless tangle of thoughts in her mind. “You aren’t - you don’t usually - I didn’t think you’d be okay. With that.”
“Acting is necessary for the success of any subterfuge,” Wednesday says. “Everything is in order.”
“But - ”
“Enid,” Wednesday says, in a tone that brooks no argument. “I am finished with this discussion.”
Enid bows her head slightly, trying to hide her face. She’s not upset, exactly. She’s just - worried.
Worried, because she doesn’t know if everything is truly in order or Wednesday’s secretly mad at her. Worried, because now that she’s kissed Wednesday she doesn’t know how to carry on living without doing it again.
The silence between them grows unbearable, and Enid’s so restless with emotion she’s almost ready to climb out of her own body. Thing, perched on the desk, taps a quiet, nervous pattern against the wood.
“Remind me of the title of that ludicrous movie you wanted me to watch,” Wednesday says after an agonizing few minutes.
Enid perks up, confused but hopeful. “Mean Girls. Why?”
Wednesday ignores the question. “Do you have your laptop device?”
“Yeah.” Enid reaches for her duffel bag, slides her laptop from the side pocket. “Is this you offering to watch it with me?”
“Of course not. I suppose, however, that I wouldn’t entirely mind if you watched it yourself while I happened to be within the vicinity.” Wednesday moves onto the bed and leans back against the pillows, leaving space by her side; Enid, recognizing the peace offering for what it is, lies down next to her and opens her laptop to find the movie. Over on the desk, Thing subtly switches off the lamp.
The movie begins, and Enid tries her best to get lost in the plot instead of focusing on Wednesday’s presence beside her. She’s only partly successful; ignoring Wednesday is like trying to ignore a rainstorm, especially when she keeps darting glances in Enid’s direction.
After a few minutes of this, Enid presses the spacebar to pause the movie. “Wednesday, are you actually watching?”
Wednesday sniffs, hard. “Don’t be a cretin. I have no interest in your vapid, pink-washed teenage drama.”
“If you’re sure,” Enid says, inching closer to her and sliding the laptop over until it’s centered between them, then starting the movie again. “I’ll be fine watching alone, then.”
Seven minutes later, Enid catches a glimpse of Wednesday from the corner of her eye: she’s staring at the screen, intent and focused. Enid whips her gaze away before Wednesday can notice, a thread of some bright and breathless emotion uncurling in her stomach.
--
As they are every year, the days after Christmas are a strange and liminal space. Time slides by in mysterious ways, sometimes fast and sometimes slow; an hour becomes a day, a minute becomes a year.
Enid and Wednesday spend these days doing nothing much - just lazing around the house, eating Christmas leftovers, walking and sleeping and dreaming.
The house opens itself up, unwinding like a never-ending corridor; together they walk the rooms until Enid knows the west wing, at least, well enough to map it with her eyes closed, can trace the path from library to conservatory to astronomy tower and back to Wednesday’s room like a habit.
Wednesday spends hours reading a set of weathered, leather-bound books from the library, taking handwritten notes in a small black notebook as she goes. Enid doesn’t bother to ask what she’s doing, figuring that Wednesday will share when she’s ready. Instead, she watches videos on her phone while Wednesday reads by her side. She even keeps her headphones in so Wednesday isn’t disturbed.
In the mornings, they eat informal breakfasts in the formal dining room - pancakes, buttered toast - and Enid throws blueberries to Pugsley to see if he can catch them in his mouth. Morticia shakes her head, and Wednesday scoffs about their “juvenile idiocy,” but neither of them intervene.
In the afternoons, Wednesday plays chess against Gomez down in the sitting room and Enid watches with Thing on her shoulder and a fire crackles in the hearth. There’s something devastating about the calculated, concentrated look on Wednesday’s face as she moves her pieces around the board; Enid has to distract herself by talking to Thing so she won’t end up watching too closely.
And in the evenings, when they find themselves back in Wednesday’s room, they stretch out on her bed and share the same space while doing different things. Enid listens while Wednesday practices her cello; Wednesday works on her novel while Enid crochets; Enid scrolls through her phone while Wednesday scribbles notes in the margins of the newspaper’s obituaries column. Enid's moonflower, sitting on the corner of Wednesday's desk, blooms pink through the nights. It’s just like it was back at Nevermore, the two of them alone but still together. Enid doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of this.
They talk about almost everything - art, food, fashion, Korean girl groups, the history of the guillotine, the possible replacements for Nevermore’s head of school next semester. They don’t talk about the kiss.
Enid wants to - she wants to so badly that the desire is an ache in her ribs - but she thinks of everything she stands to lose and the words freeze in her throat. She won’t sacrifice what she has with Wednesday now, not for anything.
In four days, she reminds herself, this will all be over and she and Wednesday will go back to what they were before: nothing more, everything less, all of the holidays like a dream long forgotten between them. Four days, that’s all. She trusts herself not to ruin this before that time runs out.
She doesn’t ask about the kiss, then. She does ask about other things.
“Are you ever going to let me read your novels?” she says on the second night. She’s sprawled across the bed with Thing resting next to her; Wednesday’s sitting straight-backed at her writing desk, typing away with a consistent clatter of keys that’s becoming less unbearable and more comforting the longer Enid hears it.
Wednesday stops typing, turns around. “Perhaps. Once they’re all finished. However, due to recent developments, I don’t foresee that happening soon.”
“What developments?”
“I’m at a curious stage in my latest manuscript,” Wednesday admits reluctantly. “Viper has reached a point in the narrative where she is dealing with some unexpected things - unexpected to her as a character, but also to me as her author.”
“Yeah?” Enid tilts her head, curious. “What kind of things?”
Wednesday narrows her eyes in displeasure. “From the start, I never intended for Viper to have a love interest. Nevertheless, in all my recent writings, she seems to be drawn into the orbit of one specific other character no matter how I try to avoid it. It’s most irritating.”
“Well,” Enid says, her heart hammering in her throat, “maybe that’s just where the story is headed. Maybe you should let it happen.”
“It does seem rather inevitable, sometimes,” Wednesday concedes, pensive. “Only time will tell.”
She turns back to her writing. Enid stares up at the ceiling, wondering if there’s any way this story will end happily for her.
--
December’s full moon falls on the third night after Christmas, clear-skied and freezing. Enid is lethargic this evening, worn-out and apathetic; she looks at the sky and feels nothing, no humming promise of change beneath her skin.
One moon without wolfing out again is an anomaly, but two will be the final nail in her coffin. Enid curls up on Wednesday’s bed in a fit of exhausted despair, resolving not to even look out the window. The moon calls, but she doesn’t listen; the words aren’t for her, and she’s starting to think they never will be again. There’s nothing in the world that can move her from this bed, except -
“Enid,” Wednesday says. “Get up.”
Enid half-raises her head from the pillows, staring blearily at Wednesday; the other girl is standing by the foot of the bed, her black notebook tucked under her arm. “What?”
“Get up,” Wednesday repeats. “We’re going outside.”
“Outside?” Enid scoffs. “Don’t bother. There’s no point, I’m not going to wolf out.”
“I know that it didn’t happen last time, but there’s still a possibility. Besides, the temperature is below freezing now and I quite enjoy the pain of self-induced hypothermia.”
Enid shakes her head. “I’m not going.”
Wednesday takes hold of the bed covers, tugs sharply until the covers slide away from Enid and leave her exposed to the air. “You’re being ridiculous, and frankly quite self-pitying as well. Get up.”
Enid lets out a half-growl of annoyance, her claws sliding out automatically. “Wednesday, leave me alone. It’s not happening.”
“Enid,” Wednesday says. She leans over the bed, over Enid’s body, until she’s the only thing filling Enid’s vision; well, there’s a familiar feeling. “You are a werewolf in either form, and you belong under the full moon. And I - ” She grimaces, distasteful with emotion, and then continues. “I would like to be there with you.”
Enid’s heartbeat skips recklessly forward, tumbling over itself at Wednesday’s words.
“I will never repeat that driveling sentiment,” Wednesday warns, “but you heard me. So - will you get up?”
After a minute, Enid sits up and puts on her shoes, then reaches for the scarf that Wednesday made her. She may not be able to wolf out, but maybe that’s alright; maybe she’s found something better than the moon to follow.
--
The air outside is North-pole frigid, but it’s still and quiet - no wind to speak of, only an endless sea of stars above them. Wednesday leads the way to the back of the manor, towards a bench that overlooks the lake, and they sit down side by side without a word.
Enid looks up at the moon, hanging low over the treetops like a great silver coin in the night, and feels a deep sense of bitterness flood her mouth. She should be shifting right now, should be out and running with her pack. She should be different, better, changed into something good enough to outweigh the useless wreck of her life thus far.
She should be anything but this: a half-baked excuse for a werewolf, wholly human beneath the full moon and desperately, irretrievably in love with her best friend.
Wednesday, oblivious to Enid’s inner turmoil, is leafing through the notebook that’s seldom left her side for the past three days. Enid tips her head to see pages of notes scrawled in Wednesday’s angular, elegant script.
“You never told me what you were writing in there,” she comments.
Wednesday’s mouth flattens to a thin line, a gesture that Enid recognizes as falling somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment. Silently, she opens the notebook to a page at random and hands it over to Enid.
Enid takes it, her eyes scanning down the flowing lines of writing. Here and there, words jump out at her: lycan, blood moon, half-shift. At the bottom of the page, in heavy ink strokes, is a rough drawing of a wolf running beneath a full, round moon.
“Research,” Wednesday says. “I read every book that the Addams family library has on werewolves, and I wrote down everything I thought might be even tangentially significant to helping you shift again.”
Enid lowers the notebook, a chord of awe striking deep within her bones. “You did this for me?”
“I did,” Wednesday says, a note of frustration creeping into her tone, “and it told me nothing. There was all this talk of cures, of conversions - that’s not what I was looking for. You don’t need to be cured.”
“Wednesday - ”
“I know your family pressures you about finding a way to wolf out,” Wednesday continues, “and I never want to emulate them. I only wish to help because I see how miserable this makes you, no matter how you try to hide it.”
“Wednesday,” Enid interrupts, closing the notebook. “Stop. Listen to me.”
Against all odds, Wednesday does.
“It means so much to me that you did this,” Enid says, and it’s honest down to her bones. Here’s ink-and-paper proof that Wednesday cares for her, filling up pages and pages and built not from the desire to change her, but from the wish to make her happy. It’s enough to make Enid’s eyes sting with salt, and if she didn’t know before, she surely knows now; there will never, ever be a time when she isn’t in love with Wednesday Addams.
Wednesday just nods, her shoulder barely brushing against Enid’s. Their breaths turn to ghosts against the cold, tiny spirals drifting through the air.
“I guess maybe this was too much to ask for,” Enid admits half to herself, resting one hand on the cover of the notebook. “I should have known better than to think that one full moon was enough to change me for good.”
“O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,” Wednesday murmurs in response. “From…”
“Shakespeare, I know. Romeo and Juliet - everyone had to read that for ninth grade English.” The corner of Enid’s mouth twitches briefly upwards. “Wasn’t expecting you to quote a love story, though.”
Wednesday makes a dismissive sound. “It’s not a love story. It’s a comedy.”
“A comedy? They both die at the end!”
“As I said. A comedy.”
Enid lets out a short laugh that comes out more like a bark against the cold night air. “Only you would think that.”
“And I’m correct,” Wednesday counters, “so here we are.”
More silence. More cold. Enid’s hand rests side by side with Wednesdays, both of their fingers turning blue, but she doesn’t dare to close the last two inches between them.
“The main thing I read in those lycanthropy books, besides a disgustingly prevalent case for conversion therapy,” Wednesday says, in a voice almost softer than Enid’s ever heard from her before, “is that there’s no rushing what’s to come. You can try and try, but nothing will ever happen before its time.”
“But that’s the thing,” Enid says frustratedly. “I thought my time had come, and then it hadn’t, and now I don’t know what to think. I’m no use to anyone like this. I may as well just be dead.”
There’s a flash of dark movement in her peripheral, and then Wednesday’s hand is at the side of her face, cradling her jaw.
Enid stops breathing, stays perfectly still. It’s the first time Wednesday’s touched her since the kiss three days ago, and the contact sears through Enid like a hot knife despite the coldness of Wednesday’s hand.
“Don’t ever say that about yourself.” The softness is gone from Wednesday’s voice; she’s all iron now, all thunder and storm. “Despite the fact that the idea of death is usually appealing to me - despite the fact that I have on multiple occasions entertained a fantasy in which it comes for you while you are playing your ear-bleeding pop music - the prospect of a world without you in it is no longer one that is bearable to me. You are important, Enid, no matter what shape you take. More than that, you are important to me.”
Wednesday cuts herself off abruptly, her chest rising and falling slightly from the passion of her outburst. Enid remains frozen where she is, immobilized by Wednesday’s touch. She doesn’t think she’ll ever move from this place as long as she lives.
“Wednesday,” she manages, and nothing more, because if she allows herself to say anything else it will be replaced by: I love you.
Wednesday’s other hand rises to touch Enid’s forehead, her fingertips ghosting soft over the thin ridge of Enid’s scars. Against her will, Enid’s eyes flutter closed momentarily.
“You saved my life,” Wednesday says. “And I will return the favor someday, even if it takes a thousand years.”
Enid thinks: I know you will. She thinks: You already have.
Wednesday lets her fingers fall away from Enid’s scars, but leaves her other hand resting at the turn of her jaw. She’s only a breath away, so impossibly close that it hurts. Enid’s heartbeat hovers in her chest like a hummingbird mid-flight; she leans forward ever so slightly, waiting to see if Wednesday will pull away.
Wednesday doesn’t.
“I know,” Enid says belatedly, her voice a bare shell of a whisper. “I know you will.” There’s a storm of emotion building within her, a feeling so big and beautiful her bones can’t contain it - forget the world, forget the moon, she’s bound only to the girl in front of her. She takes a deep breath, throws pride and caution to the winds, leans in closer -
- and quickly jerks backwards, slipping from Wednesday’s grasp as a full-body spasm rips through her like an earthquake.
“Enid,” Wednesday says, sharp with concern. “What’s wrong?”
Enid can’t reply. There’s a new feeling overtaking her body now, a soul-splitting, bone-breaking pull that bursts through her like a river flooding its banks. She’s turning inside out, tearing at the seams, and she’s never felt anything like this before, except - oh -
Enid twists, turns, falls to the ground as her chest burns and her lungs strain and every bone in her body aches. When she rises, everything looks different.
Wednesday’s staring up at her, except something’s wrong; she’s so small now, so fragile-looking. Enid has a deep, sudden urge to curl up around her and protect her from the world, no matter how much she would hate it.
“Enid,” Wednesday says, surprise and something like amazement breaking through the usual wall of her expression. “You did it. You wolfed out.”
Enid looks down at her hands, only to realize that they’re paws. Wednesday’s closer to her now, saying something -
And then everything goes black.
--
Enid blinks her eyes open again, coming back slowly. She’s stretched across the snowy ground, her limbs sprawled out in every direction, and everything smells like Wednesday, soap and midnight rain.
Also, she’s still a wolf.
Enid jumps to her feet - paws? - and looks around wildly for Wednesday. She doesn’t have to look far.
“There you are,” Wednesday says. “Can you still understand me?”
Enid nods.
“Are you comfortable?”
Enid nods again. It’s a much harder gesture when she’s not in human form - it involves a lot more concentration.
Wednesday stretches out one hand towards Enid, slow and deliberate, like she’s not sure if Enid will allow it. Enid does; she can’t imagine that there’s any world or shape in which she would refuse Wednesday’s touch. Wednesday rubs her fingers carefully at the base of Enid’s ear, and Enid closes her eyes blissfully.
“I’m really not an animal person,” Wednesday says, “but believe it or not, you seem more intelligent in this form. Do you want to come inside for the night? You should be able to fit through the main door.”
Enid nods, following at Wednesday’s heels as the other girl leads her back to the manor. Wednesday pulls the front doors open effortlessly, letting Enid into the massive hall of the foyer.
“The corridors are large enough that you should be able to get back to the room,” Wednesday says. “Try not to break anything.”
Enid pads after Wednesday, up the stairs and down the hall until they reach the familiar black-lacquer door. Enid squeezes herself gingerly through the door frame, careful not to knock over the desk or the bookshelf.
“Here,” Wednesday says, gesturing to the space next to her bed. “You can sleep on the carpet.”
Enid lies down gratefully, curling her body into a circle and closing her eyes. She expects Wednesday to get into bed, but there’s no sound of mattress springs; instead, there’s the soft noise of silk against velvet, and the patter of bare feet against floorboards, and then Wednesday is sitting down next to her. Enid’s eyes fly open, disbelieving.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Wednesday says, leaning into Enid’s side and spreading the black duvet from her bed across her legs. “Your fur is warmer than my bedsheets, that’s all. Mention this in the morning and I’ll make you into a rug.”
Enid just smiles, curling tighter around Wednesday. They drift off to sleep just like that, a girl and a wolf tangled in an embrace that’s half human and all heart.
--
“Your fur is everywhere,” Wednesday complains the next morning, shaking out her duvet. “Must you shed all over everything?”
Enid, back in human form, turns guiltily from where she’s sitting at Wednesday’s desk. The duvet is indeed covered in golden-white hair, with a mix of pink and blue scattered in. “Huh. Would you look at that.”
Wednesday gives the blanket one last shake, then folds it into precise thirds and puts it back on her bed. “Next time you wolf out, you’re getting an old bath towel instead of my perfectly good duvet.” She examines Enid for a second, eyes trailing clinically over her form. “Do you think there will be a next time?”
Enid raises one hand, slides her claws out effortlessly. She feels a subtle power running below her skin, spreading through her veins like moonlight in her blood - there’s something different this time. She closes her eyes briefly, remembers Wednesday’s touch against her scars; in her mind’s eye, the full moon slides into view. When she listens, she hears Wednesday’s heartbeat like a metronome. When she smiles, her canine teeth are longer and sharper.
“I do,” Enid says, as sure as she’s ever been. “When I wolfed out before, I didn’t feel like this afterwards. This time, this full moon, it hits different.”
“Hits different,” Wednesday repeats, like she doesn’t quite understand what Enid’s saying. “I don’t understand that phrase.”
“You would if you went on your phone more than once a month,” Enid scolds her. “Honestly, Wednesday, you need to get with the times. There’s so much internet lore for you to catch up on.”
Wednesday just scoffs, then scoops up a black heap of clothing at the foot of her bed and tosses it in Enid’s direction. Enid catches it, baffled, and unfolds it: a black sweater, partly stretched at the collar but warm and soft. “What’s this for?”
“You,” Wednesday says. “You ruined my duvet already; you may as well ruin an article of my clothing as well.” It’s said distastefully, but there’s a slight crease at the edge of her mouth that belies a deeper emotion.
Enid happily pulls the sweater on over her pink t-shirt; it fits almost perfectly, and it smells so much like Wednesday that it makes her head spin. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d almost say that you’re starting to really like me.”
“A preposterous notion to say the least.” Wednesday crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed, facing Enid. “Your presence is tolerable at best.”
Enid meets Wednesday’s eyes, finds them unfathomable. They’re back here, then - back to the pretense and the banter, back to the endless push and pull. Back to pretending that Wednesday’s speech last night didn’t tear Enid’s still-beating heart from her chest.
Maybe it’s better this way, Enid tells herself. Maybe, if she lives this lie long enough, she’ll begin to believe it.
She’s just about to make another joke when Wednesday reaches out and straightens her sweater, pulling gently at the collar.
“You look imbecilic,” Wednesday tells her, and maybe Enid’s imagining it, but she swears she hears a minute crack in Wednesday’s voice: a tiny thing, like the tremor before an earthquake. “If you’re going to wear my clothes, wear them right.”
“Right,” Enid echoes, her gaze dropping unconsciously to the curve of Wednesday’s mouth and then immediately rising again.
Wednesday stands over her, hands still caught at the edge of Enid’s sweater, eyes wide and dark like the windows of a haunted house where Enid would gladly live forever, and Enid knows that someday they’ll have to start talking about this. Someday she won’t be able to live with this secret anymore; it’ll spill out of her like a flood, like the tides.
“Hey, Wednesday?”
“Yes?”
“If you ever tell the story of last night, or if you ever hear me tell it - can you leave out the part where I fainted right after wolfing out?”
It’s not what Enid wants to say, really. It’s not even close. But Wednesday’s lips curl a fraction of an inch higher, and that’s almost enough.
“I make no promises,” Wednesday says, that faint ghost of a smile still tracing the edge of her mouth. She looks like the moon, whole and luminous, and even without wolfing out Enid feels something changing irreversibly within herself at the sight.
“You’re the worst,” Enid says, meaning the exact opposite. “Let’s go to breakfast. Oh, wait - here.”
She reaches for the hoodie she draped over the railing of Wednesday’s bed last night and holds it out to Wednesday, who visibly recoils.
“Why are you attempting to hand me that putrid garment?”
Enid shrugs. “You gave me your sweater, so I’m giving you one of mine. Fair’s fair.” Of all the clothes she brought with her, this one’s the closest to acceptable by Wednesday’s standards: it’s a over-sized purple hoodie with a small pink rose embroidered on the chest. It’s not exactly black, but it’s darker than almost anything else she owns.
Wednesday looks absolutely disgusted, but she takes it - and then, in an impossible maneuver, a Christmas miracle come four days too late, she puts it on.
Enid stares, transfixed. Wednesday’s nearly drowning in the hoodie, her arms lost somewhere in the over-long sleeves, and her braids are slightly messy from the cotton static; she looks, in a word, ridiculous. Enid’s never seen anything more beautiful.
“You wanted me to wear this, didn’t?” Wednesday says grumpily. “Stop looking at me like that.” Then to Thing, who’s tapping his fingers gleefully against the desk: “Not one word.”
“No - I mean, yes, I wanted that,” Enid says. There’s something warm burning in the pit of her stomach, a flint striking tinder at the sight of Wednesday in clothes that are obviously and undeniably hers. “I just never thought you’d actually do it. What about your allergy?”
“Exposure therapy. Besides, the sensation of flesh peeling off my bones is rather pleasant sometimes.” Wednesday smoothes her braids down, then glances in the mirror and grimaces at her reflection. “If my family knows what’s good for them, they won’t say a word about this.”
Five minutes later, as soon as they step into the dining room, Pugsley blurts out, “Wednesday, you’re wearing colors?” and Enid has to hold Wednesday back from overturning the dining table.
--
The next two days slip away in a haze of hours lost somewhere between the lake and the house and Wednesday’s room, and the last day of December arrives far before Enid is ready for it. She wakes up with a sense of dread on the morning of the New Year’s ball - a sense of dread, and a persistent ache in her ears that stems from some kind of commotion downstairs.
Enid groans, cursing the sharpness of her hearing, and rolls over to find Wednesday resting against the headboard, already awake and reading a book.
“Preparations for the ball,” Wednesday says, anticipating Enid’s question. “They start earlier and earlier every year. My parents have an inexplicable passion for formal celebrations.”
Enid presses her hands to her ears. “What are they doing down there, building a whole new house?”
“Rearranging furniture in the ballroom, most likely. My father insists that the layout can never be the same twice. I must say, I have to respect his commitment.”
“How big is this ball, anyway?” Enid questions, pushing at Wednesday’s arm until she sets down her book and then shifting around to rest her head in Wednesday’s lap. Wednesday makes a grudging noise of assent, allowing this to happen like it’s habit. With a thrill, Enid realizes that it is.
Wednesday hums, calculating. “Excluding the orchestra, the average attendance is around one hundred and sixty people. It’s mostly distant relatives and family friends, but my father always invites the local community as well.” A wry look crosses her face. “None of the mundane guests have ever returned.”
“A hundred and…” Enid chokes around the number, her voice rapidly rising. “That - that’s so many. I thought this would be, like, a cute little party, not a huge event. Oh god, I definitely didn’t pack the right dress.”
“Fashion is relative,” Wednesday says, “and furthermore, if anyone challenges your attire, I’ll eviscerate them.”
Enid’s heart flutters at that, and she tries her best to ignore it. “You know, just once you could find a way of expressing your affection that doesn’t involve threatening people.”
“Why would I? Murdering one person on behalf of another is one of the grandest gestures you can make to demonstrate your devotion.” Wednesday picks up her book again, resting it gently against Enid’s forehead. “Better make yourself comfortable. Leaving this room any time before the ball begins will only ensure that we are roped into helping.”
As much as Enid wants to give in, to spend her last full day here with Wednesday and no one else, she can’t allow herself to do it. The more she holds on today, the harder it will be to let go tomorrow.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go help. Your parents let me stay for almost two weeks - this is the least I can do to thank them.”
“Your altruism would be admirable if it weren’t so foolish,” Wednesday says, setting her book aside for the second time. “You have no idea what awaits us downstairs. The décor, the ice sculptures…I shudder to even think of the hor d’oeuvres.”
“Wednesday,” Enid laughs. “It can’t possibly be that bad.”
--
“You just had to say something,” Wednesday grumbles later that evening.
Enid can only sigh in response, collapsing onto Wednesday’s bed. “Who knew that putting together canapés could be so exhausting?”
The second they’d appeared downstairs that morning, Morticia had paused her directions to the servicemen long enough to assign them a series of tasks. Now, six hours of flower arranging, cutlery polishing, and canapé-assembling later, they’ve finally been spared long enough to clean up and change before the ball begins.
“I’m going to shower,” Wednesday announces, “and you should do the same. You can have my bathroom; I’ll use the one down the hall. Meet me on the stairs to the ballroom at a quarter to nine.”
Enid blinks, disappointed. “You don’t want to get ready together? Do our hair and makeup, maybe watch a few music videos to get ourselves hyped up? I know you said you hate all pop music, but I think you could like Blackpink if you’d just give them a try.”
“I’d rather cut my own ears off than listen to that drivel,” Wednesday says, “and as for preparing ourselves, we’ll be better off in separate rooms.”
It feels oddly like a rejection. Enid tries not to take it personally, but she can’t help feeling like Wednesday’s already slipping away.
“Okay,” she says, keeping her voice light even as her heart sinks. “Okay, yeah, sounds good.”
Wednesday moves around the room in a whirlwind, collecting items: a towel, a makeup kit, a garment bag. She scoops Thing onto her shoulder, and then she’s gone without a backwards glance.
Enid sits on the bed and watches mournfully as the door closes behind her, trying not to look like the world’s most pathetic loser. She’s pretty sure she fails miserably.
Unwilling to get dressed just yet, Enid scrolls through her phone aimlessly. She likes Eugene’s latest post about bees; she checks on the status of her blog, which she’s all but abandoned since the end of the semester; and then she opens her messages and pauses when she sees her mother’s name near the bottom of the screen.
The last exchange is from nearly a week ago - a simple Merry Christmas, nothing more. Enid still hasn’t told her about wolfing out. For some reason, she wants to keep it to herself for just a little longer.
Her thumbs hover above the screen, torn between the part of her that remembers nights lost in tears over things her mother said and the part of her that still, despite it all, wants to run and hide in her arms like a scared little kid. In the end, she drops the phone back on the bed without typing anything.
--
Enid arrives on the ballroom steps at a quarter to nine, dressed as fancily as she can manage under the circumstances and brimming with anxiety. Her claws keep sliding out involuntarily, seeking a threat that’s not there, and she keeps having to pull them back - which is embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as the way she’s lurking half-hidden behind a large plant as she waits for Wednesday to show up.
“I would advise against standing so close to the venomous flowervine,” Wednesday’s voice says from behind her. “It’s carnivorous.”
“Well,” Enid jokes as she turns around, “I am too, now that I can wolf out again,” and then she catches sight of Wednesday and stops breathing.
Wednesday’s wearing a long, sweeping black satin dress that pulls tight in a corset at her waist before flaring out into skirts of elaborate lace. The collar rises high around her neck, perfectly straightened, and there’s a small white shape sewn into the silk on each side - crescent moons, Enid realizes in a daze.
Wednesday’s hair is arranged in a crown of braids, striking and regal. Two satin bands wrap around her forearms, each holding a thin dagger in a black leather sheath, and she’s wearing her familiar black boots; as a final touch, the pocket watch that Enid gave her hangs from her neck like a pendant.
She’s dressed similar to how she was at the Rave’N, but there are differences, too: tonight she stands taller, moves freer, looks more dangerous. The only thing that hasn’t changed at all is the way Enid’s breath catches at the back of her throat when she looks at her.
Oh, Enid is screwed.
Wednesday’s eyes sweep over her, dark and unreadable as always. Enid smoothes her hands over her own dress, self-conscious. She’s wearing a pink dress significantly shorter than Wednesday’s, with tights so light rose-colored they look white. She’s also wearing her pink Converse, because she’d stupidly forgotten to pack more formal shoes.
“You look…more than adequate,” Wednesday says at last, looking strangely unhappy about it.
“Thank you,” Enid says, hearing her own words echo vaguely in her ears. “You look beautiful.”
“How disappointing. I thought I looked abhorrent - or, at the very least, horrible.”
Enid laughs. “Only you would take beautiful as an insult. Um, you look…breathtaking? In the metaphorical way but also the murderous way?”
“Acceptable.” Wednesday produces something pink from behind her back and holds it out to Enid. “Here. I brought you something.”
It’s two things, actually: a set of matching daggers in sheaths, rose-pink but otherwise perfectly matching the ones strapped to Wednesday’s own arms. Enid cradles them in her hands, amazed. “These are for me?”
“I know you are more than capable of defending yourself without weapons,” Wednesday explains, “but the gift of a blade to the person you’re courting is an Addams family tradition that goes back centuries. I would have given them to you earlier, but crafting them proved to be marginally more difficult than I had expected.”
“Hold on - you made these? When did you even have time?”
“An Addams never reveals her secrets.”
Enid runs her fingers across the hilt of one dagger, noting the tiny raven engraved upon it. “They’re beautiful.”
Wednesday inclines her head. “My parents would expect nothing less.”
Her parents. Enid, who’d been floating somewhere along the clouds, falls right back down to earth at the reminder: no matter how much she’d like to pretend it is, none of this is real.
“Right,” she says. “I - thank you. Seriously, this gift is amazing.” She slips the bands around her arms, pulling the knots tight with her teeth before Wednesday can help her; if she wants to have any hope of getting through this night, she needs to reclaim a little space between them. “We should probably go downstairs, I guess.”
Wednesday nods. Then, in a move that Enid would never have dreamed possible from her, she offers her elbow in an old-fashioned gesture straight from a classic film. Enid takes it, and the two of them slowly descend the staircase.
--
The ballroom looks magical - that’s the first thing Enid notices. This morning it had been nothing special, just another massive room in a massive house, but it’s been transformed since then.
Vines of golden flowers line the walls, snaking up towards the vaulted ceiling, and crystal chandeliers shed soft light over the glittering black surface of the dance floor, which is painted with tiny white snowflakes. At the back of the room, a series of black-clothed tables hold food and drink; at the front, a full string orchestra sits ready on a low stage. A black banner bearing the Addams family crest hangs against the back wall, and Enid’s eyes trace the familiar shape of the raven like a habit.
It’s also packed with people. Everywhere Enid looks, she sees another wealthy-looking person in black tie attire. As she looks around, she realizes that she’s one of the only people in the room wearing a color other than black.
Her claws itch at the ends of her fingertips, begging to slide out, and she forces them back. She’s fought a Hyde - she can handle a bunch of rich people.
“If you become uncomfortable,” Wednesday murmurs at her side, “just let me know. I can easily create a diversion.”
Enid clutches Wednesday’s elbow tightly, her breaths becoming easier. “Why do I get the feeling that by diversion you mean murder?”
“You know me so well.”
“Wednesday, my little scorpion, you look radiant - as do you, Enid.”
Gomez and Morticia are standing behind them, linked at the arms, their stance a near-perfect mirror of Wednesday and Enid’s. Gomez is dressed impeccably in yet another suit, while Morticia is wearing a long black gown with a plunging neckline.
“Mother,” Wednesday greets. “Father. The decor is suitably depressing.”
“Yeah, this is a great setup,” Enid agrees, “Even better than the Rave’N.”
Gomez beams. “I’m glad you enjoy it. Thank you for helping this morning.”
“And,” Morticia adds, “thank you, Enid, for getting our daughter to actually attend the ball for once instead of hiding in the library.”
Enid raises an eyebrow at Wednesday. “You’ve never been to it before? It’s literally held in your house.”
“Festivities are a waste of time. I much preferred my solitary research.” Wednesday scans the room, looking resigned. “How many people will we have to interact with tonight?”
“Not too many, if you really want to leave,” Gomez says kindly. “But the southwest cousins are here, and they would love to meet your paramour.”
“Very well.” Wednesday drops Enid’s arm and takes two glasses from the nearest table, passing one to Enid. There’s black liquid inside, with some kind of cold steam rising from it. “The torture of social interaction isn’t even the enjoyable kind, but we’ll endure it nevertheless.”
“They grow up so fast,” Gomez says wistfully, casting an approving glance at the daggers strapped to Enid’s arms. “Have fun tonight, my darlings.”
As they walk away, Wednesday looks appalled. “Fun? I’d rather perish.”
“I’m sure you would.” Enid takes a tentative sip of her drink. It tastes like liquified evil, and she nearly gags. “What’s in this?”
“Blackberry juice, grape wine extract, and trace amounts of belladonna. Do you not want it?”
Enid gladly hands her glass to Wednesday, who downs it in one swallow, then sets it on a table. “I can’t face my extended family without a little poison in my blood.”
“Unfortunately, I relate to that.” Enid drags her gaze away from the dark stain of blackberry juice against Wednesday’s bottom lip. “Should we talk to your cousins, then? No matter how bad they are, they can’t be worse than mine.”
“I suppose,” Wednesday says reluctantly. “I see Second Cousin Hortense over there by the orchestra. He’ll be good for a spot of near-bearable conversation - or, failing that, my first victim of the night.”
--
An hour later, Enid’s talked to the new town mayor, the new town mayor’s assistant, four experts in monstrous biology, most of Wednesday’s extended family, and two possibly-convicted poisoners. She’s also had to stop Wednesday from killing one aunt and maiming another.
It’s been a whirlwind of interaction, one person to the next to the next, but she’s thriving; she’s always been one for building connections, and the light-headed rush that runs through her every time Wednesday presents her as “my girlfriend, Enid” is a high that will never get old.
Wednesday, on the other hand, is visibly tiring of the social scene. She disappeared to the bathroom a couple minutes ago, after promising Enid that she was capable of going alone without committing a violent crime on the way.
So now Enid’s sitting on a bench at the side of the ballroom, content to watch the crowd while waiting for her return.
“Psst! Enid!”
Enid looks to her left, where a large fern is waving frantically at her. “Um…hello?”
The leaves of the fern part to reveal Pugsley, who’s sitting on the floor behind the pot. “Hi. I didn’t mean to startle you, I’m just hiding.”
Enid nods, sympathetic. “Not into the whole black tie event thing?”
“Not at all.” Pugsley shudders, gesturing at his tailored black and white suit. “I hate being dressed like this. I feel stupid. Plus, cousin Cain is here and he always bullies me. He tried to drown me in the lake last summer.”
“And Wednesday didn’t kill him?”
“His parents intervened before she could complete the job.” A smile quirks at the corner of Pugsley’s mouth. “He’s still missing a leg, though. See?” He indicates a boy about Enid’s age across the room, who does indeed appear to be missing his right leg.
“Sounds about right,” Enid says. “He’s lucky Wednesday didn’t do worse, honestly. I saw what she did when a kid cut her in line at breakfast once. It was legit terrifying.”
Pugsley’s eyes gleam with satisfaction. “I know.” Then, in a less bloodthirsty tone: “Hey, look, I just wanted to say - I’m glad you’re Wednesday’s girlfriend. You’re really cool.”
Enid’s suddenly overcome by a wave of affection, and she has to fight the urge to ruffle his hair. “Aw, Pugsley. That’s so sweet of you to say.”
“Plus,” Pugsley adds, crushing a fern leaf between his fingers. “Wednesday’s a lot less mean when she’s in love.”
Against her will, Enid’s heart leaps wildly in her chest. Pugsley doesn’t know the truth; he doesn’t see the whole puzzle, only the pieces they’ve given him. There’s no reason for him to believe that Enid and Wednesday aren’t a real couple, which means there’s no reason for Enid to have hope - and yet, and yet, and yet. “Wednesday’s not - I mean, do you really think so?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Pugsley says. “What, haven’t you guys figured that part out yet?”
“I - ”
“I’ve returned,” Wednesday announces. “Plotting behind my back?”
Pugsley shakes his head furiously. Enid manages a wink. “Just a little bonding.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but she lets it go. “I came to tell you that the dancing is about to start. Pugsley, if you want to escape, there’s a clear route through the kitchens right now.”
Pugsley nods gratefully, then disappears behind the fern again. Wednesday turns her attention back to Enid. “Was he bothering you?”
“No, of course not. We’re besties.” Enid raises a teasing eyebrow. “He might just be my favorite Addams now. After Thing, of course.”
“A questionable choice,” Wednesday says immediately, a touch of something unreadable - annoyance? distaste? - in her voice. “He has the strength of a wet blanket, and he didn’t learn to throw a blade until he was ten years old.”
“Wednesday,” Enid laughs. Behind them, a swell of lively music rises from the strings of the orchestra. “It was a joke. So, are you going to ask me to dance or what?”
Wednesday rolls her eyes, motions over her shoulder. Enid follows, letting Wednesday lead her onto the dance floor. As they slide into the middle of the crowd, she has a vivid memory of the last time she saw Wednesday dancing: at the Rave’N, under the pale blue lights, so close to Tyler that it had made Enid’s chest ache in inexplicable ways.
But this is not then, and now Wednesday’s looking only at Enid: narrow gaze, intent focus. Anyone at Nevermore would flee if Wednesday looked at them like this, but Enid sees right to the heart of it - what it really means, when it comes down to it, is that Wednesday only sees her.
“Let’s dance, then,” Wednesday says. “I don’t suppose you know el baile folclórico?”
Enid blinks, sensing that her extensive knowledge of K-pop stage choreography isn’t going to help her tonight. “I’ve never even heard of it, actually, but I’d love to learn.”
“You’ll pick it up quickly,” Wednesday tells her. “You’re not entirely incompetent.”
Enid grins. “No one would believe it if I told them how sappy you’ve become now that you’re in a relationship. A fake relationship, I mean.”
“These accusations are intolerable, and more importantly, baseless. If you don’t retract them immediately, I can’t be responsible for what happens to you.”
“Nope. You’re not beating the allegations.” Enid glances over to see what everyone else is doing and realizes that they’re lining up neatly, facing front. “Just so you know, I really don’t know what I’m doing here.”
Before Wednesday can answer, the music strikes up once, twice, and the dance floor comes alive in a flurry of movement. Enid is hopelessly lost right from the first step, but Wednesday’s there: a guide, a map. Enid stops worrying and lets go of everything, focusing on the girl in front of her and nothing else.
Wednesday turns back just for a moment, and their eyes meet. Enid knows she should look away. She doesn’t.
--
The night goes on, and so does the dancing - the dances shift through years and moods and cultures, from tango to foxtrot to allemande to paso doble. Enid’s legs are starting to ache, and she’s sure she looks stupid, but she doesn’t care. She hasn’t had this much fun on a dance floor for years. Even if the Rave’N hadn’t been interrupted by a scene ripped straight from Carrie, she wouldn’t have considered it half as fun as tonight.
Of course, that has a lot to do with the fact that Wednesday is a far better date than Ajax was.
Case in point: Wednesday knows the steps to every dance like the back of her hand. It’s a stark contrast to the way she danced at the Rave’N, which Enid remembers as a graceless yet stunning performance that slightly resembled the dancing men outside car dealerships.
Here on her home turf, Wednesday moves through the steps of each dance like she was born to do it. Somehow, Enid’s not surprised; she assumes that ballroom dancing, like fencing, composing, and dead language translation, was part of Wednesday’s unconventional upbringing.
The song ends with a flourish, and Enid realizes that she’s been falling behind. She steps back and yelps as she stumbles right into another body.
“Easy there,” Wednesday says, catching her neatly and setting her back on her feet. “Of all the casualties I was hoping to see tonight, you strangely aren’t one of them.”
Enid’s about to reply when the music starts up again, this time a slow waltz. All around them, people begin to break off into pairs.
Wednesday glances around, disgust written plainly across her face. Enid quirks an eyebrow at her. “Ready to take a break? I know you’d rather tear your eyes out, or pull your fingernails off, or something equally horrible, than slow dance with me.”
“Those are all true statements,” Wednesday nods. “Then again, dancing a waltz would be more effective torture than all of those things combined, and I value nothing if not efficiency.”
“Okay, you lost me.”
“I’m saying I’ll dance with you,” Wednesday grits out. “If it wasn’t clear.”
Enid’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. “You’ll…dance? A slow dance? With me?”
“Make me repeat it and the only dance I’ll be doing is atop your grave.” Wednesday holds out one hand, her fingers loose in the space between them: no expectation, just an offering.
Enid waits for a heartbeat, thinks of every moment they’ve passed through to get to this one - the fights and the crypt and the tape on the floor, the nights of regret and the hug at the end of the world. She thinks of the very first day she saw Wednesday walk through the door and felt, suddenly and unmistakably, like there was something about this new girl that was going to be special.
She thinks of all this, and then she takes Wednesday’s hand.
Wednesday pulls her closer, and it’s just like it was on the frozen lake: Wednesday leading, Enid following. The music swells, and they keep dancing - and as Enid spins them around, taking over the lead position, an unexpected sense of peace washes over her. Everything becomes clear.
She sees now, with a clarity that’s both startling and calming, that everything will work itself out. She’s in love with Wednesday, and maybe she always will be, and maybe she’ll hurt over it until she thinks she just might bleed to death, but in the end she’ll get through it; she’ll get through it, because Wednesday is too important to lose. As long as Enid has her in some way, that will be enough.
And then Wednesday drops Enid’s hands abruptly and steps back.
“This was a mistake,” she says, her voice as cold and indifferent as it was on the day they met. “You need to leave.”
She turns on her heel, pushes through the crowd - and then she’s gone, and Enid is alone on the dance floor, staring at the space left in her absence. The music swells louder, but she doesn’t hear it.
“Wednesday,” Enid murmurs, uncomprehending. Then, louder, shoving her way past black-suited partygoers: “ Wednesday! Wait!”
--
Wednesday isn’t hard to find, in the end. She’s standing on the terrace outside the ballroom, her figure a tiny black silhouette against the night. Enid slides open the tall glass doors and steps out onto the terrace, walking over to join her at the railing. It’s cold out, but she barely feels it.
“Okay,” Enid says slowly. “Do you want to explain what the hell that was?”
Wednesday doesn’t look at her. “This endeavor was a mistake from the very beginning. I’ll have Lurch take you to the airport tonight.”
It’s like a hammer blow to Enid’s chest. “What?”
“I’ll reimburse you for the change of flight, of course.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Enid says. It comes out more like a growl. “Wednesday, I don’t want your money. That’s the last thing on my mind right now.”
“Well then,” Wednesday says, her voice like a door slamming closed. “That’s settled, then. We’re done here.”
“Done?” Enid echoes, a hysterical rage building in her throat. “You think we’re done? Just like that? Wednesday, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“I apologize for any inconvenience this causes you,” Wednesday says, toneless. It’s far more than she gave Enid the first time they fought, back at Nevermore all those months ago, but the apology lands flat in the face of every barrier they’ve broken down since then. Enid’s blood runs hot with anger and something sharper: hurt.
“No,” she says, stepping closer to Wednesday now - they’re past boundaries, past black tape down the center of the floor. “No, you don’t get to do this. You invited me here, in case you forgot. You invited me, and you asked me to be your fake girlfriend, and I said yes because apparently I’m an idiot who will never, ever learn, but you know what? You don’t get to ask me to come here and do all this and then just cut me loose the second it gets to be too much. I thought we were past this, but I guess not.”
Wednesday stands still, says nothing.
“Wednesday, please,” Enid says, softer now, her voice breaking despite itself. “Just tell me what I did wrong.”
Still nothing. Wednesday’s face is dark and shadowed, the most unreadable it’s ever been, and Enid feels the ache of loss like a snapped rib in her chest.
“Fine,” she snaps, her heart hardening again. “We’re done here, then. Don’t ever fucking talk to me again. I’ll find a new roommate next semester.”
She turns to go, swiping angrily at the hot tears that crowd at the corners of her eyes, and then pauses. There’s a sound echoing in her ears, the rhythm faster than she’s ever heard it before but as familiar to her as the back of Wednesday’s hand.
Wednesday’s heartbeat, racing strong with the breakneck speed of a lie.
“I know you’re hiding something from me,” Enid says, still facing away from Wednesday. “I can hear your heart now, remember.”
Wednesday’s heartbeat instantly slows, but it’s enough of an admission. Enid lingers a moment longer, hoping against hope that she’ll say something and end this misery for the both of them, but nothing comes. Slowly, she begins walking away again.
“Enid,” Wednesday says. “Wait. I asked you to leave because I - ”
Enid whips around, glaring through the unshed tears. “Because you what, Wednesday ?”
“Because I can’t stand to be around you anymore.”
If her chest ached before, it’s nothing compared to now - Enid feels Wednesday’s words like a silver arrow to the heart. She presses one hand to her chest on instinct, surprised when it comes away clean. “Good to know how you really feel about me, then. Don’t worry - I’ll never make the mistake of darkening your doorstep again, here or at Nevermore.”
“No,” Wednesday says, frustrated. “No, that’s not what I mean. I can’t stand to be around you anymore because every time you’re near, I feel far too much. It’s unbearable.”
Enid takes one step closer, a tiny flower of hope blooming in her chest. “What does it feel like?”
“It feels,” Wednesday says, “like I’m dying in a way that’s hellish and heavenly all at once. It feels like an illness for which there is no cure.”
“Wednesday,” Enid says, slow and barely comprehending. “What are you - ”
“I used to despise you,” Wednesday continues. “I used to look across the room at you and your lights and your colors and plot the ways I’d pass your death off as an accident. Now I look at you and I picture our bones resting together in a grave dug for two. Every time you smile at me, I think I would rip my cold black heart from its cavity in my chest and hand it to you if ever you asked. I asked you to leave because I can neither live nor die in peace knowing that our relationship was never real and never will be.”
Enid’s own heartbeat drowns out the world, beating like thunder in her ears as hope floods her body like moonlight on the lake. “Hold on. Are you saying you like me? Like, you have feelings for me?”
“I don’t experience feelings,” Wednesday says. “But things have indubitably changed. I loathed your touch, and now I crave it with a desperate hunger. I found you intolerable, and now all I want is to tolerate you. I died and came back to life, and still the person I feared for most was you. Against all odds and completely against my will you have become the person closest to my heart, and I cannot bear it alone. I would rather die all over again than bear it alone.”
“You don’t have to,” Enid says, half-choked by the joy that’s rising in her throat. “You don’t…Wednesday, I like you too. I like you so much. I never wanted this to be fake.”
Wednesday blinks. “You didn’t?”
“I pretended it was real,” Enid admits. “All the damn time.”
They stand there for a moment, two steps apart like they’re still separated by the black tape line running through their room at Nevermore. Then, slowly and deliberately, Wednesday steps forward until they’re close enough to touch.
“I didn’t think this could happen,” she says: quiet, prayer-like. “I didn’t believe I’d ever be capable of wanting someone like this.”
“But you are,” Enid says, more a question than a statement.
“I am,” Wednesday confirms. “And then, after that realization - I didn’t believe someone like you was capable of wanting someone like me.”
“I am,” Enid says, breathless. “I am. I do.”
Wednesday’s eyes meet hers, brown against blue. She’s breathtaking, like deep sea and midnight and the dark side of every wish that Enid’s ever made. Enid loves her more than all the colors in the world.
“Goody told me I was destined to be alone,” Wednesday says. “But I don’t think I want to be anymore. If I’m enough - if you want me - I’m yours.”
A smile breaks across Enid’s face, bright and joyful and bigger than the whole sky. It’s not midnight yet, but she doesn’t care. She’s tired of waiting, and besides, they’ve never been much for convention anyway. This conversation is a love letter writing itself, folding carefully in thirds between them; Enid steps closer, says “Wednesday, I’ve wanted you since the day we met,” and seals it with a kiss as the snow begins to fall again.
--
Enid wakes up the next morning to a clumsy but gentle touch at her shoulder. She yawns, her eyes still blurred with sleep, and discovers that Wednesday’s curled into her side like a cat.
“Hmm,” Enid says intelligently, her heart beating double-time at the realization that Wednesday’s lying half on top of her. “Is it airport time?”
“Not quite yet,” Wednesday answers. Her hair is down, hanging in long black waves; it’s the first time Enid’s ever seen her without braids, and it stirs something like a riot in her chest. “I wanted to take you somewhere first.”
They dress quickly and quietly, Enid choosing one of Wednesday’s black hoodies to wear over her own sweatpants, and then make their way into the hall. Wednesday leads Enid down an unfamiliar corridor and then up a steep iron staircase that spirals endlessly onward, and Enid’s just about to get her claws out when a trap door pops open above her head and light rains down on her.
Wednesday pulls herself up, then extends a hand down. Enid takes it, and suddenly she’s on top of the astronomy tower.
She turns in a circle, taking in the view. Up here, everything is visible: the vast grounds of the manor sprawl in every direction, sweeping downwards to the large black stain of the lake. Farther out, past the trees, Enid can see the brown and red rooftops of the town like faint smudges against the dark grey of the morning sky.
Wednesday sits down near the parapet. Enid sits next to her, shoulder to shoulder, and the two of them look out over the roof of the world.
“This is my favorite place,” Wednesday says. “As a child, I used to come up here and calculate the velocity at which I’d impact the ground if I jumped off the top.”
Enid nods, mildly concerned. “Well, that’s disturbing.”
“Not really. I always had a contingency plan for survival.”
Enid presses her body against Wednesday’s, trying to share some warmth with her. Wednesday’s hair falls across her forehead in loose strands, freer than Enid’s ever seen it before; Enid tucks a curl carefully behind her ear.
“I really like your hair like this,” Enid says.
“I don’t,” Wednesday sniffs. “It’s too wild; I dislike showing any sign of untidiness.”
“It’s free,” Enid counters. “And it’s pretty.”
Wednesday just hums - not quite agreement, but not disagreement either. “I’ll teach you how to braid my hair someday. There’s a very specific technique.”
“Yeah,” Enid smiles. “I’d like that.”
The sky begins to lighten, sending streaks of pink and white across the horizon. Wednesday’s eyes narrow at the color, but she doesn’t look away.
“Remember,” Wednesday says “when I was leaving Nevermore and you asked if I’d forget you?”
Enid nods, flushed with the memory. “I do. I really thought you might, you know.”
“I find it preposterous that you could ask that question,” Wednesday says. “It was impossible then, and it is even more impossible now. Had I been drowned in the River Lethe, my mouth would still remember the taste of yours.”
The words come out quiet, all but monotone, and Wednesday’s face remains impassive. Her hand is cold where it touches Enid’s, and her grip is loose around Enid’s fingers. It’s unquestionably the most romantic moment Enid has ever experienced.
“For someone who doesn’t like love stories,” Enid says, tilting her head until it rests on Wednesday’s shoulder, “you sure are good at making romantic speeches.”
“Blame my father. The trait of romance unfortunately runs in the Addams family, no matter how hard I’ve tried to suppress it.”
“You don’t have to. It’s a good trait.” Enid feels Wednesday’s pinky finger curl around hers, a small and wordless gesture, and she smiles. “I never thought I’d find depressing mythological references and morbid desires for mutual death to be romantic - I was always more of a sappy kiss in the rain, boombox outside the window kind of girl - but I can work with this. I think I can work with anything, as long as it’s you.”
Wednesday looks confused. “Why would I hold a boombox outside your window? I don’t even own one.”
“Say Anything? John Hughes, 1989?”
Wednesday’s look of confusion remains predictably unchanged. Enid grins. “Oh, we have so many movie nights ahead of us.”
“Strike me down now,” Wednesday intones, “and spare me from this fate.”
“Don’t worry,” Enid tells her. “We’ll watch one of your black and white surrealist cannibalism movies first. Or one of your horror films. You watched Mean Girls with me; fair is fair.”
Wednesday looks satisfied. Enid tries not to wince at the thought of whatever terrifying movie she’s going to pick first.
“We’re returning to school in a week,” Wednesday says after a minute. “Have you given any thought to the continuation of our status as roommates? I, for one, see no reason to ruin a good thing by making changes.”
“Uh, duh,” Enid replies. “It’s gonna be great. We’ll be roomies and girlfriends.”
Wednesday’s body goes tense. “Girlfriends?”
“Oh,” Enid says, trying to backtrack. “Um. No. Didn’t mean to say that. I mean, I don’t want to assume anything.”
Wednesday makes a pained expression - the kind Enid knows means she’s thinking, because when she’s in real pain she’s usually smiling. Then she says, halting but sure: “I’m not totally opposed to the idea.”
A rush of happiness explodes in Enid’s chest. “Wow. Yeah. Okay. Howdy, girlfriend.”
“Never repeat that phrase.”
“Gotcha.”
The sky turns lighter, streaks of orange bleeding into the pink. Enid watches, content down to her very bones. She’s sitting on a rooftop with Wednesday Addams, and they’re alive and whole and Wednesday isn’t trying to murder her for holding her hand, and this is pretty much every one of Enid’s wildest dreams come to life.
Her mother will absolutely hate Wednesday. Deep down, some part of Enid can’t wait until the day they meet.
She sets the thought aside, though. That’s a problem for future Enid; right now, present Enid is the only one that matters.
“I wonder if Nevermore will chill out a little this semester,” Enid says, stroking her thumb gently across the back of Wednesday’s hand and reveling in the sound of Wednesday’s heartbeat racing at the touch. “I think most of the students could use a good normal school year.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will be positively chaotic,” Wednesday says. Her lips turn up at the corners, curling into a dangerous smile that takes Enid’s breath away. “And I’m looking forward to it.”
Enid raises her head and turns her face towards the sun, letting her scars lie in full light. It’s a new year and a new beginning, and there’s no one in this life or the next she’d rather spend it with; the return to school could be mundane or murderous, but as long as she has Wednesday by her side, she’s unafraid.
Come what may, she’s unafraid.
“Yeah,” she says, leaning into Wednesday’s shoulder, love blooming like a garden in her chest. “I’m looking forward to it, too.”