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She didn’t hate Ajax. Not in such a way that made her want to claw her own eyes out- no. That was just the side affect of watching your best friend make out with someone, who just so happened to be that blasted gorgon boy who looked like he’d barge into a wedding on horseback wielding a scythe- in the offset, saviour-complex type of way.
And God- what a hideous thing to imagine. Enid didn’t need some white knight, or someone using metaphors in his vows in such a superfluous way.
And it was fine. Really. She hadn’t been plagued by such upsetting nightmares prior. Until he’d given her a promise ring.
For a werewolf- a promise ring was just an unnecessary gesture that was more a death march in jewellery (in a derogatory form, not the fun kind), than a genuine profession of love.
And Wednesday, for all her personal undoings, knew that much. Had spent a fair share of sleepless nights that would indefinitely shorten her life span researching the werewolf customs.
And, in her own personal (peer-reviewed) opinion, a mate wouldn’t need a promise ring. They’d have a bite. Even with full human teeth leaving hardly a noticeable dent in the impossibly-thick skin of a wolf, it would still mean enough to not overcompensate with some shitty mall ring he’d gone around at lunch one time to ask for donations to the fund. She’d nearly poured her steaming plate of scallop potatoes down his pants, before Enid had appeared at the threshold of the door. And she isn’t sure, at all despite her intelligence, how she always knows Enid’s there. Senses her presence in a sea of bodies. But it’s enough to make her still her spoon full, until she’d skipped over to the table and Wednesday had to force the scorching potatoes down her throat to avoid cursing their happy little union in every possible incantation that lived in longevity within the Addams’ line. Because she had kissed his cheek, and for a millisecond he’d flinched away.
And that was not good enough.
And this idiotic, tarnishable promise ring, that Enid flaunts around like it was a key to a manor, was certainly not good enough.
It should be made of palladium, or a precious metal like gold. Not plated, either. Forged straight from the uncut element itself and hand-weaved until the grifter’s fingertips were lacerated and stained the metal with their own blood to signify their devotion.
She hadn’t said a thing in response to her room mate flaunting it about, gushing. She, preferably, ignored Enid’s presence in its entirety because she feared if she looked at those soft blue eyes- she’d lose herself in a daydream where she stands beneath a rain cloud and proclaims her undying adoration, the night before their doomed wedding. But sometimes, Enid wouldn’t take her silence for an answer. She’d sit nearly atop Wednesday’s beloved typewriter with this look that she couldn’t put into words, waiting.
Wednesday would just sigh- heavy like it carried a part of her soul with it, because it did. And it was a small death. And not the romantic and intimate translation behind the French saying.
It was like a ruddy wine stain on a wedding dress. And she wanted to proclaim like a preacher, how Ajax wasn’t enough. He was fine, as a person, she supposed. She tolerated him, and he levelled her insults with his own which she admired.
But even still, she’d be marrying the wrong person.
Oh, a wedding. Such a patriarchal, ridiculous tradition that Enid seemed so fond of, as she frequently browsed bridle catalogues and had an entire Pinterest board dedicated to her own wedding. (Wednesday did not follow it. It was simply bookmarked for a later date.)
But aside its mediocrity of an event, it was not the same as a mating bite. Or even just a mate claim. The pheromones that encompassed an individual that caused everyone, even humans, to stray far from that person like it was a murder scene. Ajax didn’t have that- because, shockingly, he still managed to have people hanging off his every word like it was a part of a Shakespearean play.
So, really, who could blame Wednesday when during Dr. Aeries’ class where they were learning about the mating process between various animals and bugs, for blowing up, with fists slamming against the wooden desk hard enough to splinter it and cause even some seniors (lacking in grades, shockingly) to fall from their seats in fear.
Because that stupid boy- that kind, sweet boy, who had the girl Wednesday had claimed as her own in the Addams’ form of a mating bite- was snuggling up against Enid, leaning in for a kiss. Wednesday was hyper vigilante, and had watched them every split second the entirety of the class.
And she could handle many things- hoppiness, colour, exuberant enjoyment of life. But that was all a tolerance because Enid favoured such things.
And the phrase, if you love something let it go, was arbitrary and stupid. Because she didn’t want Enid to be happy even if it meant that it would be with someone else. No. She was selfish, and wanted Enid to notice her. Give her Eskimo kisses in the middle of the lecture and, oh god, she gags.
Dr. Aries, and a handful of students that don’t know Wednesday personally look on in horror when she keels over the table to bang her head against the desk. Xavier, beside her, is tapping his pen against the desk in a beat. Yoko starts beatboxing from the behind them- and really, it’s nice. Wednesday knows she has, unfortunately, made friends under her parents’ forewarning. Except she will genuinely cease to exist if Enid’s eyes aren’t on her solely. And they are, now, across the room, because she’s visibly harming herself. But it wasn’t the same. And she could still see Ajax cloying his hands all over her and she would be grateful if the earth swallowed its inhabitants whole and ended the human race in its entirety.
Perhaps, death was a nice concept. One warm and comforting like the blanket of sleep a few years ago. But she had met Enid. And she wants to live for her. Wants to see her in a white-veil in front of her own obnoxious parents that wear black in true Addams’ fashion, whilst the werewolf’s bridesmaids are dressed in hideous pastel pastry-shaped dresses.
Enid, for her part, seeks her out when the bell signals the end to the period. But Wednesday is storming across the campus before Enid has even finished collecting her books, Ajax fussing over trying to take them for her.
Wednesday is forging a war path- threatening and pushing students around until she’s dragged tooth and nail to the principals office for a disciplinary hearing.
2 weeks of community service- serving the Academy, of course. Maybe mopping and waxing the floors clean until her body was sore and it was so clean it became a hazard for her peers, would relieve the pressure-headache Enid’s perfume permeating the dorm caused each time she retired to bed, not even sparing the werewolf a greeting or a goodnight as she burrows into her own sorrow beneath velvet bedding.
It didn’t help.
Currently, Wednesday is sat on one of the couches in the lounge of the Academy. Enid strolls in- laughing, flanked by her quartet of friends. Ajax, Yoko, Bianca and Xavier (the traitorous bastard). Wednesday peers up from her book, glowering at their entrance before returning to her page.
How could someone be so happy, and yet so in the wrong?
“You look happy.” Wednesday remarks, the annoyance bleeding in to her words- because Enid’s admiring that stupid ring again. As she had been, for weeks. And it only increased in its unwarranted display of sappy imagery tenfold each time they crossed paths.
And she cursorily allows herself to look at her roommate when she stands to leave. But it’s enough to make out Enid’s crestfallen face for a second, and it’s too much. It’s a twist of lips and abandoned-puppy-in-the-middle-of-a-rainstorm eyes, wrapping around her chest like the thorny vines of a rose bush and squeezing until she begins to bleed freely into her lungs.
So, she forcibly sends the book in her white-knuckled-grip barreling into the back of Ajax’s head- his cries, her sentence to another two weeks of chores.
It was a reprimand she didn’t care much for. Because she had been able to finally hit Ajax how she’d been burning to, but mainly, so she could avoid being around Enid until even later in the night, when the blonde was sure to be asleep.
Except, this night, she wasn’t.
She doesn’t ever make her presence known, regardless of the late events. But she’s still disgustingly aware of Enid, that she doesn’t wish to rouse her from her rest so close to a full moon. She knows to avoid the exact spots in the floorboards that creak, and twists the door handle in a very particular interval speed that doesn’t make much noise. But Enid’s sitting on her bed, the moonlight her cover, and the jarring upset from her latest instalment of mania made Wednesday sick. She stared down at the ring as though it were a binding chain, a frown painted on her lips nearly comically like a clown’s.
But it’s not funny. It’s heartbreaking. Wednesday always swallows down the feeling the blonde’s pain causes, if she happens to run into it, and will typically slip into the bath until she can hear the soft rumbling of her snores and the bath water has run stale.
This time, she has no such luck. Staring at the blonde, whose gaze is fixated on the crown jewel- a $70 cubic zirconia.
And money doesn’t matter, Wednesday knows. She doesn’t care much for her own trust fund. But she’d personally go into a mine to crack into a barrier of crystals to find one suitable for Enid’s finger, if it were her. She would do so much differently.
She would make it alright. Or fight, until she has to hold the girl until her fangs and claws would slip away. Listening to her heartbeat, pounding, after a heated argument.
But it wasn’t her place. So she throws her jacket down on the floor- loudly. Because Enid should not admire a ring forged in a factory.
Wednesday would fall onto the sharp of a blade, until it cuts deep enough to form a blood diamond for the werewolf.
Enid’s head snaps up at the sound of fake leather hitting the floor. Forces a smile that looks painful and practiced, and twists Wednesday’s intensities until it’s unbearably tight.
This has gone on too long. Months, of this dance, where she slinked around in the shadows of a coupling forged by the fantasies of a preteen. The bad boy and the good girl.
It was ridiculous. And yes- so, unbearable.
Finally, Wednesday approaches. Without preamble, or question, she climbs onto the bed aside Enid and pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips. Pulling back, and fixing her a glare. “You don’t love him.”
Enid opens her mouth. Shuts it, floundering in the way someone who doesn’t care for their partner would when accused.
It’s not an accusation. Or a question. Wednesday’s tone is unusually soft; tender, rubbing her thumb across a heated cheekbone. It’s a statement.
Enid just dumbly nods once, and the thick swell of welled tears finally fall. Wednesday feels every heartbeat of hers break- each one that keeps her alive sending a sharper shard of glass stabbing into her ribs.
Her nod is a resignation. A capitulation.
Wednesday just mimics her nod, sighing, and wrapping an arm around her back. “I know. So why would you mate with someone you don’t love?”’
Enid laughs. Because they both know, that Wednesday knows how mating works. Has every important cycle of the moon and mating period marked in bright blue on the calendar above her desk. Enid sniffs, once she’s nuzzled into the plush of a black woollen sweater.
And it’s laced with the tender huff of a growl. Wednesday knew Enid hadn’t mated with him for a reason. But she wasn’t completely sure it was because of her, until Enid speaks again.
“I would have married you, if you had asked me.”
Wednesday squeezes, and inhales deeply. Memorizes the scent of her neck, the swell of toned muscles that tremble beneath the quiet sobs that wrack her body. And she won’t pull away— not this time. Not when Enid was asking for her to be open, as she let herself soak through one of her favourite sweaters with tears neither of them were quite sure were for what.
“You didn’t give me a chance to ask.”
Enid nods, jerkily. “I’ve been waiting for you to stop it. And I’d wanna throw up every time I tried to get a rise out of you, but you’d sit and stare like a goddamn machine and my parents approve of him and I.. He’s such a good guy.”
Wednesday’s eye twitches. She has a cluster headache forming, and like she senses it, Enid pulls back. Runs her fingers above her eyebrows, down her temples, beneath her eyes.
“He’s such a good guy, but he’s not right for me. But he’s the only one who’s wanted me.”
Wednesday bristles. Inclines her head to the side, her eyes looking Enid up and down and settling on her lips. “No one could ever want you the way I do. You are a wildfire in my veins, Enid.”
Enid glances down at the ring. A smile breaking her face, that Wednesday is completely puzzled by. Then she starts to laugh, the humour mixing with the tears and it’s an odd situation. Wednesday slinks down to sit on her knees, taking one of Enid’s hands that isn’t wiping at her face in her own. Squeezes them in a bid to calm her.
“Good thing I ended things with him, then.”
Wednesday blinked. “When?”
“Uh, like a week ago.”
Wednesday stills. “So… what was all of this about then?”
Enid shrugs, pulling the ring off and letting it clatter against her desk. “I wanted to see if you’d do anything about your feelings.”
Wednesday frowns, tilting her head from the left to the right. “You manipulated me.”
Enid, for her part, blushes. “I didn’t mean to- I just wanted to see if you’d care or if you’d maybe feel the same, and now that I’m saying all of this out loud I sound like a walking red flag, and-“
Wednesday interrupts the most incoherent blithering that had ever come out of Enid’s mouth with a soft chuckle, and a squeeze to her fingers. "Enid—please stop. I love you."
"No, seriously, I sound absolutely nuts so I totally understand—"
Wednesday’s eyes shifted, just once, and she stopped talking abruptly. “You… what?”
Her hand went limp, without permission, and Wednesday leaned back, her fingers tracking back across her lap, and then said,
"I shouldn't have said anything."
And she goes to stand, grabbing her bag that held new inks for her typewriter she’d set out for earlier, planning to retreat to her solemn melancholy where the reality of Enid never feeling the same doesn’t sting quite as badly. But then Enid was leaning in, and Wednesday must have leaned too, must have swayed forward unconsciously, meeting her halfway, because then they were kissing.
Wednesday’s bag hit the floor, tipping onto its side in a slumped daze, but Wednesday couldn’t really care less about the precious pots inside at this point, because every point of skin to skin contact was blazing warm and she reached up like she’d wanted to for ages and carded pliant fingers into
flaxen hair, slanting their mouths together and hell, she could stand here and kiss Enid fucking Sinclair for years. Even if that meant pastry puffed dresses and pastel Christmas sweaters.
Then Enid is smiling against her lips, and Wednesday mirrors it when she pulls away, her hands coming to rest on her cheeks. “You are an Addams’ through and through. Manipulation is our love language. Morticia will be pleased.”
And Enid is leaning in again.