Work Text:
I.
They brush hands in horticulture class–both of them trying to pick up the same fallen pen–and Wednesday just about jumps a foot in the air.
Enid's confused. Wednesday likes being touched, now, or so she'd thought. They'd hugged after summer vacation, and again on the first morning of class, with no such reaction. Did Wednesday change her mind?
II.
Enid keeps an intentional distance after that. She doesn't want to hurt Wednesday, doesn't want to tear down the bond that took so long for them to build. But it keeps happening despite her best efforts.
Wednesday enters their dorm right as Enid's leaving it; Enid takes a wrong step down the stairs as they walk to class, falling into her side; they both reach for the same slice of pizza. With each accidental touch Wednesday stiffens as though it burns, and Enid feels a pang in her chest.
III.
“So did you decide you don’t like hugs anymore?” Enid asks one evening as they’re getting ready for bed.
Wednesday looks at her like she’s asked whether two plus two equals five. “No. That’s idiotic. Why would I say something about myself only to go back on it?”
“It’s just that," Enid says, "you seem to freak out whenever anyone touches you? Whenever I touch you?”
Wednesday considers for a moment. "I can do hugs," she decides. "I don't do well with ambushes."
Well. That makes sense. Enid can work with that.
IV.
It’s been a long day and a longer night; they’re exhausted, trudging back to the dorm in the early morning. They lock the door behind them, and Enid holds out her arms, telegraphing her movements. “Do you want a hug?”, she asks.
Wednesday stops short– then nods, gratefully, and Enid goes in for the embrace.