Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Only When I Sleep — Enid's POV

There are two versions of her.

One that walks beside me through Nevermore’s twisted halls, dark hair like spilled ink and voice like distant thunder. That Wednesday is real—sharp, distant, beautiful like frost on a window. But untouchable. Always just a breath away, always looking through me as if I were some puzzle not worth solving.

And then there’s the other Wednesday.

The one who holds my hand like it’s the only thing anchoring her to this world. The one who leans in so close, I can feel her breath against my cheek, whispering things she’d never dare say in daylight. That Wednesday calls me “Querida” and brushes her fingers over my wrist like it means something. That Wednesday wraps her arms around me in the dark and fits so perfectly against me that I forget where I end and she begins.

But that Wednesday only exists when I sleep.

She drifts into my dreams like a dreamboat gliding through moonlit waters, her eyes catching every light in the secret oceans of my mind. She swims through my thoughts like she belongs there, coral blue and red pulsing around her like a heartbeat. My heartbeat.

In dreams, her scent clings to me like incense—warm, smoky, soft. Her touch is silk. It doesn’t stop at skin. It seeps in, slow and searing, moves from within like something blooming under my ribs. It reaches deep. So deep, it makes my chest ache.

I wake with tears I never cried and words on my lips I never said. I turn toward the other bed, hoping—stupidly—that maybe she’s looking at me like she does in my dreams. But she’s always facing the wall. Or she’s not there. Or worse, she is there, but she’s still the cold, brilliant version who doesn’t know how often she visits me at night.

Sometimes, I lie in bed, frozen beneath the sheets, feeling the phantom of her fingers along my neck, her breath like sea mist brushing my skin. But when I reach out—nothing. Just my own shaking hand.

I go through the day smiling too wide, laughing too hard, like if I can keep the noise up, I’ll drown out the echo of her name in my bones. But it doesn’t work. Not really.

It’s only when I sleep that I stop pretending.

It’s only then that I feel her beside me again—laughing, dancing, spinning me ‘round and ‘round under stars that don’t exist. She pulls me close. I fall. Always fall. Up to the sky where angels fly, into that Hawaiian high that only dreams can bring.

I wish I could stay there.

Because in that world, Wednesday loves me back.

But in this one?

In this one, I just lie awake, listening to my own breath, waiting for night to come again.

Waiting to dream of her.

Chapter Text

It started with a look.

Not the usual side-eye or withering glare. Not the calculating stare she gives before unraveling someone’s deepest secrets like they’re strands in her violin’s bow.

This was something else. Something softer.

We were in the library. I was halfway through a book I wasn’t reading—just staring at words that meant nothing, thinking about the way her dream-self had kissed my temple the night before.

Wednesday sat across from me, her pen scratching paper, her brows furrowed. And then she stopped.

Looked up.

Right at me.

And held it.

That strange, unreadable gaze didn’t break for several heartbeats. My throat went dry. My heart? It did the spinning thing again. Like I was falling, ‘round and ‘round, upside-down. I looked away first, cheeks burning, like she could see straight into my dreams.

Maybe she could.

Because later, in the middle of the night, I heard her whisper my name.

Not in the cold, annoyed tone she uses when she’s asking me to turn my music down. No. This was different. Barely a breath, like she was tasting it.

“Enid.”

I turned over, half-asleep, and saw her sitting up in bed, her face shadowed in moonlight. Her eyes were open—but far away. Like she was somewhere else.

Somewhere with me.

“Wednesday?” I whispered.

She didn’t respond. Just blinked, slowly, then lay back down as if nothing happened.

I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night.

The next day, she watched me more closely. Studied me when she thought I wasn’t looking. Her questions got…weirder.

“Have you ever experienced shared dreaming, Enid?”

“Uh. Is that like sleepovers but psychic?”

She didn’t smile, but her lips twitched. “More like…mental convergence. It’s rare. Often involuntary. Tied to intense emotional connections.”

“Oh,” I said, pretending I wasn’t dying inside. “Sounds…cool.”

She stared a little longer than she should’ve.

That night, I dreamed of her again.

But this time, she wasn’t just Wednesday from my head. She knew things. Things I hadn’t told her. Things from this world, not the dream one. She touched my hand and said my name and I felt—no, knew—that she remembered me when she woke up.

And when I woke up, she was standing by my bed.

“Did you dream of me?” she asked, voice low, unreadable.

I nodded.

“So did I,” she said.

Then she turned and walked away, leaving me breathless, heart thudding, spinning again.

Upside-down.

Only now, maybe…

It wasn’t only when I sleep.

Chapter Text

It’s happening again.

We’re in the dream—or maybe not.

The sky above us is violet. Not the kind of purple that happens at sunset, but something unreal, as if a god spilled lavender ink across the clouds. The trees sway like they’re underwater, and the grass glows faintly beneath our feet.

She’s beside me, of course. Her hand hovers near mine, just like always.

But this time, it doesn’t stay there.

Wednesday laces her fingers with mine, her grip firm, as if daring me to question it. I look up at her, heart pounding in my chest like it’s trying to escape.

“You’re real,” I whisper, afraid to believe it.

Wednesday doesn’t blink. “I don’t know if I’m dreaming you… or if you’re dreaming me.”

I laugh, because that’s such a Wednesday thing to say—logical and poetic and terrifying all at once.

She turns to face me. “But it’s becoming difficult to distinguish the border.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “I know. It feels like you’re with me even when I’m awake now.”

Silence stretches between us. Her thumb brushes across the back of my hand. It’s soft. Intentional.

“I’ve tried to stop,” she says.

My heart stutters. “Stop what?”

“Seeing you like this. Wanting to… stay in these dreams.”

She looks away then, her profile sharp against the glowing sky. I can feel it—how hard this is for her. Vulnerability doesn't come easy to someone who wraps herself in walls of thorns.

“I didn’t think I was capable of this kind of longing,” she murmurs. “Of… aching.”

The word sits heavy between us.

“I thought it was just me,” I whisper. “I thought I was pathetic.”

“You’re not.” Her voice is fierce now, her gaze snapping back to mine. “You are the only one who makes me feel anything remotely close to… peace.”

I exhale, shakily. “Wednesday, I—”

She leans in.

Her forehead touches mine. Her breath is warm, and it smells like rain. Her fingers tremble slightly in mine.

“You said once, in a dream, that I called you Querida,” she murmurs. “I didn’t know I could be so soft.”

I smile, eyes burning. “You were. You are.”

The kiss is slow. Hesitant at first. But real.

Not smoke or mist. Not silk and fading echoes.

Real.

And when I wake—gasping, heart hammering, lips tingling—I see her again.

Sitting cross-legged on my bed.

Watching me like I’m something she just figured out how to want.

“I felt it too,” she says softly.

And I know—this isn’t just a dream anymore.

We’re both awake.

And we’re not running from it anymore.

Chapter Text

It’s been three days since the kiss in the dream.

Three days since Wednesday sat on the edge of my bed in the dark, whispered “I felt it too,” and then promptly disappeared into the hallway like nothing happened. Classic Wednesday.

And yet… everything has changed.

She walks beside me now, shoulder brushing mine more often than not, and she doesn’t pull away. At lunch, she sits next to me instead of across, her leg pressed gently against mine under the table. She hasn’t said anything—nothing big, nothing loud—but then again, Wednesday Addams never needs many words.

It’s the little things.

She doesn’t flinch when I touch her wrist now. Her hand hovers near mine when we read together in the common room, and sometimes—sometimes—she lets it fall the last inch to rest on top of mine.

She’s trying.

We’re both trying.

But there are hard days too.

Like today.

We’re walking back from class, and I say something—some dumb joke about our teacher’s bat-like ears—and Wednesday doesn’t laugh. She just stops walking.

“Enid,” she says flatly. “Do you… require constant levity to maintain your affection?”

My stomach twists. “What? No! I was just—joking. That’s what I do, I guess.”

She looks down at her boots, arms stiff at her sides. “I am… not proficient at emotional transparency. I fear I may eventually disappoint you.”

I blink. Wednesday Addams is scared of disappointing me?

“Oh my god,” I say, stepping closer. “You think I want perfect? Wednesday, I fell in love with you when you were threatening someone with a letter opener.”

She frowns. “That was a beautiful moment.”

“Exactly,” I whisper, reaching for her hand. “You don’t have to be good at this. Just… stay.”

She looks at our hands, then at me. Her expression softens in a way that still knocks the wind out of me.

“I can stay,” she says. “That is within my capacity.”

So we walk back to Ophelia Hall like that—hands linked, silence comfortable.

And that night?

That night we dream together again.

But it’s different now. Less aching. Less fragile.

We sit beneath a dream-sky with stars that pulse like fireflies, and she reads me her poetry—lines she’ll never speak aloud in the real world. I braid her hair. She lets me.

And when I wake, the warmth doesn’t vanish.

Because this time, when I turn, she’s still there—curled up on the edge of my bed, her head resting near my shoulder.

She stirs as I blink sleep from my eyes, then whispers, “Good morning, Querida.”

And I don’t cry.

Not this time.

Because she’s not just a dream anymore.

She’s real.

And she’s mine.

Chapter Text

Love, as a concept, had long repulsed me.

It was messy. Illogical. A chemical trick of the brain designed to facilitate reproduction and reduce the chances of dying alone in a forest. Unnecessary. Inefficient.

Until Enid Sinclair.

Now, I find myself sitting in the quad—voluntarily—with a werewolf whose presence is both deeply irritating and inexplicably comforting. Her knee is pressed against mine. She smells like vanilla and heartbreak pop songs. I tolerate both.

Everyone is staring.

I suppose I can't blame them.

The Queen of Death and the Princess of Glitter, holding hands in broad daylight. A juxtaposition so jarring it borders on performance art. Ajax walks by and nearly trips over his own feet. Yoko drops her sunglasses. Bianca stares with an arched brow so high it could cut glass.

Good.

Let them stare.

They didn't see the way Enid's hands shook the first time she told me she loved me.

They didn’t hear her whisper my name like it was something precious, not cursed.

They didn’t wake up alone after a shared dream, tasting lips that weren't there.

No one understands what it took for me to allow this—to open the ribcage of my life and let her in. To admit, even in silence, that I want her beside me. Always.

Enid beams at someone across the courtyard and waves. She's radiant in a way I’ll never be. But she looks at me like I’m the sun, and somehow… I don’t recoil.

“People are talking,” she says brightly, twirling a strand of my hair around her finger.

“Let them,” I reply, dryly. “We’re more interesting than whatever mold is growing in the greenhouse this week.”

She laughs. Loud. Unfiltered. I resist the urge to smirk.

Later, Principal Weems corners me in the hallway with a look that says concerned guidance counselor but sounds more like covert glee.

“Wednesday. I've been hearing... murmurs.”

“If this is about my relationship with Enid, allow me to ease your mind,” I say. “I have not hexed her, bewitched her, or trapped her in a pocket dimension.”

She blinks. “That’s... oddly specific.”

“I aim for clarity.”

Weems walks away with a dazed smile. Another casualty.

Even Thing gets in on it—leaving little flower petals on Enid’s pillow, tracing tiny hearts into her notebooks. She squeals every time. I act annoyed. I’m not.

The stares don’t stop.

But neither do we.

Because love, I’ve learned, is not a weakness when wielded correctly. It is a blade—sharp and precise. And in Enid’s hands, it has cut through every wall I thought I needed.

Now, I sit beside her. Let her talk. Let her touch.

Let her love me.

In dreams.

In daylight.

In every strange, terrifying, wonderful moment we’re awake.

Let them stare.

We are not a spectacle.

We are a revolution.