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Nighttime spread across Nevermore Academy like a stubborn vine spreading along brick walls.
It was a Thursday evening, no earlier than ten o’clock, when the heavy droplets of rain pouring from the sky rang against the glass panels of the webbed window. The outside world was dewy and mud-covered, making for a predictably wet and foggy Friday-to-come — Wednesday’s favorite weather, save for a rough thunderstorm with lightning that rattled walls.
Opposite her gothic girlfriend, Enid had not yet returned to their shared dorm, her presence being outlandishly delayed by none other than her leech of a vampire friend — as Wednesday so maliciously referred to her as — Yoko Tanaka.
Enid and Yoko, akin to two unfiltered peas in an equally disheveled pod, spend the entire afternoon finishing up a last-minute botany project that was due the following day. One would believe Yoko, after having spent literal generations at this godforsaken institution, would be familiar with the concept of proper time management. But Wednesday’s expectations for Tanaka seemed to constantly fall short of reality.
Nevertheless, Enid — far past the time she told Wednesday she would return at — made her way back to her dorm, mindlessly humming an upbeat pop song that would send Wednesday into a mental state of agony if she had the tragic fate of listening to such a tune.
Since she changed clothes before initially departing for Yoko’s, Enid had been sporting her personal choice of kaleidoscopic attire. Well, not entirely; today Enid’s color palette of fabric was notably less of an eyesore than most days.
Wearing a pastel pink oversized hoodie with the phrase ‘Live, Laugh, Love My Girlfriend’ on it — a foolish gift from Bianca that subjected Wednesday to some light teasing, which the latter didn’t really mind since Enid was flaunting, in a way, their relationship and inadvertently letting the entire school know that Enid was Wednesday’s, and Wednesday was Enid’s — a pair of light purple sweatpants with a white heart sewn into the side, and her baby blue platform Converse.
As for her hair, the pink, blue, and blonde streaks were messily tied in a half-up, half-down style, framing her face with short flyaways around the soft sides.
The path from Yoko’s dorm to hers was a rather short one — same hallway, mere rooms away from one another at opposite ends of the elongated corridor.
It had been no more than two minutes until Enid arrived at the entrance to her temporary residence, unlocking the wooden door with the metal key she’d lost more than a few times within her educational — and mildly dangerous years — at the boarding school. Surprisingly, Enid was never keen on religiously locking the door to her room. Who would break in? She had very little worth stealing. Although, since Crackstone, Thornhill, and that moronic excuse of a Hyde, the effort of locking became second nature.
Even Wednesday, the danger-seeking-troublemaker that she was, now locked the door without question.
“Hey, Wens. I’m sorry I’m late,” Enid greeted, slipping into the silent room, relocking the old door, and sliding off her loosely tied shoes. “Putting together the poster took a lot more time than we expected, which sucks because we already expected it to take a long—“
Enid’s words gradually trailed off when she finally took in the unexpected sight in front of her.
There, on the more monochrome and dreary side of the room — save for a few small pink trinkets, a white rose from a past date, and one of Enid’s colorful t-shirts — Wednesday sat in her dark wood chair, her head limply slumped over her desk, tucked between her folded arms, in a state of unconsciousness.
“—time.”
Looking at her girlfriend for a moment, Enid’s ocean blue eyes adjusted to the presence of something so beautiful.
Enid understood that Wednesday didn’t go to bed until Enid had returned safely from whatever plans she had with her friends, not that her outings were dangerous to any extent. The same protective logic applied from Enid to Wednesday, both girls were practically restless until their significant other came back in one unharmed piece.
Using that knowledge, Enid figured that her girlfriend made a frenzied attempt at busying herself with writing her novel to stay awake and salvage her consciousness. Reasonable, sure. But ineffective, by the looks of it.
Smirking to herself, Enid made her way across the dimly lit room, the only brightness stemming from two golden lamps, an LED cloud nightstand lamp, and Enid’s small fairy lights that hung from the wall.
Once Enid was standing next to Wednesday’s desk, quietly existing in the vulnerable space, she got a closer, more detailed view of Wednesday’s current display of drowsiness.
Her braids were delicately laid out against the wooden surface of her desk, slightly ruffled. Wednesday’s head was tilted to the side, resting on top of her arms, her face slack from sleep. Enid took a moment to gawk at her girlfriend’s features — the heavy eyelashes shadowing her closed eyelids, the small curve of her nose, her muted peach and plump lips, the map of faded freckles dotting her skin.
Wednesday was so precious, like a black Daliah blooming in the very center of a large sunflower field. She was Enid’s dark and fallen angel, capable of everything beautifully haunted, carrying herself with intense pride and her love for the deadly and divine.
And there she was, Enid’s whole world, passed out on a old wooden desk chair.
Enid was the only exception — the sole being in the world who was permitted to witness the unmistakably soft sides of the infamous Wednesday Friday Addams. She would cherish that fact for her entire life.
“How could anybody be afraid of you?” Enid whispers to nobody in particular, more or less speaking to herself.
Her choice of words was genuine. The idea that anybody would wholeheartedly fear Wednesday was certainly a lost one. To Enid — perhaps due to her close relationship with the gothic murderess, which some would argue clouded her mind from the danger that radiated off Wednesday, but Enid paid zero mind to those judgmental opinions — Wednesday had been no more dangerous than a black butterfly.
Enid might've been the only person who held that perception.
Nevertheless, as threatening as Wednesday could be, even more so since twisted levels of violence were never entirely taken off the table of possibilities, she only acted upon her danger when she believed it was morally correct.
Sure, some of her decisions — and the magnitude of Wednesday’s violence — were legally debatable, to say the very least, but Enid supposed that even butterflies got a little homicidal.
Wednesday, in her deep slumber, made a little whistling noise through one of her nostrils, inaudible for those without a heightened sense of hearing. Furthermore, Enid was already under the suspicion that Wednesday was trying to poorly conceal a cold, one that she’d obtained from the chilled weather.
Getting sick in the Addams family was certainly a rare occurrence, which was a positive trait passed down through their human — ? — bloodline. Enid was certain that Wednesday would deny any nervous accusations thrown at her about her current seasonal health. So, she refrained from commenting outwardly, and she decided that saying nothing and allowing Wednesday to secretly mend herself back to full health was the more suitable option.
Still, the soft noises she had been making through her slightly stuffed and tinted nose were cruelly adorable.
It was then that Enid realized how cold her girlfriend must've been. Sometimes, it was difficult for Enid to accurately depict the weather due to her body running naturally warm — a werewolf trait. And even though Wednesday personally favored the chilliness, Enid recognized that the girl wasn’t unsusceptible to the temperature.
Enid smiled to herself. “C’mon, Spooky. Let’s get you in bed,” she whispered.
The nickname was born one month into Enid and Wednesday’s romantic relationship. The night commenced with, ‘C’mon, Wens. We need pet names for one another,’ and closed with, ‘Fine, Spooky will suffice . . . I suppose,’ after Wednesday shut down every other stereotypical title in the book of couple nicknames.
Gently snaking her arms around Wednesday’s underside, Enid, with a featherlight touch, scooped her up with a style so bridal wedding goers would be jealous of her technique.
Carrying Wednesday — let alone holding her — was the opposite of a challenging ordeal. The goth was light, akin to a sack of rotten potatoes, and Enid’s strength could effortlessly withstand the weight of fifty Wednesdays if needed.
Enid worked on closing the distance between Wednesday’s desk and their bed without waking her lethal sleeping beauty.
A bed shared between both girls — formerly known as Wednesday’s bed — was created early on in their dating. Following a reluctant but satisfying cuddle session, Enid and Wednesday quickly discovered that sleep came noticeably easier when together.
So, they turned Enid’s bed into a makeshift lounge of soft blankets, textured pillows, and stuffed animals of all colors. Wednesday even allowed her dreadful black throw blanket to join the pile of misfit comfort.
Their new bed, however, was a perfect mix of both Enid’s and Wednesday’s opposing aesthetics. With expensive silk black sweets, a heavy black comforter, and two black pillows, Wednesday’s dark preferences were heartily accompanied by Enid's; she contributed a pastel pink throw blanket with small black hearts, two pastel pink pillows, and two purple bat plushies.
The girlfriends had proudly won the plushies for each other at a carnival — one less enthusiastically than the other, but meaningful in both tones. The purple bats matched; they were small, fluffy, had a broken right wing, and a winking left eye. They sat side by side in the middle of neatly arranged pillows.
Borderline sinking into REM sleep, Wednesday shifted a bit in Enid’s arms, snuggling into her chest and aimlessly tugging the front of her hoodie, pulling herself closer to her colorful girlfriend with a faint whimper.
Enid smirked down at her, readjusting her hold on Wednesday. “You’re lucky you’re cute, because you’re a handful.”
Where her jet-black bangs had ruffled and parted, Enid took it upon herself to place a small kiss on Wednesday’s forehead. The reddening response was immediate — Wednesday’s cheeks flushed a light shade of red, almost as if she were blushing in her sleep. Enid thought she was even cuter.
“Yeah, it’s official, you’re the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen,” Enid said while gently resting Wednesday on their shared bed. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody,” she quietly added.
Wednesday mindlessly grabbed one of the fluffy bat plushies and brought it close to her chest, sighing softly with the added comfort.
Nobody outside of Enid Sinclair knew how much of a baby Wednesday Addams could actually be when she’s overly tired. One time, Wednesday vetoed sleep for five nights in a row after Bianca bet that she couldn’t, out of sheer stubbornness, which resulted in the crankiest and most alarmingly mopey version of Wednesday.
Brushing away a few stray hairs out of Wednesday’s gorgeous face, Enid was suddenly reminded of how Wednesday most likely slept through her whole nighttime routine.
There’s a guilty sensation that falls into the pit of Enid’s stomach, causing a solemn frown to bestow upon her usually happy face. Wednesday stayed awake because I was late. She skipped her entire bedtime routine, she had thought, which — assuming that Enid was correct in her assumption that Wednesday attempted to remain awake for her — wasn’t wrong.
Considering how Wednesday routinely went through an entire checklist of carefully scheduled tasks before bed, Enid believed that the very least she could do was take out Wednesday’s braids. She no longer slept with them in — another example of Enid’s girlfriend-specific privileges.
Contrary to popular belief, Wednesday never wore her intricately wound braids for comfort, no. She wore them for order, management, control, as an equalizer for everything that was ever-so-horrifically out of her control. The only problem with Wednesday’s need for order is that her scalp — what an embarrassingly sensitive thing — demanded that her braids be thoroughly undone by the end of the day.
Irritation was a taxing fate for Wednesday’s scalp in response to the braids because of how tightly wound she kept them. Enid, the caring and bubblegum-sweet girlfriend that she was, convinced Wednesday to loosen her braids the slightest bit. The decision resulted in less scalp aggravation for Wednesday, but the goth insisted that her scalp should ‘suffer the consequences of being inadequate’ so Wednesday could maintain her usual clean and stoic demeanor.
Well, said ‘suffering’ only lasted two days before Wednesday begrudgingly caved into her own discomfort and loosened the braids once more. She promised Enid that she wouldn’t tie them so tight anymore. And, to her credit, she’d followed through.
Regardless, her scalp was relentless in its efforts to displease her, and a nightly scalp cream was forcefully added to her nighttime routine via Enid and her family. The ointment itself was a homemade recipe that Grandmama had supplied her with once a month — rubbing the product on her scalp before bed did wonders in easing the unforgiving irritation.
Understanding that applying the cream to Wednesday’s scalp would be the generous thing to do, Enid made a quick mental note of that near-future task as she took a seat on the shared bed. She slowly positioned herself to Wednesday’s left side, applying her full weight gradually onto the mattress to prevent her drowsy girlfriend from unfairly waking.
With a caring hand and a considerate attitude, Enid reached for Wednesday’s silk, jet-black hair, intent on delicately unwinding those perfectly styled braids. So, that’s what she does. Starting at the base — after untying the small black rubber bands — Enid gently untangled Wednesday’s hair.
Her hair, incredibly soft, impressively long, and incomprehensibly healthy, practically fell off the bone — in a figurative sense, of course — when taking them out of their confinements. Pretty was an understatement when it came to accurately depicting Wednesday’s midnight-toned locks. Had she not been lying down, hair splayed out like a wildflower, Enid was certain Wednesday’s hair traveled past the middle of her back.
Enid snorted under her breath, raking her hands through the cloudy feeling that accompanied touching Wednesday’s hair. “How is it that you get the creepy goth girl vibe and the Disney princess hair? Seriously, Wens, you’re just . . . perfect.”
She didn’t speak with jealousy — she never did. Enid spoke with the amount of love capable of moving an entire mountain. The most love her wolf heart could muster, all to give to the one and only Wednesday Addams, her future and forever.
Why?
Because Wednesday was perfect in every sense of the word.
Enid didn’t give a single shit about the phrase, ‘perfection is perception.’ Not when it came to her girlfriend, at least. Nobody could ever — never ever — convince her that Wednesday was anything less than perfect, and that was the undeniable truth.
Continuing to undo the flawless braids, Enid pondered how vastly her life has changed since the Crackstone incident last year.
Of course, there had been many altercations made within her life, some ranging from drastic changes, and others not quite. However, the most vital change was how much trust Wednesday had for both Enid and their relationship — the purely romantic, privately sexual, and remotely platonic aspects, all valued in their own unique manner.
Wednesday had even allowed herself to be more open and blatantly honest about her emotions. Reasonably, it was still a persistent struggle for the goth to outwardly request help or share what was troubling her — whether that be a classmate, Enid’s routine untidiness, or something more environmentally focused; for example, lights being too bright for her eyes, sounds being too loud, or fabrics feeling too . . . wrong — but it had certainly improved into a more natural habit. Enid couldn’t have been prouder.
Months into their dating, Wednesday even admitted to having daily nightmares about Crackstone and her gruesome time spent in the crypt. That was also the day Enid unknowingly discovered that Wednesday was stabbed, which she didn’t previously know, but that fact was ‘irrelevant,’ in Wednesday’s terms — it wasn’t. It was actually very relevant to the conversation at hand.
And no, these nightmares were not the positive kind of nightmares that Wednesday could find some semblance of pleasure in. She’d been abruptly ripped from her sleep multiple times due to suffering a rather vicious scene, cruelly reliving the moment the sharp-edged knife twisted and turned into her gut.
Wednesday always attempted to convince an anxious Enid that she was fine — that she was completely unbothered by the memories burned into her jagged headspace. Yet, after an unwarranted nightmare, Wednesday would snuggle closer to her girlfriend, breath hitched and her heart heavy, burying herself in the pink comfort that was Enid Sinclair.
Enid never stopped holding her tightly, saying nothing but speaking volumes.
Once Wednesday’s braids were out, Enid ran her fingers through the untangled locks, locks that were wholly darker than any shade of midnight.
She got up from the bed, allowing her weight to step away from the shared mattress. The scalp cream, Enid reminded herself, heading to the bathroom to retrieve the homemade product.
Knowing how to maneuver their space, Enid didn’t even need to turn on the overhead bathroom light to know where to locate the ointment. Sitting unmoving in the same spot on the wooden shelf, Enid aimlessly reached for the circular metal tin that was no larger than a coaster.
The familiar initials W.A. had been engraved — font: IM Fell English SC — in the small container cover. This wasn’t because Enid would somehow mistake the product as her own, but rather because Wednesday appreciated the act of labeling every single one of her belongings.
Enid walked back into their varied aesthetic room to see Wednesday in the same position, snuggled tightly into her fluffy purple bat plushie. It was an endearing sight, truly. Who would think Wednesday Friday Addams — pint-sized killer with black twin braids — would look so adorable? Other than Enid, that is.
Sitting down on the bed, Enid twisted open the metal container, put a dime-sized amount of the cream onto her palm, and rubbed it into her hands.
The product itself felt a bit like the dull colored butter slime Enid used to make with her youngest brother when they were kids. Youngest brother, as in her older brother, but the youngest of her older brothers. So, not her younger brother — she was the youngest of five siblings — but her youngest brother. There was a landslide of a difference.
Applying the scentless cream to Wednesday’s head was nothing new for Enid; she had done this multiple times before.
Occasionally, Wednesday’s left shoulder would ache from the silver arrow that was shot into her from Crackstone. Predictably, and against everyone’s wise suggestions, she’d refused to get physical therapy for it — her being her usual stubborn self and insisting that her body was in no need of external treatment, stupidly.
To her credit, Wednesday’s shoulder only hurt following an especially brutal fencing match against Bianca or some other intense physical activity. But when Wednesday’s in the bathroom later that same day, failing to suppress her faint winces of pain whilst trying to reach her scalp, Enid does it for her.
After the ointment is equally spread, Enid ran her dexterous fingers through the roots of her sleeping girlfriend’s hair and along the irritated surface of her sensitive scalp. Only a light coat is applied to Wednesday’s head, not wishing to overdo it.
The simple task only takes a couple of minutes, and when Enid deemed her work adequate enough for Wednesday’s high standards, she extended her sharp, multicolored claws and soothingly ran them along Wednesday’s scalp. It’s an action for comfort, one that never failed to ease the endless tension in Wednesday’s shoulders.
When Wednesday clutched the plushie even more, Enid leaned down and placed a small, soft kiss on her cheek from behind. “Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby,” she gently whispered.
Enid would never let anything hurt Wednesday, just like how Wednesday would never allow anything to hurt Enid — physically, emotionally, even spiritually.
So, closing out the vine-spread, stormy, and blissfully domestic night, Enid got up from the well-loved bed, washed her hands, vetoed changing into her bunny pajamas, set the scalp cream back in its rightful spot, got back in bed, and snuggled up behind Wednesday, becoming the big spoon to her spooky little spoon.
They fit together like two lost pieces that found one another on the floor. Enid held Wednesday as though she were the only thing on this earth — and in some poetic way, she was.