#aro!wednedsay

[voltstone]

stagger (Wenclair One-Shot)

Enid is her one exception, so Wednesday tries. Again, and again, and again. She gets it right, asking Enid to…not a date. Eventually.

[3,276] | [Last Edit: 12/10/2022] (Full One-Shot Post)

Note: This one-shot has been reposted from my old account onto this one. If it looks familiar, that's why. (The issues with that account are why you can't see the "blocked" comments on posts, like the one I initially responded to; I was shadow-banned for...no reason? Some reason? Oh well.)

Hope you enjoy! :)

It has been decided:

Wednesday Addams would court Enid Sinclair.

On a Wednesday, no less.

Because nobody deserved Enid, and Enid was loyal to heart so, logically, if Wednesday courted her, no other would have the chance. There would not be another Ajax. No more forgotten dates, nor absent mental function. Nor, potentially, any acts of sabotage. Wednesday still kept the rope and pulleys in her desk for just in case. Regardless, this had been decided, and all there needed to be done was the courtship itself—something that was more of a work in progress than Wednesday liked to admit.

She now stood at the courtyard’s rim, watching a grotesque sea of midnight violets and stripes. Amongst them, however, was life, was spirit. Wednesday's luna dorada…

Enid was crafted by her blue moon eyes—more than her haunting blonde, splashed by berry shades—, for they were piercing, and they carried more than the Wednesday’s dead-weighted stare. They had a way of striking every insult to dust, and a way of worming beneath her gaunt complexion. Or, when they would drown, the blue to her eyes were what Wednesday sought to mend. Every time. Without fail.

And they drowned after Ajax.

And every subsequent boy.

Then girl. There was a girl too, but that didn’t last. None of them did, but she certainly didn’t.

…Enid was particularly upset with that one. Only now did Wednesday begin to begrudgingly admit that, perhaps, being the reason why a student jumped from academy to mental institution like a tick should’ve weighed heavier on her conscious. Begrudgingly, though. Wednesday still couldn’t find hers, so she borrowed Enid’s conscious, and as it turned out, that whole…incident weighed like an anvil.

It took a moment for Wednesday to realize she had been reflecting for much too long. She hadn’t moved from the pillar. And with a bark of laughter from the midnight sea, her attention snapped.

Blue moon found the ink of her eyes. Enid beamed at Wednesday, dared to spite what scars slashed her face, from across the tables.

A threat. (Enid merely smiled.) What sick behavior. (Sure, Wednesday.) She was going to vomit. (From the stress.) From the agony. (…no.)

There was a blink. Her heart urged ejection—orally.

So.

Wednesday flipped her off.

It was an honest reflex.

…

This exchange would be the one. A swift, passing moment between classes, with Enid skipping her way to interspecies biology, and Wednesday, cryptic humanities, at a stroll. Five minutes at most. The corridor they used was…occupied, as it usually was, though far from the bustling wing it would devolve to at other hours.

As usual, they stopped before the odd display case—to commemorate the school’s history of its students on milk cartons.

“Enid.”

Her smile grew in ways Wednesday would never understand, yet would come to…notice. Often. As fleeting, busy thoughts. They were often gnats. Never to leave until Wednesday paid them their due time. This particular smile dug into Enid’s cheeks, and it was a toothy one, with sly eyes, and a chin leaned towards her shoulder. (It would be one to ponder on for a while. Before bed, namely.) “…Wednesday?" Enid humored, "You’ve been a little mean today, you know.”

“It is my day,” Wednesday muttered.

She also noticed that Enid did grow a few inches after all. Her eyes flecked along Enid’s pinstriped, midnight uniform and concluded that, yes, her skirt looked a little shorter than it had before. "Do you…have something to say?“

Wednesday crept her stare back to Enid’s blue moon. There’s a pause, then Enid pressed, from the corner of her mouth, ”Or…ask?“

A blink. She swallowed down a sludge of webbed thoughts. "Enid. I…" That skirt needed to be longer. Since when did Enid grow? Over break, surely. Behind Wednesday’s back, no doubt. "I think that…" It hardly mattered. Wednesday was asking— Wednesday was courting Enid, and she— "Would— Would…you…”  She didn’t. Know. Where?! “To the—" Where would she court Enid? A funeral? "Go to…” No, she couldn’t.

“Wednesday…?”

Why did she not check the obituary this week?! This morning, for the—

Her eyes snapped to Enid. And she blinked. Twice this time. “What?”

Enid’s sly eyes had a mild twitch to them. Which was…new. Almost. She didn’t do that with Wednesday often. The last time was before their occasion at the last fair. And before that had been the night where they danced as one, at the masquerade—music to harmonize, words left unsaid. (It was a favorite moment.) “Do you want to go to town together?” A question, like the couple times before. Enid toyed with her hands, then added, quietly, “And we can go to that creepy antique store you like?”

“With the roadkill?”

“Yeah.”

Wednesday did like that store. "Yes. That would be…worthwhile.“

"…and then ice cream?”

She fought a grimace. Stamped it down. “The one that smells desperate for attention?”

“Uh, yeah, that one,” Enid said. Her eyes watched Wednesday, as full as ever.

“Okay.” Wednesday nodded, though it was slow, and it was cautious. Enid had a way of writhing guilt to her chest as heartworm. 

(She also had a way of patience:) “They have the vanilla you like.”

“Yes, then.”

Wednesday spoke the route to Enid’s apparent gaiety. “Okay!" she near-squealed, her hands clasped together. Before Wednesday found them latched on either shoulder. That gaiety, as it bloomed full in her eyes, threatened to chip the color from her nails and into the black of Wednesday’s uniform. "So after class then!”

She found she didn’t mind it. Enid could leave her sediment of color all she liked, so long as she kept her eyes from drowning. “Fine,” Wednesday said, with an added, “Don’t bother me until the hour.”

Enid’s nodding was frantic. The twitch in her eye skewed the smile in her cheek. 

Wednesday meandered around Enid with a thick mouth, and a heavy mind. She didn’t court her. Forgot to know what, exactly, the courting would be in the first place. How that blunder managed to come to fruition, she didn’t know. But Wednesday did know that it needed to be rectified. Near-immediately. Before their excursion to town, if she could help it—

“YES. FINALLY. JESUS CHRIST!" 

She wasn’t ten strides away, and already, Enid bothered her before the hour. Bothered, or rather startled her.

Wednesday craned her eyes to Enid. Enid, who, stood frigid, eyes round and face strained to another wide, toothy smile. This one curled her scars into an awkward, bent geometry. With a swallow, she explained, "…th-this is, um, our first time shopping together. Alone.”

A long, sharp exhale forced what stammer in Wednesday’s heart that shouldn’t have been, though Enid always managed, somehow. She stared for a good moment. Then: “We can stop by the funeral home, Enid. I know how to obtain a discount for a casket your size.”

Enid gulped sheepishly.

(Nothing she ever did was particularly wolfish, now that Wednesday realized.)

…

Wednesday, against her better judgement, sat herself at her desk, in her chair. Her eyes bore through Thing’s palm as he drabbled a meandering, smug tune. [You look chipper.]

“I’ll throw you in one. Quit with the shit-eating, you don’t even have a mouth.”

Thing rolled himself into a fist, exasperated. (He really should have expected this.) Then, he flopped, and waved, and signed: [Okay. Fine. But you do look…very schoolgirl.] Wednesday stared. [Without the dimples.] She frowned. [Or the giggling.]

“Don’t flatter me.”

[I know what a schoolgirl who needs advice looks like.] Thing jabbed his thumb to Enid’s blaring side of the room.

She didn’t follow his gesture. There was no need. She heard such schoolgirl who needed advice on a daily basis. But, given that, Wednesday finally relented. Because as much as this was against her better judgement, her better judgement was floundering or flipping Enid off—panicking, in other words, as she figured the mere hour before. So, she relented, and grumbled, “…it’s about her, actually.” She didn’t look at Thing. Not as he swayed his self-satisfaction, the filthy romantic. “I have decided that no one is good for Enid, and if I am to kill anyone who has done wrong by her, I might as well be by her side too.”

She glanced at him. Rocked her jaw. Blinked. Then stared into his favorite stitch. “I don’t know how to court her.”

[I knew it.]

“Doesn’t matter.”

[Don’t be like that.]

Wednesday gnawed the inside of her cheek in stewed silence. She hated it whenever Thing did that—chastised her. He was a hand. She wasn’t a child.

The moment between them throbbed a familiar strain, where the hand talked back, and Wednesday was left to configure whether or not she missed something. Which happened. A lot. Particularly with Enid and whatever bout of emotions had twisted to obscurity. Anger often was blurred with frustration, and guilt did the same. Enid was explosive, that way. Had Wednesday start to suspect that anger wasn’t an emotion at all, but rather an armor set…

She watched Thing expectantly. He drummed nonsense, then asked, [What have you done so far? ]

…that was not a good question to answer.

Wednesday stalled. Avoided him entirely.

Unfortunately for her, Thing’s drumming turned morse:

[…W E D N E S D A Y.]

She scowled. “You know I hate it when you do that,” she muttered. 

Thing, once her eyes flecked back to him, beneath her desk lamp, signed, [Then look at me.] A nail leaned from the light, towards Enid’s half. [How can I help if you do not look? ]

Wednesday sat with herself for a second that felt too long. If every two shoulders were birthed with an angel and a demon on either side, Wednesday was born with only the latter, until the former spawned far too late. And that angel was Enid, and she very much wanted to flick the damn thing off.

Because this moment felt like it should be an apology. For…something. Being too calloused, or, in Enid’s words, a stone-cold bitch.

Exhaled, Wednesday begrudgingly appeased the worst part of herself: “…sorry.” She might as well have molted off her tongue. From her peripheral, however, Thing fluttered in the lamplight. He was happy about it, at least.

“Now just tell me what to do.”

Surprise teemed from his skin. [How bad were you?! ] 

“Thing.”

He paused, heard the something in her voice which Wednesday didn’t know to swallow down, then signed, methodically, [Swoon then kiss her.]

Wednesday leaned forward, brows strewn together. She must have popped a vessel. “What?”

[Swoon. Then kiss her.]

She didn’t. Apparently.

[Don’t you want to court her? ] Thing continued, if tentative. Slowly, Wednesday nodded. [And…kiss her? ] Another question… [Hold hands? ] And another question… […pet names? ] And another which she couldn’t answer. Not really. They weren’t good ones, anyway.

Regardless, Wednesday managed the only semblance of one she could: “I’m not my parents, Thing." There was a consideration. "Nor Enid for the matter. I told you. I want to court her, and then kill— Dissuade anybody who tries to hurt her.”

Thing slumped, and Wednesday could practically see the disappointment pale in his fingertips. [You’re not killing Ajax.]

“I amended what I said.”

[You’re also not buying a mirror.]

Wednesday bit her inner-cheek—hoped for blood.

[Or azaleas. Or larkspurs.]

“…fine," she grated, with a gaze swept across her drawers. "And don’t steal my grocery lists.”

Thing took that as the best he would get. (It was.) He drummed again, then waved for her attention. Wednesday read closely:

[You are not romantic. I get that.

[But if you want to court her, you have to meet in the middle.

[Do something Enid would like.]

She hesitated, then leaned into the back of her seat. Something Enid would like… There were many things, too many which Wednesday didn’t know if she could stomach. She would have to, of course. Courtships were, after all, matters of covenant. A pact. A promise. Through life. Beyond death.

If only she knew what about her appeased Enid.

(The answer was everything, really. Enid’s far from picky when it came to Wednesday.)

…

Wednesday admired the roadkill. Enid looked green, though she still managed a smile or two.

They bought one wearing an astronaut’s suit.

(Enid said something about ink being her whole world. Blue moon looked far from drowning as she did.)

Then, Enid got herself a harrowing display of color vomited on a cone. With sprinkles.

She brought Wednesday her vanilla. It tasted plain. It was savored.

Throughout it all, Wednesday rummaged for their courtship. Because eyes stalked Enid. Eyes not her own.

…

“You finished the ice cream.”

They decided to walk back to the academy. Enid figured that it’d do her good to burn off the ice cream (despite the Lycan’s metabolism being the gift from the gods), and Wednesday liked to roam in the biting chill. It didn’t threaten rain, unfortunately, though the wind mused about a night of hail. That almost brought a smile to Wednesday’s face. Almost. It brought a clipped scowl to Enid’s.

“I did,” she answered, after a moment.

Wednesday felt her eyes wander to her—across her profile, down her braids. “And you’ve been…thinking this whole time,” Enid remarked, her voice awfully intimate. It got that way frequently, as of late. 

Her dead-weighted stare matched the tempo to their strides, darted along each splash of color to Enid’s autumn wear. Wednesday decided those awfully intimate words felt warmer than the scarf around her neck. And that warmth was…lively. The same kind that adorned a casket before burial, as a bouquet of leaves and flowers, color and white. It was acceptable. A homely embrace.

“Yes.” Wednesday looked forward—watched for the bend down the road. Her admission stirred from her lips, quietly: “About you.”

Enid smiled, and that smile lingered as she remarked, “I mean I would hope so.” A laugh. Kind to the ears. “It’d be honestly so tragic if you weren’t.”

Wednesday merely hummed. An itch, then, plagued itself. There was no swallowing it. So she noted, “People looked at you.”

“I…” Enid sounded softer. Not like leaves and flowers, though, nor color and white. Like a lamb. Before headlights. “They…did?”

Together, they stopped dead.

As Enid reached for her scars, brushed down their lines by her fingertips, Wednesday said, “You’re a pink mess. And you're…giddy.” Amongst other things, of course. Enid was far from sore on the eyes. She was a bundle of energy, yet swift of mind, all at once. “Of course they did.” Wednesday frowned, however. For the look in Enid’s eyes looked close to drowning—though rather than to a hurricane, a still, frigid blanket. “Enid?”

She snapped back, and her eyes found Wednesday’s. "It’s nothing. Just checking my make-up.“

Neither moved. Stuck in place, locked in the passing minute.

"They’re only scars, I’ve told you,” Wednesday murmured. 

“I know." She heard Enid’s armor—that non-emotion—synch in place. "But they’re still on my face, Wednesday!" she hissed. "People see these first. And when I meet new people, they’re not going to remember me as Enid, they’re just going to see a girl who probably got mauled by a stupid bear.”

This felt like another moment. Not an apology, though, no.

Yet Wednesday was twinged by the same hesitance. And that hesitance had a name, and it was one she bitterly knew well: remorse. An ugly thing.

She would mend it. Fix the guilt from Enid’s face. Keep those drowned eyes from leaking into those lines.

“I’ll give them matching ones.”

“No.”

“They can have their own to look in the mirror.”

“Wednesday, no." 

She had to. Because those lines were tallies, and those tallies marked each failure. Each snide retort. The window. The taped border. 

And that damn. Fucking. Manor.

…that scar, Wednesday imagined, was the deepest one. Rather than a ravine, a gorge. 

"I do know some bears,” Wednesday said, almost desperate. “They would do it.”

“No!" The desperation wasn’t for naught. Because Enid’s smile bled to her voice, and Wednesday felt as though, perhaps, the gorge was an increment closer to being another ravine, then, someday, a mere trench.

Her blue moon eyes grew bright. Wednesday felt her webbed thoughts sludge again. They were thick to swallow, though she let strands coat her words: "Enid. When I look at your face, I don’t think of your scars first.”

Wednesday felt herself tip towards asphyxiation. The moment twitched. Her throat tightened.

Enid watched her. “Then…how do you think of it?” she asked, as quiet as ever. Their eyes met.

As they did, Wednesday knew one thing:

Nobody was worth Enid’s affection. Herself least of all.

Those scars would never truly heal, nor the ravines beneath her eyes, beneath her words. Wednesday did, however, want to heal. Somehow. She didn’t know how. The urge was a shadow cloaked behind her. It was mute. It didn’t say anything. But, Wednesday felt it, somewhere. And it was different from what had her tear a chest open and gut, or curl an erratic melody. Perhaps she could learn how to mend blindly, though. To reach into those eyes, and those words, and pull Enid to safety.

And she did just that. Ink clothed Enid’s blue moon, stared deep for her words. Her skin flushed beneath Wednesday’s hand. But, Enid didn’t break away. Neither did.

So Wednesday reigned her close. She heard Enid’s breath hitch, and she felt her anxiety coil to her palm.

The kiss felt like lips.

(It burned, and seared, as a prickle down Enid’s spine.)

Once broken apart, Wednesday watched her. It was…a nice thing. Better than she expected. Less than the hurricane she just subjected Enid to, but more than a mere graze of skin. Maybe. It sounded right, for the moment. Her lurking shadow fidgeted, anyway, so it had to have been.

Wednesday swallowed down a chill. Savored it, for Enid felt like vanilla. Her jaw itched to speak, and—

Wait. Oh no.

She still couldn’t think of anything.

And— And oh no her lips were actually buzzing. Slightly. Like she just kissed a bee.

“U-Uh, Wednesday…?”

“Shut up.” That lurking shadow winced. This wasn’t going well. Wednesday didn’t mean that, so to clarify, she muttered, “I’m thinking.”

“…you could just—”

“Shut up. I’m thinking.” Thinking and forgetting. Wednesday couldn’t scrounge what she thought to ask. (This, she assumed, was why Thing told her to swoon and then kiss. Enid’s mouth didn’t even feel like much, but it was still biting her on the ass. Figuratively.)

Wednesday glanced, and she caught a smug, growing smile. “Enid.”

“Yeah…?” Enid purred.

She opened her mouth, figured an insult wouldn’t help matters, and closed it. Wednesday rifled through every idea she could flounder. “Tomorrow night.” That was a start. “Grave-robbing. I have…a kit for two.” A very, very good idea. Except— Wait no. Enid looked perturbed. “I know— I know where every colonizer was buried in the town. We could…sell everything to the antique…store…”

“…grave-robbing. …okay.”

“Yes.” Wednesday, unfortunately, then found what she should’ve thought of before. So: “And…p-picnic.”

Enid brightens. There’s a nod, followed by a swift peck to Wednesday’s cheek. “It’s a date then.”

Wednesday felt her throat gravel noise. Then, she felt clockwork turn behind her ears. The hour struck, and her gut squirmed. “Was this a date?” She stared. Enid’s blue moon eyes stagnated. “Enid.” They darted. “Enid, answer me.”

“…n-no?”

“Enid. How— How many have we had?”

“U-Uh…” Enid’s grin was, of course, sheepish. “…seven?”

Hope you enjoyed! :)

#volt's library #wednesday 2022 #wednesday netflix #wednesday show #fanfiction #ao3 #wattpad #aromantic #aro!wednedsay #wenclair #she's trying #first kiss #confessions (kinda) #reposted from last account #if this looks familiar it's because i yoinked it from my last (dead) account