It all starts with pink.
A pink coat.
A pink hug.
Everything around Wednesday is spinning, but her world freezes within an embrace that she hasn't seen coming—and even less so expected to be reciprocating. Yet she finds herself caught in a moment that just seems inexplicably real.
It's the better part of a semester's worth of suppressed and confusing thoughts, wrapped tight between sturdy arms and a shoulder to lean on. In the moment it feels right. But it is also a stark exception to Wednesday's carefully set boundaries, and to everything that everyone has ever known her to be.
"Not a hugger."
Enid had recognized it herself, not once, not twice, but three times. A conclusion established from the moment they'd met, it had been clear that touch was off limits. That contact was nothing short of condemned.
"Still not a hugger. Got it."
So why, now, does Wednesday hold onto Enid as if the present moment could splinter at the thought of either of them letting go?
It keeps her rooted to the spot—immobilized—as something settles in her chest. Something strangely warm. Something strikingly unfamiliar. Something that clearly says it cannot be ignored, even when the most vexing realization Wednesday comes to is that she isn't even able to put a name to what exactly it is.
All Wednesday knows right then and there is that standing in the circle of Enid's gentle hold feels less like suffocating, and more like the easiest breath of air she has taken in the past twenty four hours.
It's bright, and deep, and pink.
Significant, in a way that words can't describe.
Colorful, in a way that isn't detestable.
And Wednesday does not get it.
In fact, it might be a bit of a problem.
Nevermore is a mess in the immediate wake of the battle.
The quad is in shambles, there is an absurd amount of miscommunication, and they bring in someone Wednesday feels is entirely unqualified to handle the chaos. Someone who is nothing like Weems.
There is a lot to take in.
So it's only fair that Wednesday is sufficiently distracted from the pink problem for at least a temporary amount of time. Injuries are patched up over the course of a week, and as the school collectively regains its footing, the decision is made by the new leadership to end the semester early, leaving the students with an extended break.
"It all just seems so sudden," Enid says, sitting down on her bed. It's empty now, save for the mattress—devoid of all of Enid's bright sheets, blankets, and pillows in preparation for their departure. "And a seven week break is such a long time."
They haven't talked much since that night.
Since the hug.
Wednesday has practically avoided Enid, actually. The necessitated separation as wounds were tended to had helped with that endeavor for all of seven days—and then it had been back to the dorm for packing. Wednesday wishes she could fold the problem away like one of her black sweaters.
But it's just so vivid and there.
She's reminded of it in the pink stripes on Enid's outfit. In the way Enid's pink highlighted ends of her blonde hair fall into her face when she looks down to the phone she's currently holding.
Wednesday might actually be willing to talk about it, if she could only find the right words for how it had felt to have Enid so close.
She can't, though.
"I don't see how we could possibly go back to classes when the staff is too ill-prepared to even deal with everything as it is."
"No, uh…It's not that," Enid says. She still doesn't look up, and her pause leaves behind a silence that hangs a bit uncomfortably in the air. Wednesday watches as she traces the grooves around the sides of her phone case—three times—before speaking again. "It's just that I'll miss you. That's all."
I'll miss you, she says.
You.
There is nothing else in between this time, and Wednesday doesn't know how to answer.
She doesn't know why the responses on the tip of her tongue are so diametrically opposed, fluctuating between Your ear-splitting pop songs will still haunt me and I'll miss you, too.
Or, even worse yet—
Can I hug you again?
She never actually does get to gamble with which phrase will come out first, however, because suddenly the phone in Enid's hand is ringing. It effectively interrupts the conversation (or lack thereof), and Enid excuses herself with a quick: "Sorry, gotta get this. It's my dad."
Wednesday nods, turning from Enid, and she doesn't want to think about how much of a mess that could have turned into.
Or how the warmth in her chest, that has returned full force, visibly spreads to her face—which now appears embarrassingly pink in the mirror on the back of her open closet door.
For seven weeks, Wednesday tries to do all she can to forget about the problem.
At the very least, it's convenient that she can return to her monochrome solitude—her room at home is black and white, with nothing in the middle. Nothing bright, nothing colorful, and certainly nothing pink.
Although, she does have to greet her family first.
Upon her arrival, Pugsley immediately asks her if she's brought back any new weapons for her extensive collection.
"Like that sword you used against Crackstone!"
He says it like it's this grand, heroic thing she'd done that night. And maybe it had been, in a way. But all it does right now is serve to remind her of what had transpired after.
Not helping.
"It was broken," Wednesday says simply. "Much like your arm will be if you don't give me some space."
"Not even a new dagger?"
He leaps to the side just as a small blade is hurled through the air, landing neatly on the wall behind where he had once been standing.
"My old ones still work just fine, don't you think?"
"I'll get you back for that," Pugsley says.
"Try," Wednesday replies. "I would so enjoy witnessing your feeble attempt at retaliation."
"You won't even know it's coming," Pugsley taunts.
But they're both fully aware that Wednesday isn't intimidated in the slightest, which is why he simply runs off right after, down the hall, leaving Wednesday to sort out what actually is new—just not weapon related.
Right before leaving Nevermore, Wednesday had acquired a phone from Xavier, and a suggestion to visit Enid in San Francisco. Not in that particular order, of course, but that's her priority list—to tell Xavier to stop texting her, and to not think about what it would be like to visit Enid all the way across the country.
Wednesday is supposed to be forgetting about the problem, after all. A visit would complicate that entirely.
What ends up being rather uncomplicated, surprisingly, is convincing Xavier to leave her alone in a relatively short amount of time, give or take a few days. And then when that's over with, Wednesday turns to her writing as a means of distraction. She has a new novel to start, which has a new mystery for Viper to solve, and Wednesday is sure that will be able to preoccupy her mind for the remainder of the break.
But she's halfway into chapter two when an unplanned character makes an appearance—tall, with blonde hair and a penchant for wearing pink and smiling at everyone she meets. Including Viper. And Wednesday's halfway into chapter three when she realizes that she has just wasted multiple sheets of perfectly good paper, because this most certainly cannot actually be a part of her novel.
This conclusion becomes even more apparent when Thing taps from beside her typewriter.
Thinking about Enid? He asks, rather bluntly.
Perhaps after spending the past semester caught up in all of Wednesday's investigations, he's taking after her. His deduction skills have been rather impeccable as of late. Admirable, maybe—but not necessarily appreciated in this very moment.
So Wednesday glares. "I don't recall saying this draft was ready for proof reading."
Not proof reading, Thing insists. Just observing.
"Same difference," Wednesday mutters.
So you're not denying it, then, Thing taps.
And he's right—she's not. Wednesday isn't denying it.
Why isn't she denying it?
Now that he knows, this situation simply will not do.
"Should it really matter if I'm recalling her obnoxious selections in attire and her overly sweet personality?" Wednesday snaps, suddenly becoming even more defensive. "Maybe Viper needs a nemesis."
Nemesis. Sure. If Thing had eyes, there is no doubt he'd be rolling them.
Wednesday chooses to ignore his sarcasm. "Or, even better yet, maybe outlines are made to be strictly followed."
She then proceeds to yank the paper from the typewriter and crumple it into a ball. Within the past two minutes she's gone from surprised, to mildly annoyed, to moderately enraged, and if she's being honest, the latter is more at herself for letting this slip-up happen than it is at Thing for prying. Nemesis or not, there is no place for 'bubbly and bright' in such a twisted tale. No place for such vividness to intertwine with the dark.
Right?
"Move," Wednesday finds herself saying. "Unless you want to be target practice."
Although it's the least lethal of any threat that Wednesday's ever presented him with, Thing doesn't have to be warned again.
The crumpled paper gets shoved all the way across the desk, right by where Thing had been perched a mere second ago, with just enough force that it falls off the edge of the black stained mahogany surface and into the trash can below. Out of sight, out of mind—
If only anything could ever be so straightforward.
Wednesday still can't stop thinking about it.
She can't stop thinking about it for the rest of the morning. Or all through that afternoon.
And it remains at the forefront of her mind during dinner, in which she narrowly misses Pugsley's promised payback from when she'd thrown the dagger at him the day she had returned.
A steak knife slices through the air from her left, directly in front of her nose.
She leans back into her chair at the last possible second, leaving her father to catch the serrated, stainless steel utensil as it makes its way across the expanse of the table. How fortunate that they all seem to have found themselves sitting in a row this evening. Gomez barely glances up as he stops it with precision before it can lodge itself somewhere that is most certainly not a rare cut of meat.
"No way!" Pugsley exclaims, sounding far too triumphant for his own good. "I actually almost got you this time!"
If Wednesday weren't so out of sorts at the moment, she'd have already been one step ahead of him.
Hell, she can't even think of a decent comeback.
How affected by this is she?
"Wednesday, Darling," Morticia speaks up from the end of the table with a note of concern. As much as Wednesday tries to deny it, her mother can read her well, and it's apparent in her observations. "You have seemed a bit…distracted, lately. Perhaps brushing up on your reflex training would be beneficial for the last half of your break."
That gets her attention. Wednesday straightens, rigid in her chair.
Observant though her mother might be—what an absolutely absurd suggestion.
Wednesday's reflexes are just fine.
The problem lies elsewhere, and without divulging the root cause, she fully intends to make it clear that her delayed response has nothing to do with a lapse in her abilities. To think her mother would believe she might actually let Pugsley scathe her—with a mere kitchen utensil, no less—is laughable. In the past three years, he'd nicked her with a throwing knife once.
Once.
Out of sheer dumb luck.
"I can assure you, Mother," Wednesday says, fully refocusing herself once more, "that—"
She's rudely interrupted before she can finish her thought, however.
Pugsley, the little devil that he is, just won't quit. He's high and mighty from his near victory, and tries again with his fork this time. It's aimed directly at Wednesday's left shoulder.
But he should know by now that she will never make the same mistake twice.
Wednesday effortlessly traps the metal tines between her thumb and index finger, proof enough that she's still able to defend herself with ease, and it's beyond her what Pugsley is going on about when she hears him snickering from beside her. All he has left now is a spoon, which, strategically speaking, will do minimal damage. Now that he's out of optimal arsenal, she should put up a fight. Make him eat his words from before about how he'd almost gotten her.
Ultimately, though…
She doesn't.
Because she knows that her real battle isn't at this dinner table. Not anywhere near it.
In fact, this is mere child's play compared to the fight she's having in the back of her mind. There is no denying that it has taken ahold of the majority of her thoughts, and forged a home for itself within them as a permanent reminder on display in every waking moment, incessantly grating on her nerves. Weighing on her chest.
Taunting her with its presence.
(I'm here. I'm still here. You can't ignore me forever. You can't ignore me at all.)
The problem. The pink problem.
Wednesday really needs to get a grip.
"I can assure you," she repeats, her tone even as she slowly lowers the fork to the table next to her own plate—and no, she has no intention of giving it back. Pugsley can either try to take it, get a new one, or eat his steak with his spoon. She doesn't quite care. "That there is nothing wrong with my reflexes."
"And that was a marvelous display of dexterity," her father agrees. "It seems as though our little scorpion is still as sharp as ever."
Point made and proven enough to appease everyone else involved, Wednesday finishes her meal in silence, and then pushes her chair back and announces that she is returning to her room.
She does not attempt to write again, instead reaching for her cello and proceeding to play one of her most favorite compositions in the key of E minor. It's a long piece, and one that she believes will clear her mind.
It proves to be the second time that she is wrong about such a hypothesis.
Because even still, once the last note is nothing but an echo in the air, and the sheet music is carefully slotted away among the rest in a thick black folder, sleep eludes her. It's nearly midnight, and this is turning her inside and out. The warmth in her chest that has not left since the hug, and the thoughts in her head—they're wreaking havoc.
Eventually, Wednesday finds herself walking over to the side of her desk and retrieving the discarded paper from the trash can. Then she lays it out, under the thin beams of moonlight that seep through the few cracks in her curtains.
Wrinkled phrases like radiant enthusiasm and cheerful disposition plague her mind for the rest of the night.
The day Wednesday returns from break, the pink problem morphs into the purple problem.
She has arrived before Enid—her mother insists she tell Enid they say hello, her father tells her to unleash her worst on this new semester, and her brother hugs her in a grip so tight that it takes every ounce of restraint for her to not literally peel his arms away from around her.
Wednesday supposes that she'll miss him, though, in a way.
And all of them, for that matter—even if she would never dare admit it. No one can truly keep her on her toes like her family can.
When they eventually leave, Thing assists her with the unpacking. She's just about entirely emptied the very last of her steamer trunks when the door bursts open.
"Wednesday! Thing! Hi!"
Enid steps into the room, drowning in excitement and a plethora of rainbow luggage.
Wednesday drowns in the deafening way her pulse surges, ringing in her ears, at the brightness in Enid's voice. It's terrible.
But it isn't, really.
And that's only part of the problem.
"Hello, Enid," Wednesday replies, as evenly as she can.
Thing scurries over to Enid's side of the room as the werewolf turns and deposits her bags on her bed—and that's when Wednesday truly notices it. The new array of hues dyed into Enid's blonde waves, springing about as she pivots back around to face Wednesday.
The pink is radiantly deep. The blue is darker. The purple is hypnotizing.
"Your hair," Wednesday says, entirely astonished, and it is followed by nothing else.
Nothing.
There's no sarcastic commentary. No snide remark about a color abomination. Just sheer, pure surprise.
And a hint of something else.
"I know, right?"
Enid beams, and the warmth in Wednesday's chest sparks intensely. Perhaps it's a small inferno now, harbored somewhere between her sternum and her heart. Enid's wide smile fuels the flames.
Wednesday can only watch as Enid runs her fingers through the blonde and tricolor dyed strands with vivid nails that peek out from long, pastel pink sleeves.
There is so much color.
So much.
But it's Enid, and it's extraordinary, and Wednesday couldn't imagine her any other way.
"I dyed it again over the break," she explains simply. Then she swerves off onto another tangent of a topic. Wednesday's almost forgotten how quickly Enid can bounce from one subject to another. "And seriously, this so reminds me—we have to exchange numbers! If we had before break, we could've talked the whole time! I could've sent you pics of my new hair!"
Wednesday comes to her senses a bit at the thought of the cell phone. Has she even remembered to bring it with her? Aside from charging it, she hasn't used it since Xavier had sworn he'd stop contacting her.
"And here I thought you enjoyed surprises," Wednesday says, turning to her desk to see if she has possibly placed the phone there and then forgotten about it.
"It still would have been a surprise. Just by text!"
It's classic Enid.
Always managing to spin everything positively.
"But honestly though, Wends…" Enid's voice is soft, and Wednesday wonders if it's opportune timing that she has her vision focused elsewhere. "I really did miss you. A lot. Even the sound of your typewriter."
I couldn't stop thinking about you, either.
"And I almost wrote you a letter. An actual, paper letter. Can you believe that?"
I almost wrote you into my novel.
"Would you have written me back if I did?"
"Yes."
Wednesday actually says it this time, and she clarifies her statement with only the utmost of sincerity, turning back around to face Enid. "Of course I would have."
There's something in Enid's expression that Wednesday can't read when she meets her eye. Something between the lines, unsaid in the way Enid only holds Wednesday's gaze for a fleeting moment, before turning her focus to the hardwood flooring and twisting a half blonde, half purple strand of hair around her finger.
Much like the one, oddly quiet conversation they'd had before the break, they're both interrupted again before either has a chance to say anything more.
Thing taps from the floor next to Wednesday's desk. Looking for this?
"Oh!" Enid's tone shifts, always such a whirlwind of emotions, as she turns her attention to Thing. "Look! He found your phone!"
"I was beginning to believe I'd left it at home," Wednesday replies. "I still don't see the purpose of using such a device when we are quite literally sharing a room again."
Enid only laughs, and that causes something to flicker through Wednesday.
She holds her breath for a moment, wondering if she can quiet what she feels by remaining entirely still in the brief length of time it takes for Enid to cross over to Wednesday's side of the room and pick up the black phone next to Thing.
(It doesn't work.)
Enid holds the phone out to Wednesday, and the screen glows. It's actually quite amazing that the battery has lasted this long since the last time she had completely charged it.
"I thought you were going to put your number in it?"
"I don't know your passcode," Enid says.
"It's the full date on which Edgar Allan Poe's poem The Raven was first published."
Enid lets out a small snort. "Okay. I still don't know it."
Wednesday takes the phone from Enid's hand. It's only the fifth time she's used this sequence of numbers. Thing had shown her how to set it up, and so she can do this much. It's when she gets to the screen with the far-too-vivid apps and symbols, however, that she realizes she has no idea where to go next.
Wednesday can set up traps to nearly skewer her brother, assemble a smoke bomb with her eyes closed, and recite literary works dating back to the 1700s. But she cannot, for the life of her, figure out how to pull up a screen that will allow Enid to put her number in her phone.
"You don't know how to get to your contacts, do you," Enid states, knowing Wednesday all too well.
Then, before Wednesday is even prepared for what's happening, Enid moves closer.
And closer.
And—
"Here, let me see," Enid says, and she's right next to Wednesday now.
She peers over Wednesday's shoulder, at the phone in her hand, and when she leans across to reach the illuminated screen, a large section of purple dyed hair brushes across Wednesday's shoulder and neck.
It's so slight. A ghost of a touch.
But it lingers long after Enid nearly leaps backwards with an embarrassed look on her face, tucking the section of hair back behind her ear and mumbling the tiniest apology. It's a quick, recoil of a reflex for Enid to automatically assume the worst, accidental as it may have been.
And while there's a moment where Wednesday barely even remembers how to speak, she strangely decides that she doesn't want Enid to believe that the first semblance of touch since their hug is something so inherently wrong or uncalled for.
She shocks them both when she finally manages to reply with a simple: "It's fine."
Enid looks at her with a touch of surprise, and the flickering feeling returns.
It's separate from the warmth in her chest—made incredibly more apparent even as the awkwardness between them dissipates and settles.
Enid locates the contacts on Wednesdays's phone without making any other actual contact at all, finding that the app had been moved to a different screen. Thing swears he hadn't done it (although Wednesday remains skeptical), and Enid types her number in with ease.
"Now, you text me," Enid says. She strides back over to her bags, and retrieves her phone out of the one on top of the pile. "That way, I'll have yours too."
What is Wednesday supposed to say?
What is she supposed to say to the girl whose mere presence makes it feel like there is an electric current buzzing through her veins?
—
Wednesday (3:02 p.m.) -
It's Wednesday.
Enid (3:03 p.m.) -
See? Look how easy that was! Now I can text you alllll the time
Wednesday (3:03 p.m.) -
How wonderful.
Enid (3:04 p.m.) -
I can hear the sarcasm thru the phone without you even saying it. This is so great
Wednesday (3:05 p.m.) -
The meaning of the word 'great' is subjective.
Enid (3:05 p.m.) -
Ofc it is lol
Enid (3:06 p.m.) -
Also! To make up for the fact that I couldn't send this over break!
—
When Wednesday's phone chimes again (she really will have to ask Thing how to put it on silent), she sees that Enid seems to have sent her a selfie. It's clearly from the day she'd redone her hair. Bottles of dye are on the countertop, and her back is to the mirror, but it's angled in such a way that the entirety of the new color gradient can be seen behind her in the reflection. She's smiling at the camera, and her shirt has this giant, purple butterfly printed onto it, and that is when it hits Wednesday.
That is when she realizes that she may very well be able to put a name to the newest sensation she's experiencing, and it's staring her right in the face, as reluctant as she might be to accept it.
In the brief interlude of denial that she goes through, Wednesday desperately wishes that she could liken the feeling to anything else. The crawling of a spider, perhaps. Or the sting of a bee.
But the image that remains plastered in her mind is that of the purple butterfly.
Butterflies are what she feels.
Flickering.
Fluttering.
And Wednesday finds, surprisingly, that all else aside from butterflies would fall short as a descriptor, if only due to how unsuspecting they are. How undeniably insidious.
They wear the guise of delicate wings that render their arrival soundless. They create an uncomfortable home for themselves without permission, right beneath the warmth in her chest, and with a pressure more forceful than that of the sharpest knife, they make their presence known at any time they please.
They change everything.
In class, when Enid leans over too far in order to see the answers on Wednesday's worksheet, and the back of her hand brushes against Wednesday's wrist—
Butterflies.
In their room, when Enid is texting Yoko, and Wednesday is trying to work on an assignment, but one glance over at her roommate vividly smiling down at her phone screen sends her concentration veering—
Butterflies.
In fencing, the worst of it, when Wednesday is paired with Enid for a bout—
Butterflies, as Wednesday is taken off guard at her roommate's agile footwork and speed.
Has Enid always moved with such purposeful precision?
Wednesday's astonishment is enough to make her momentarily freeze, and it's just long enough to cost her the point. Enid's foil claims the win by making contact with the black fabric at Wednesday's right side before she even knows what is happening.
"Well I have to say, I didn't think you'd make it so simple," Enid teases as she briefly lifts her mask.
Wednesday doesn't dare remove hers.
"I let you have that point," she lies.
"Aw, you're going easy on me already?" Enid tilts her head to the side, and there's a strange look in her eyes. A hint of mischief, maybe. A sight that Wednesday has never seen in them before. A challenge. "I can handle it, Wednesday. I've been practicing over the break."
Wednesday's breath nearly catches in her throat at the sudden confidence radiating from her once cautious roommate—this is not the same Enid who had shied away from accidentally brushing her hair against Wednesday's shoulder two weeks ago. No. This is an Enid who is leaping at the chance to prove herself. An Enid who is all too eager to push the limits now that there is a chance to do so.
It is both positively infuriating and intriguingly captivating, all at the same time. The fluttering sensation within her collides with a competitive spark, and it is a recipe for a searing disaster.
But Wednesday has never been one to heed a warning sign.
"It's best of three," she says, resetting to take her initial stance. "Let's see what else you've got, Sinclair."
"Gladly," Enid replies, reaching up to reposition her mask. She has two fingers on the edge of the white material, and then before slipping it back over her face, she winks. "Let's see what you've really got, Addams."
Butterflies, butterflies, butterflies.
They become all that Wednesday has in that very moment, and they leave her absolutely incapable of putting up a fight. She loses to Enid Sinclair. To a tap against her shoulder, and to a tap against her waist, and to a heart that beats too quickly to merely be from the feeble effort of trying to hold her own against a force she can barely understand.
She loses to fluttering wings—to the most unsuspecting of culprits.
They flood her mind. They nag at her ribcage, trapped in their confines no matter how much Wednesday longs to release them. They steal the breath from her very lungs.
And they do not let go.
A/n: Hi all! So this is canon continuation from the end of s1 (minus the stalker) and will be multi chapter. It's also cross posted on here and ao3. Hope you enjoyed this first chapter and thanks for reading!