Much to Wednesday's amazement, the butterflies don't kill her.
She therefore has no choice but to grow accustomed to them instead. She adapts, so that she can learn to remain in Enid's presence without forgetting how to breathe. And who knew it would be such a feat of survival?
Wednesday has scaled mountains in no less than five different countries and three different continents, and can undoubtedly conclude that the atmosphere at summit altitude is more manageable than the one in their Ophelia Hall dorm room, where Enid dances around in such a way that she nearly has Wednesday smiling from ear to ear.
Because the absolute irony of it all is that it's the perfect contradiction.
It's a peculiar game of too close—
Do you know what having you so near does to me?
And not close enough—
Do you know that I've thought about what it would be like to take you by the hand, and spin you around, and dance with you out on the balcony where you'd shine brighter than all of the stars combined?
This hold that Enid has on her is nearly paralyzing, and Wednesday does, indeed, wonder for some time if she might be possessed.
But she pushes through it anyway.
She has to.
She keeps going, like there is nothing wrong, like she always does. It's just second nature.
And so, when Wednesday decides to play her cello for the first time since arriving back at Nevermore, she pours everything that has been on her mind into the piece, if only to attempt to give herself something familiar to conceal it all within.
It's three weeks into the new semester now. It's been three whole weeks since she has played—and, as it would seem, someone else has been paying attention.
Enid is always paying attention.
"I've missed your music."
Wednesday is halfway through the piece when she turns to see her roommate standing behind her on the balcony. Enid is bundled in a puffy, bright jacket, with equally as vivid sweatpants tucked into boots. It's been snowing for the past few days.
They've cleared the balcony, though.
Thing, Wednesday's faithful page turner, places his index finger right at the measure she has stopped at, and she lets the bow fall briefly from the strings. It is an unplanned intermission as her eyes find Enid's.
"Mind if I listen out here?"
Typically, the request would be one that Wednesday would deny. She has never been one for voluntarily playing in front of others. She knows that her music can be heard far and wide across Nevermore's campus, but there is something about having an audience up close and personal that tends to be unsettling.
When it's Enid who's asking, however…
"No."
Enid wrings her hands together a bit, like she's unsure if she should proceed. Wednesday has never been a open book, so the hesitance is only fair. "No as in, like…no, you don't want me to? Or no as in…you don't mind?"
"It was in answer to how you asked," Wednesday clarifies, attempting to be as transparent as possible. Which is ironic, considering just how much she's holding inside. "No, I don't mind."
"Oh," Enid breathes out a visible little sigh of relief that can be seen in the chill of the air. "Okay. Cool."
Then she meanders across the balcony, propping her elbows up on the railing and letting her head rest in her palm as she gazes across the vast expanse of the school grounds.
Wednesday takes that as her cue to continue.
Thing resumes his page turning, Enid listens, and Wednesday plays—it's strangely tranquil.
The half moon has risen above them in the sky. And the winter wind carries the song, even though the morose tune masks every ounce of emotion that Wednesday purposefully hides behind it.
Her performance is a sullen illusion until the very end.
"Who was that one by?" Enid asks when the piece concludes. She turns around once more to face Wednesday, and her words are full of genuine curiosity.
"Vivaldi," Wednesday replies simply, and then she finds that she doesn't have anything else to add.
The moonlight is casting a halo around Enid in such a way that it makes it seem as if she is almost glowing, and Wednesday fears that if she opens her mouth again, what will come out will have nothing to do with music, and everything to do with how ethereal Enid looks against the shadowed backdrop of their surroundings. She is every bit the antithesis of a silhouette.
"So, true story," Enid says, which is a sure sign that she's going to launch into a very long, very anecdotal tale.
Perhaps it's fortunate timing.
"For ages, my mom wanted me to play the piano," Enid continues. "She plays the piano, and so did my grandmother, and so did my great grandmother…you get the point, right? It kind of runs in the family. Anyway, I never really had the patience to sit through a class. My mom hired this private instructor to come to the house and everything. I'd always ditch lessons to climb trees and play outside with my brothers. She was so mad. But…I guess the one thing I do regret was not learning how to read the notes. I feel like the way a piece is written has to say a lot, you know? And it would be neat to be able to understand it all. Which I guess is a bit silly, seeing as I never actually learned an instrument either…"
"Of course it isn't," Wednesday tells her. And it's so rare for her to answer candidly from the start, but she has an inherent appreciation for music and, in this very moment, a sheer determination to show Enid that she shouldn't think so little of the things that matter to her. "Music has meaning whether you can read the notes or not. They're just one part of the entire composition. You can learn a lot about a piece just by looking at the time signature. Or the rhythm. Or the key. An answer isn't just the final product. You don't solve a mystery without putting together all of the clues."
"Only you would compare music to following a case," Enid says with a laugh. "What key was that one in?"
"C minor."
"Could you play another?"
Enid looks at her with such a hopeful expression, and how can Wednesday refuse?
Thing scurries back into the dorm to select a new piece that Wednesday tells him he can choose. He returns with one by Tchaikovsky, and Enid turns back to watching the night sky on the horizon as Wednesday begins again.
Little does she know that it will be a new beginning in more ways than one.
From that night on, it becomes a bit of a pattern—something that continues to happen, without them really speaking about it.
Or what it is.
Or what it means.
(If it means anything at all—and maybe it doesn't. Wednesday is a notorious overthinker.)
But Wednesday will play, and Enid will join her outside to listen, and Wednesday finds that she is perfectly content with this arrangement.
It becomes something that is theirs, and theirs alone.
Enid will always ask Wednesday about the piece she's playing each night, and Wednesday will answer with the composer, or the key, or the year in which the piece had been written. And then Enid will stand leaning on the railing, with the wind tossing through her hair as she looks out at the evening that has fallen over Nevermore and the mountains of Jericho in the distance.
The music around them always rings long and low and resonant.
Thing still turns the pages, but Wednesday knows these pieces incredibly well. They've been in her repertoire for years. So, sometimes, instead of looking at the notes, she catches herself watching Enid while she plays. And when Enid turns around, Wednesday always glances away.
But the tempo never wavers.
Her timing is impeccable.
She keeps the metronome of her heart shielded behind the precise attention she gives to adhering to the piece's time signature, to ensure that she will not slip up.
To ensure that she will not falter.
Not even once.
Not long after they establish this new routine, Wednesday's world becomes painted in green—the likes of which she has never before experienced.
Now that the semester is really in full swing, Enid is going out and about a lot more than she has in the weeks prior.
It shouldn't bother Wednesday that she's not invited, because she does not want to go—not to the movie Enid sees with Yoko and Divina, or to game night. The ice cream social sounds horrendous (and terribly unoriginal), and the local craft fair in Jericho that the town holds once a year will not hold a candle to the archaic weaponry exposition that Wednesday and her family had driven halfway across the country to attend the year that she had turned seven.
But Wednesday does, selfishly, miss having Enid here in their room all the time. Everything is so quiet when she's not around. Too quiet.
The noise that Wednesday had once relentlessly complained about is missing—and she doesn't like it. Sometimes, when Enid is out at night, Wednesday won't even play her cello.
Like tonight.
Wednesday has chosen to try to write, instead. There have, so far, been no more instances of inserting new characters unplanned. But now there's a new problem.
How is Wednesday supposed to just sit here by herself and work when there is no random squealing over a social media post? No soft tapping of bright nails to some upbeat pop song blasting too loudly out of pink and purple headphones?
If the butterflies haven't brought about Wednesday's demise, then envy surely will.
It's a ghastly thing, like an invasive plant taking root in uncharted territory. It forces its way in and demands space with its maze of sharp green vines, wrapping its way around her thoughts and fixing itself into a place where it is most certainly unwelcome. And it holds more power than Wednesday could ever imagine.
Her lips twist into a frown, and envy twists with them, as Wednesday finds herself jealous—jealous—of everyone Enid has chosen to spend her time with, even as rationality suggests that this very notion is absurd, and altogether unfounded.
Enid is not hers.
Enid is her roommate, who can make her own decisions, and be in the company of whomever she chooses. And even if she were more than Wednesday's roommate (another absurd notion), then these facts would remain true.
It still stings, though. In a way that little else ever has.
The dullness that this brings upon Wednesday's evening clearly must be gloomier than usual, because it's enough for Thing to scurry across her desk, stopping directly in front of her typewriter with a knowing tap.
You're moping. He says.
How is it that he can always tell?
He's right again, but he does not, under any circumstances, need to know that this time. It'll go straight to his head.
Or, at least, his version of one, anyway.
"I'm brainstorming," Wednesday lies. "I did not bring you back here with me this semester so that you could criticize my methods."
Thing, however, is persistent. You haven't typed a single word in half an hour.
Wednesday only scowls. "You're in my way. Again."
She unfolds her arms as Thing leaps to the side, and she sets her fingers above the typewriter keys. She's ready to start a paragraph just out of spite…
When the sound of footsteps approaching outside the door halts her in her tracks.
It seems as though they could be Enid's—there's that subtle little skip to her gait that she adds when she's excited about something—but Wednesday can tell that there is one more person present as the steps slow in tandem. When they stop completely, they're replaced with a voice instead.
"But wait. You never told me what happened."
The words are slightly muffled through the thick wood of the door, but they're Yoko's, most likely.
"Oh, come on. Like you don't already know."
Those are Enid's words, most definitely. Wednesday would recognize her voice anywhere.
"I mean, I could guess, but I'm still asking," Yoko says. "What did you tell Ajax?"
Wednesday instantly bristles at the sound of the gorgon boy's name. She tries to listen to Enid's response to Yoko, but it's too low for her to hear. It's spoken quietly, under her breath.
Meanwhile, Yoko's response of a shout can likely be heard by the entire floor in Ophelia Hall. "I fucking knew it!"
"Yoko!" Enid's complaint is certainly audible this time around. "Shut up!"
She sounds embarrassed. Flustered, even.
Envy snakes its way back around Wednesday, and she's helpless against its unbreakable grip.
After a few more moments, Enid barges into the room like she couldn't have gotten out of there fast enough, her face as pink as the scarf she's wearing. There's a small, brown paper bag in her hand with a printed logo on it—something bold, and curly, and artsy.
Jericho. The craft fair.
Right.
That's where they'd gone tonight.
"Sorry she's so loud." Enid visibly grimaces as she shuts the door behind her. "I'm surprised the whole school hasn't already heard that Ajax asked me out."
And that's all Wednesday has to hear to send her mind reeling.
The dark green thorns on envy's vines cut deep.
Wednesday wordlessly turns around to face her typewriter again, pressing the keys aimlessly and knowing full well that this page will have to be scrapped as the thoughts flood in.
Why this?
Why now?
Why him?
Why—
"Not that Yoko would purposely do that, but like…I still don't need everyone to know that he asked and I said no."
What?
Wednesday stops typing.
Her hands still above the keys, and her whole body freezes.
Enid turned him down?
After all of that time she'd spent chasing after him last semester? After all of the hours she'd spent talking about him and planning ways to spend time with him?
How does it all add up?
Wednesday has never been so perplexed.
But, strangely, she's also never been so relieved.
Some questions, she supposes, will just have to be left unanswered.
"Wends, are you…" Enid starts, and then Wednesday hears her walking, footsteps drawing closer across the hardwood. She's standing right next to Wednesday's desk by the time she finishes her statement. "Are you okay? I know you're quiet, but you're not usually this quiet."
Wednesday wonders why her first thought after that is if Enid will notice that the printed letters on the page in front of her don't even form full words.
"I'm fine," Wednesday says. Then she reaches for the paper so that her prior thought does not come to fruition, pulling it from the typewriter and turning it face down with the rest of the stack that makes up her draft. She'll separate it out later. "Perhaps I'll sleep better knowing that I won't need to use my nail gun for the foreseeable future."
At this, Enid smiles. "That's kind of sweet, you know. If there's anyone around here that I'd want to have my back, it's you."
"I'm not sweet," Wednesday insists.
But I'll always protect you. Always.
"A…formidable force to be reckoned with, then?"
One corner of Wednesday's mouth turns upwards, ever so slightly. "Better."
Enid laughs this time. It's soft and bright, and Wednesday has missed this, and for the first time all evening, it feels like the pressure surrounding her is dissipating.
Of course, it's then replaced by none other than the familiar warmth in her chest and the relentless butterflies. By the beginnings of traitorous smile that wants to claw its way out entirely, even though Wednesday would never allow it.
"Hey, so…I got you something."
There's a bit of a rustling as Enid reaches into the paper bag, and Wednesday is taken so off guard at Enid's words that she can't even form a reply. She merely watches as her roommate brings out another bag from within—this one a bright green, velvety drawstring that's almost as large as Enid's palm.
"I saw it and I thought of you."
She holds the bag out to Wednesday, who takes it carefully from Enid's outstretched hand.
Inside, she finds one of the most intricately designed hair clips she has ever seen. It's a raven, with its wingspan stretching from one end of the clip to the other, deep bronze and strikingly detailed. Wednesday runs her fingers along the ornately etched metal surface, taking note of each feather and groove and feature. It's an extraordinary piece.
"I know you almost always wear your braids down, but I couldn't just leave it there. And I'm sorry the only bag they had for it was green."
Is Enid…
Is Enid apologizing right now for something she had gone so out of her way to do?
"I swear, I even asked if they had black."
How can Enid stand here and discount her own thoughtfulness like this?
"And—"
"Enid," Wednesday says. She finds her words again easily, effectively interrupting her roommate's rambling.
Enid tucks a section of pink and blonde hair behind her ear, and something about the action makes it seem as if she's worried that Wednesday doesn't like it—which of course couldn't be further from the truth.
Wednesday adores this hair clip.
And she absolutely adores that Enid had thought to bring it back for her.
The gesture is also reminiscent of the time Enid had gifted Wednesday the snood, and so now, Wednesday finds herself honestly wanting to make sure that Enid knows how appreciated it is, in the way she couldn't quite figure out how to before.
So she says it just as she means it this time.
"It's wonderful. Thank you."
"Really?" Enid smiles again. "You like it?"
"Of course," Wednesday answers. And then she conclusively decides, "It will work exceptionally well for the next time I wear my braids up."
Though it isn't often that she does (it's typically just for events), she actually has quite a few styles in mind. When Wednesday was younger, her mother had shown her many, and despite the fact that she has never spoken a word of this aloud, Wednesday had taken a bit of a liking to both learning them and replicating them.
Thing taps from the desk. I agree.
"Thing, you just reminded me! I brought you something, too," Enid says, reaching back into the paper bag. "This one vendor had nail decals. You're gonna love the variety!"
Enid skips back over to her side of the room, and while she and Thing chat over a small mountain of flashy designs and enough nail polish to stock an entire salon, Wednesday gently places the bronze raven back in its pouch and finds the ideal place for it in her closet. It fits perfectly within an obsidian accented box her uncle had given her, which has held many of Wednesday's most valuable possessions throughout the years.
Typically, such items would include small daggers, or family heirlooms now repurposed for seance rituals.
This raven, however, might just be the most precious of them all.
Envy is long forgotten as Wednesday places the box back down on the the floor, lid still open. She glances between the colorful werewolf, and the bright velvet bag, soon to be tucked away safe—both into this box, and, Wednesday believes, right into the confines of her heart.
Perhaps not all shades of green are so terrible, after all.
"Did you know that February's full moon is called the Snow Moon?"
Enid is laying almost entirely upside down across the short side of her bed, her hair reaching halfway to the floor as she looks over at Wednesday from what must be a very different view of the world.
"I did not," Wednesday replies, and subsequently finds herself wondering if such a change in perspective would bring more or less clarity to her ongoing situation.
To her…
Feelings.
They've been brewing for nearly a month now, like a fever that just won't relent. Wednesday is still far from accepting that the affliction of the dreaded Addams family curse could be looming near, but she fears that soon, she will have no choice.
Falling unexpectedly. Falling quickly. Falling intensely.
The curse ensures that this is fated to be.
Wednesday has spent her whole life claiming that it will not strike her—even throughout the entire mess of a mistake that had been Tyler Galpin and his warped manipulation. All that she had been made to believe she thought about him had been founded on the basis of his deceit, and even before she had discovered the truth of his identity, she'd had a suspicion that anything she experienced with him would never amount to something truly significant in the end. The curse awakens only in response to one, and that one had not been him.
Everything is different with Enid.
These new feelings that Wednesday has are growing greater by the day—exceptionally more profound, and yet equally as incomprehensible.
The symptoms can't be shrouded forever, no matter how hard Wednesday tries to fight them.
"Each full moon of the year is given a name," Enid continues on, drawing Wednesday back to the present moment. "All werewolves learn them. It's just, like, a thing."
"Fascinating."
"It really is, though!" Enid insists. She brings her arms up, and puts her hands into the shape of a circle, as if demonstrating the moon in the sky. "January's was the Wolf Moon. That was the one right before the end of break. And next month in March will be the Worm Moon."
Wednesday then wonders if Enid is bringing all of this up because this month's full moon—the Snow Moon, as she has just learned—will be rising incredibly soon. This will be Enid's first transformation at Nevermore since the night of the battle against Crackstone and the Hyde. And Enid had mentioned something last semester. Something a bit…unsettling, to Wednesday.
At the time, she hadn't had much of a moment to really consider it, seeing as it had surfaced as part of plotting her method to break into the Gates' mansion. But the words had stuck with her, even still.
Enid had said that werewolves at Nevermore are locked in Lupin Cages on the night of each full moon.
And Wednesday is typically all for the idea of spending time alone. She prefers it, and would go so far as to claim she thrives when she is by herself (aside from when she's around a certain roommate, nowadays, but that's far too complicated to delve into at the moment). Wednesday has always considered solitude to be the most coveted state she could find herself in.
But for wolves?
For creatures that are so inherently and innately social, and drawn to life in a pack?
Psychologically, even with the Lupin Cages situated next to each other, it must be difficult to spend so long in separation.
"It's tomorrow night, isn't it," Wednesday says.
Enid lets her hands fall, and she turns entirely so that her chin is now perched on her hands, elbows leaning on her brightly patterned comforter. She's right side up now, but she speaks like her world is tilted in a different way. Quietly, and a bit unsure. "Yeah. It is."
Wednesday can tell that she's nervous. How does one reassure an anxious werewolf?
"I assume they don't allow visitors?"
"No." Enid frowns.
Dismal as it is, Wednesday supposes that it makes sense. It's for the safety of the school, and for all of Jericho and the surrounding area, for that matter. And she would be prepared to argue that safety is trivial when it comes to a choice between caution and Enid Sinclair's comfort, but…
She doesn't think that she could convince the new principal to let Enid's first transformation of the semester happen out of the Lupin Cages and in the far depths of the woods even if she tried, no matter how far away from the school or the town the distance might be.
"It's just one night, yes?"
"One, long night. Then we're free to go once we shift back. I guess the plus side is we're excused from classes the next day, since we don't really get to sleep. I'm so glad that it will get me out of my Supernatural History exam on Friday, at least. And then it's the weekend, so I don't have to take it until Monday."
It's Enid's way of attempting to look on the bright side amid the approaching of an event that is so clearly daunting to her.
Wednesday, however, isn't truly able to find the right words. Or at least ones that she would deem to sound comforting. She desperately tries to come up with something—anything—to say, but in that moment, she simply can't.
So she keeps trying.
She thinks on it for the rest of the day. It's the last thing on her mind before she goes to sleep that night, and the first thing on her mind the following morning. She's so fixated on it during classes that she doesn't even pay attention to the lectures—and yet, by the time the evening of the Snow Moon arrives, nothing has changed. Wednesday is still at a loss for words.
She's never done this before.
She's always been the one threatening, or defending, or attacking. How is it that it's so much easier to engage in hostile combat than it is to rack the memorized dictionary in her brain for a phrase, or even just one word, that would show that she actually cares?
Because Wednesday does care.
So, so much.
She's just doing a terrible job of showing it. And now, more than ever before, her lack of expertise in the area of displaying empathy is bothering her.
Wednesday never thought she'd see the day.
But a pang slices through her like a knife straight to the gut as she looks to her roommate standing by the door to their dorm that night with a bag over her shoulder and not even a hint of a smile in sight.
Enid's voice wavers as she speaks. "Guess this is goodbye until tomorrow, then?"
She seems like she's nearly on the verge of tears, drained of all positivity, and that is when Wednesday decides right then and there that if her words will continue to fail her, she will just have to try something else.
Even if it's against her better judgement.
She opens her arms wide, and Enid's eyes go round like she doesn't believe what's happening.
Wednesday barely even believes it, either.
But an invitation is an invitation, and Wednesday will not rescind her offer. If this is what it takes to send Enid off with her trepidation at least somewhat eased, then this is what Wednesday will do.
"Yes, Enid," she clarifies, after it becomes evident that her roommate still isn't sure if this is actually real. "This is exactly what it looks like."
Enid doesn't even drop the bag she's holding—she just barrels into Wednesday with so much force, she nearly knocks her over. Arms are thrown around Wednesday's torso before she can even blink, and Wednesday gingerly situates her own arms around Enid.
It of course brings Wednesday back to the moments of their first hug. To the start of it all. Except that this time, instead of pink, it's red.
Time stands frozen again as the bright crimson sleeves of Enid's sweater are wrapped tightly against her, while Wednesday's chin rests on the soft fabric covering Enid's shoulder. It's an embrace that now seems familiar and safe, and altogether welcoming.
She wonders if it says something that Enid is the one to pull away first.
A/n: So I know we never really see the Lupin Cages in season 1, but this is my take on them for this story. Thanks for reading!