Chapter Text
The low, rhythmic thrum of music from the Ophelia Hall common room was a familiar Friday night soundtrack at Nevermore Academy. For most students, it was a signal for social gathering, for dancing, for the carefully curated performance of teenage rebellion. For Wednesday Addams, it was usually an auditory annoyance to be endured from the sanctity of her room, a backdrop for her studies in forensic pathology or the composition of a particularly morose cello sonata.
Tonight, however, was different.
Enid Sinclair, a riot of pastel pink and yellow in her custom-designed unicorn sweater, bounced into their shared dormitory. "Weds! You will not believe what Yoko brought back from her aunt's liquor store. It's this glowing blue stuff, tastes like electric blueberries and regret. You have to try some!"
Wednesday, seated at her desk, didn't turn. Her focus was absolute, her gaze fixed on the intricate diagram of a human circulatory system she was annotating with a fountain pen filled with her own homemade, slightly blood-tinged ink. "My enthusiasm for consuming sugary poison that mimics the color of a Smurf's cadaver is, as always, nonexistent," she stated, her voice a flat, monotone line.
"Aww, come on! Live a little! Or, you know, un-live a little. It's Friday!" Enid wheedled, holding up a plastic cup filled with the luminescent liquid. The faint, sweet scent of artificial fruit and alcohol wafted towards Wednesday's desk.
There was a long silence, broken only by the scratch of Wednesday's pen. Then, with a sigh that sounded like a coffin lid closing, she placed the pen precisely parallel to her textbook. "Fine," she said, standing up in her customary funereal black dress. "But if my taste buds file a formal complaint, I'm holding you personally responsible. I will expect you to act as my character witness in the subsequent trial."
Enid beamed, practically vibrating with excitement. She watched as Wednesday took the cup, sniffed it with the delicate disgust of a coroner examining a particularly odious corpse, and then, to Enid's utter shock, took a deliberate, measured swallow. And another. And then a third, draining half the cup in one go. She handed the empty vessel back to Enid. "Satisfactory. It tastes like antifreeze and shattered dreams. Now, if you'll excuse me."
And just like that, Wednesday returned to her studies.
An hour passed. The party outside grew louder. Enid, having had her own fill of glowing blue concoctions, settled onto her bed, scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing over at her roommate. At first, everything seemed normal. Wednesday was still, silent, a statue carved from obsidian and apathy. But Enid, who had spent months learning the subtle micro-expressions of the girl who claimed to have none, started to notice things. It was a collection of deviations, a string of tiny, almost imperceptible fractures in Wednesday's usual facade.
First, it was her posture. Wednesday's spine was always ramrod straight, a testament to her rigid self-discipline. Now, there was the faintest, almost unnoticeable curve to her shoulders, a microscopic slouch that suggested the iron will had been slightly… loosened.
Then, it was her hands. They rested on her textbook, but instead of being perfectly still, her left index finger was tracing the edge of the page in a slow, rhythmic, almost languid circle. It wasn't a nervous tic; it was too smooth, too contemplative for that. It was the gesture of someone whose motor control had been dialed down from "precise and deadly" to "casually idle."
The third clue was the most damning. Wednesday picked up her fountain pen to make a note. Her hand, usually a model of calligraphic perfection, trembled. Just a fraction. A barely-there quake that caused the line of ink to wobble ever so slightly before she pressed down with renewed force, as if angry at her own body for its betrayal. She stared at the imperfect line for a full three seconds, her brow furrowed not in her usual scowl of concentration, but in what looked like genuine, quiet confusion.
Enid’s phone was forgotten. She propped herself up on her elbows, her full attention on the girl across the room. This was fascinating. This was a rare and precious sighting, like spotting a black-footed ferret in the wild.
"Hey, Wednesday," Enid said, her voice soft, testing the waters.
Wednesday didn't look up. "Yes, Enid. Unless you are about to inform me of a campus-wide zombie apocalypse, I suggest you refrain from interrupting my scholarly pursuits."
"Right, right. Just… wondering what you're thinking about."
The pen stopped moving. Wednesday's gaze remained on the book, but it was clear she was no longer reading. "I was contemplating," she began, her voice its usual monotone, "the structural integrity of the human skull. Specifically, the precise amount of force required to cause a comminuted fracture of the occipital bone versus a simple linear fracture. It's a variable that changes dramatically based on the object used. A blunt object, like a cast-iron skillet, distributes the force, whereas a sharpened object, like a well-honed hatchet, focuses it. The resulting spray pattern is also a point of interest."
Enid blinked. That was classic Wednesday. Morbid, clinical, and deeply unsettling. But there was something off about the delivery. It was a little too… casual. A little too meandering. It was less of a detached academic lecture and more like a rambling, drunken musing on a favorite topic.
"Okay," Enid said slowly, a smile starting to twitch at the corners of her mouth. "That's… specific."
"Precision is the soul of forensics," Wednesday replied, finally looking up. And that was when Enid knew for sure.
Her eyes. Wednesday Addams's eyes were normally dark, deep, and piercing, two voids that promised nothing but cold, hard judgment. They missed nothing. But now… they were softer. The sharp, analytical glint was gone, replaced by a hazy, unfocused quality. When she met Enid's gaze, her eyes didn't lock on. They drifted slightly, as if they were having trouble finding their anchor.
"Are you drunk, Wednesday?" Enid asked, the question bursting out of her in a delighted whisper.
Wednesday's expression didn't change, but there was a fractional delay in her response, a moment where the words seemed to be traveling through a slightly thicker medium than usual. "I do not get 'drunk,' Enid. That is a vulgar term reserved for boorish jocks who mistake cheap beer for a personality enhancer. I am simply… experiencing a minor, chemically-induced relaxation of my central nervous system."
Enid couldn't help it. She giggled. A full, bright, bubbly sound that made Wednesday's eyes narrow, though the effect was somewhat diminished by their glassy state.
"I find your amusement to be in poor taste," Wednesday stated, pushing her chair back. It scraped against the floor with more force than she'd intended, and she put a hand on the desk to steady herself. "The world is a festering cesspool of misery. To find humor in it is a sign of profound delusion."
"Or," Enid countered, hopping off her bed and walking over, "it's a sign that you drank three cups of 'electric blueberry and regret' and your filter is slipping."
"I had two cups," Wednesday corrected, her voice firm. "And my filter is not slipping. It is merely… temporarily disengaged for routine maintenance."
She stood up, and for a terrifying second, Enid thought she might topple over. She swayed, just once, a gentle, almost graceful motion like a weeping willow in a light breeze. She caught herself instantly, her posture snapping back to its usual rigid formality, but the moment of vulnerability had been witnessed.
"Okay, maintenance," Enid said, grinning widely now. "Is that why you were drawing little circles on your book?"
"It was a method of maintaining focus while my sensory input was being mildly distorted by the saccharine swill you provided."
"And the wobbly pen line?"
"A momentary lapse in muscular control. It happens."
"Uh-huh." Enid was standing in front of her now, close enough to smell the faint, sweet aroma of the blue drink clinging to her. "And your eyes are all… soft and squinty."
Wednesday stared at her, and for a moment, Enid thought she was about to be subjected to a withering verbal assault or perhaps a swift nerve pinch. Instead, Wednesday did something completely unexpected. She looked away, her gaze falling on the black velvet curtains draped over their window.
"They are not 'squinty'," she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. "They are… narrowed. In contemplation. I was just thinking… the color of that drink you gave me. It's the exact shade of a poison dart frog from the Amazon. Dendrobatidae. Vibrant, beautiful, and utterly lethal. A perfect metaphor for high school."
A slow smile spread across Enid's face. This was it. This was the jackpot. Drunk Wednesday wasn't angry or violent. She was… philosophical. And even more morbid than usual, but with a dreamy, rambling quality that was utterly endearing.
"You're right," Enid said softly. "It is."
Wednesday looked back at her, and the hazy unfocus in her eyes seemed to clear for a moment, replaced by a startling intensity. She reached out, not to harm, but with a strange, deliberate slowness. Her cold fingers, usually so precise and steady, gently brushed a stray strand of pink hair from Enid's forehead. The touch was fleeting, but it sent an electric jolt through Enid that had nothing to do with the party downstairs.
"Your hair," Wednesday said, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. "It's the color of cotton candy at a carnival where all the rides are haunted. It's… cheerful. It's an offense to the perpetual gloom."
Enid held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn't dare move. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You shouldn't," Wednesday replied, her hand dropping back to her side. She took a small, unsteady step back, as if the effort of that single gesture had exhausted her. "Cheerfulness is a fragile illusion. A sugar-coating on a bitter pill. A brightly colored shroud draped over a decaying corpse."
"Okay, getting a little extra morbid there, Wednesday," Enid said, her voice barely a whisper. She felt a surge of protectiveness, an overwhelming urge to wrap her ridiculously colorful roommate in a blanket and keep the world away from her.
"The world is extra morbid, Enid," Wednesday insisted, turning away from her. She drifted towards the window, her movements fluid in a way they usually weren't. She was less like a stalking panther and more like a shadow given form, swaying and indistinct. "People just plaster it with neon lights and pretend it's a party. But underneath… it's all just bones and dust."
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window, her breath fogging a small circle on the pane. "From up here," she continued, her voice muffled, "they all look like fireflies. Stupid, mindless fireflies, drawn to a light that will eventually burn them alive. It's… beautiful. In a tragic, pointless sort of way."
Enid watched her, a knot of emotions tightening in her chest. This was a side of Wednesday no one else ever saw. Not her parents, not her brother, not even her weird, sullen admirer at school. This was a version of Wednesday Addams that was unguarded, her formidable defenses temporarily lowered by the chemistry of alcohol. Her cynicism was still there, her worldview as bleak as ever, but it was softened at the edges, tinged with a strange, melancholic wonder.
"Are you okay?" Enid asked, taking a cautious step closer.
Wednesday turned her head, her cheek still pressed against the glass. Her dark eyes reflected the distant, pulsing lights of the party below. "Define 'okay.' If 'okay' means existing in a state of blissful ignorance, then no, I have never been okay and I never aspire to be. If 'okay' means having a clear-eyed understanding of the inevitable heat death of the universe and one's own insignificant place within it… then I am perfectly, devastatingly okay."
A small, genuine smile touched Enid's lips. "That's the most 'you' thing I've ever heard."
"Good," Wednesday said, pushing herself away from the window. She wavered again, and this time Enid was ready. She closed the distance in two quick steps and put a steadying hand on Wednesday's elbow.
Wednesday flinched at the contact, her entire body tensing for a fraction of a second before she seemed to decide it wasn't a threat. She looked down at Enid's hand on her arm, then back up at Enid's face. The analytical look was back, but it was hazy, like trying to see through a smudged lens.
"You're warm," Wednesday observed, as if it were a profound scientific discovery. "And… soft. Like a plush toy designed to give children a false sense of security before they learn about the monsters in the closet."
"I'm your plush toy," Enid said, her voice full of affection. "And you're the monster in the closet. We make a good team."
A ghost of a smile, so faint it was almost imagined, played on Wednesday's lips. "An accurate, if simplistic, assessment." She allowed Enid to guide her away from the window and towards her bed. "The room is spinning. Not in a menacing, vortex-of-doom way. More like a… lazy susan of despair."
"Let's get you to sit down before the lazy susan makes you fall," Enid urged, carefully steering her.
Wednesday sank onto the edge of her bed, the black comforter swallowing her small frame. She didn't lie down. Instead, she sat there, staring at the floor, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The silence stretched for a moment, comfortable and intimate.
"Enid," she said, her voice quiet but clear.
"Yeah, Wednesday?"
"Do you ever think about colors?"
Enid blinked. "Uh, sometimes? I like pink. And yellow. And blue, obviously."
"No," Wednesday said, shaking her head slowly. "Not like. Do you ever think about what they mean? Black is the absence of color. It's the void. It's honesty. It's the truth of what happens when the light goes out. But your colors… pink is the color of flushed skin and bubblegum and innocence. It's a lie. A beautiful, delicious lie. It's the color of a world that doesn't exist."
Enid sat down next to her, close enough that their shoulders were almost touching. "Maybe it's the color of a world that could exist."
Wednesday turned her head to look at her. Their faces were inches apart. In the dim light of the room, her eyes were vast and dark and deep. "You're an optimist," she stated. It wasn't an accusation. It was a simple, fact-filled observation, like noting the species of a spider.
"I'm your optimist," Enid corrected gently.
Wednesday held her gaze for a long, long moment. The air between them felt thick and charged. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all the world's sorrow, she slumped sideways. Her head came to rest, not with a thud, but with a soft, final weight, right on Enid's shoulder.
Enid froze. Wednesday Addams was leaning on her. Voluntarily. Her hair, which always smelled of night air and faintly of formaldehyde, now had a sweet, fruity undertone from the blue drink. She was rigid for a second, her body instinctively resisting the vulnerability, but then she seemed to melt, the last of her tension dissolving into Enid's side.
"Don't tell Pugsley," Wednesday mumbled into her sweater. Her words were slightly slurred, thick with sleep and alcohol. "He'll think I'm weak."
Enid slowly, carefully, wrapped an arm around her friend's shoulders, pulling her just a little closer. "Your secret's safe with me," she promised, her voice a low hum. "I'm the best at keeping secrets. Especially the really good ones."
Wednesday didn't reply. Her breathing had already evened out, deep and slow. She was asleep. Drunk, morbid, and for the first time since Enid had known her, completely and utterly defenseless. And Enid Sinclair, the girl who loved all things bright and cheerful, would sit there for the rest of the night, guarding the darkest, most precious secret of all.
Enid sat perfectly still, a statue of pastel-colored wool and fierce loyalty. The weight of Wednesday Addams, her entire being, was a strange and sacred burden on her shoulder. She could feel the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of Wednesday's breathing, a steady counterpoint to the frantic beat of her own heart. The party outside had faded into a distant, irrelevant hum. The world had shrunk to this single room, this single bed, and the monumental trust of a sleeping girl who trusted no one.
She thought about moving her, about laying her down properly under the covers, but she couldn't bring herself to break the spell. This was a moment of cosmic rarity, a total solar eclipse of the soul. She was going to witness every second of it.
Minutes bled into one another. The only light came from the sliver of moon through the window and the faint glow of Enid's phone screen, which she had long since abandoned. Wednesday shifted in her sleep, a small, restless movement. Her head lolled against Enid's shoulder, and her lips parted.
"Enid," she breathed, the name a soft, shapeless sound.
Enid's breath hitched. "I'm here," she whispered back, knowing she wouldn't be heard.
Wednesday's brow furrowed, her face a mask of sleeping turmoil. "So loud," she mumbled. "All the time. A flock of tropical birds. A supernova in a sweater."
A slow, wide grin spread across Enid's face. Of course, even drunk and asleep, Wednesday's metaphors were macabre. It was the most romantic thing she had ever heard.
Wednesday stirred again, more agitated this time. Her hand, which had been limp in her lap, clenched into a small fist. "Don't go," she whispered, her voice tight with a vulnerability Enid had never heard from her when awake. "Don't… fade."
The grin vanished from Enid's face, replaced by a wave of overwhelming tenderness. She tightened her arm around Wednesday's shoulders, a silent, fervent promise. "I'm not going anywhere, Wednesday. Never."
It was as if her words, though unheard, had soothed the storm in Wednesday's subconscious. The tension in her body eased. Her unclenched, her brow smoothed. And then, she began to speak again, her voice clearer this time, as if she were talking to someone standing right in front of her.
"You're the color," she said, her tone one of drowsy revelation. "I told you it was a lie. But I was wrong. It's not a lie. It's… proof." She paused, her lips working as if tasting the words. "The world is monochrome. It's grayscale and dust. But you… you're the splash of blood on a snowfield. The single, bright fungus growing on a tombstone. You're the evidence that something else exists. Something… vibrant."
Tears pricked at the corners of Enid's eyes. She blinked them back, refusing to miss a single moment of this. This was the truth, stripped of all its barbs and defenses. This was what Wednesday saw when she looked at her.
"It's… infuriating," Wednesday continued, a faint scowl creasing her sleeping features. "You're illogical. Your optimism is a statistical anomaly. You find joy in things that are objectively frivolous. It should be repulsive. It should make my teeth ache." She let out a soft, sighing breath. "Instead, it's… magnetic. I watch you. I watch you write in your ridiculous, colorful diary. I watch you bite your lip when you're concentrating on a new sweater design. I watch you defend people who don't deserve it. It's like watching a candle flame in a hurricane. It makes no sense. It shouldn't survive. But it does. And I can't… I can't look away."
Enid felt a sob build in her throat, a raw, painful thing of pure joy and heartbreak. She muffled it against Wednesday's hair, breathing in the strange, sweet scent of formaldehyde and blueberry liquor.
"You're not weak," Wednesday whispered, her voice becoming fierce, even in sleep. "They think you are. They think you're just… fluff. But you're not. You're the strongest person I've ever known. It's easy to be strong when you're armored in black and cynicism. It's easy to be strong when you expect nothing from anyone. But you… you walk into the world every day with your heart wide open. You offer it to everyone. You hope. That's not weakness, Enid. That's the most terrifying kind of bravery there is."
A single tear escaped Enid's eye and traced a path down her cheek. It landed on Wednesday's black dress, a tiny, dark spot that was almost invisible against the fabric.
Wednesday shifted one last time, snuggling deeper into Enid's shoulder, her body finally completely limp with sleep. Her final words were the softest, the most honest of all. They were not a grand declaration, but a quiet, simple admission, the kind one only makes when the conscious mind has finally surrendered.
"I don't like the quiet anymore," she murmured into the fabric of Enid's sweater. "It's too empty. You make it… full."
And then, there was only the sound of her deep, even breathing.
Enid sat there in the moonlit room, the weight of her friend a comforting anchor, and let the tears fall freely now. They were silent tears, of gratitude and understanding. All this time, she had been trying to crack Wednesday's code, to find the warmth beneath the ice, the color behind the black. She had thought it was a puzzle to be solved, a fortress to be breached.
She had been wrong.
Wednesday wasn't a fortress. She was a graveyard, filled with beautiful, tragic, and lonely things. And Enid wasn't an invader. She was the one ridiculous, brightly-colored flower that had decided to grow there. And tonight, for the first time, the keeper of the graveyard had admitted, in the safety of sleep, that she was glad.
Enid carefully, gently, eased Wednesday down until she was lying on her bed, pulling the black comforter over her small frame. She looked at her peaceful face, free of its usual scowl, and felt a love so profound it was almost painful. She knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that nothing would ever be the same again.
The truth was out. And it was the most beautifully, terrifyingly colorful thing she had ever known.