Archive of Our Own ^beta

The shrill blaring of a strange handmade alarm (part gramaphone, part electrical fire hazard) programmed to Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony, “Pathétique,” was what awoke Wednesday Addams most mornings. 

Music would seep into her stiff muscles as she begrudgingly felt life being breathed into her vessel, once again torn away from the sweet embrace of death. 

She believed sleeping was as close as one could get to death, without actually submitting to it, and she relished walking that fine line between meaningless life and eternal nothingness. 

This morning was no different, as she slowly rose upright, willing the sleep out of her eyes and immediately starting her day. She allowed the music to continue, using the first movement as her timer, the absolute maximum time she could afford to spend getting ready. The second movement was where she released a small army of venomous snakes into her younger brother Pugsley’s room, allowing herself a small smile at the screams of pain and terror echoing from his room. 

It was the price one paid for oversleeping. He was welcome to do the same to her, but the opportunity never arose.

Their shared apartment was dark, rather bare, just how Wednesday preferred it. Each room was brushed some shade of dark grey or black, sucking in all the light and other unnecessary things Wednesday did not wish to circulate through their abode. Like laughter, joy, and especially…. Christmas.

Christmas was the time of the year that Wednesday loathed the most. Of course, she would try to argue that each day of the year was equally torturous. But that treacherous month of December, which could have been so wonderfully desolate if not for its corruption. It was nearly enough to make her break out in hives.

The hideous shrill of the same songs, over and over and over again. That disgusting palette of green and red, the colour of blood and bile, corrupted by an archaic and infactual sentiment. The rampant commercialism, the cheap and manufactured joy.

Worst of all, the stench of love, which carried through the air, repulsed her especially. The Christmas season managed to amplify the already rampant disease, promoting the idea of togetherness as if it were a divine message. 

Love was something Wednesday could not reconcile. A sentiment most people tried to embody, tried to force, and something that could not exist.

Love could not exist in such a wicked world, where all had some kind of hidden agenda, and nobody could be trusted.

And in the few cases where it did exist, it made people weak. It corrupted their judgment, their personalities, their very existence.

Love ruined people. Love took people away.

And so there was no place for it in Wednesday's world. Just the way she liked it.

By the third movement of Pathétique, Pugsley would have woken up, grumbling something about three bites, though every Addams has built significant resistance to poison. Wednesday was only mildly pleased, as with each release, the snakes seemed to be biting him less and less. 

Another example of love making everything weaker.

They both enjoy a breakfast of roasted spiders on charred toast before the dreaded attack begins.

Today was the 1st of December. The day Wednesday’s inconsiderate and treacherous neighbours chose to wage war on the neighbourhood for an entire month, each year. 

Blaring vibrations of the tasteless ‘All I want for Christmas is you’ began to seep through the walls, drowning out her morning soundtrack. She could feel her eye twitch at the interruption, grinding her teeth in silent fury. 

In defiance, Wednesday would turn her own music up further, but her old technology was no match for whatever corporate sellout, capitalist contraption they had next door. 

Mirah Carey sang her screeching, empty sentiments a little louder as the Third movement finished, signalling time for their exit. 

All Wednesday wanted for Christmas was peace, quiet, and a small contained fire to engulf the apartment next door. Survivors of the ordeal were optional.

Slipping a cassette tape into her Walkman, Wednesday tucked the headphones over her ears, skipping all the way to the Fourth movement, one which was supposed to last all the way till her final destination. She preferred the control offered by older, easier technology.

And so they made their escape, slamming the door a little harder to convey the message, Pugsely slipping a few spiders under their door for good measure.

The screams made the ear-bleeding torture worth it, and it would have to do as revenge for now.

Then down the elevator they went, exiting through the hideously defiled lobby, both siblings averting their gaze from the incredibly gaudy, sparkling Christmas tree towering above them.

A black SUV awaited them outside, where their driver, Lurch, would deliver them the short way to school. Both attended Nevermore Academy, a private school located in the heart of Jehrico, the small city in which they resided. Instead of staying in the dorms, both siblings lived in the apartment left to them by their late parents, traitorous fools who left the world too soon. 

They returned to the family manor during the holidays, though it was often far too empty for their liking. Pugsleys, especially, of course, as Wednesday would assert that she relished in the emptiness of a large house.

Settling into the passenger seat, something Wednesday did to avoid whatever experiment Pugsley was conducting in the realm of the backseat, she greeted Lurch briefly before turning away-

Wait. What.

In Lurch's seat, dressed in an identical butler suit, sat a girl. Her eyes were a bright, cerulean blue, while her hair shone a golden tinge, the ends tipped with splashes of blue and pink. An odd glow emanated all around her, as if she were some natural light source.  It was all nauesiatingly bright. 

Wednesday could hear the warbling sound of her cassette tape malfunctioning, and she quickly angled her head back to see that Pugsely had also vanished. In fact, the world outside the vehicle appeared frozen, paused in time.

Shining a dazzling, toothy smile her way, those lips painted a rosy pink began to speak something Wednesday could hardly believe.

“Oh! You must be Wednesday, right?” she chirped. “That name is so unique, like bold, but don’t worry, I’m totally not one to judge. I’m Enid Sinclair! It’s so nice to meet you-”

“Stop.”

The word cut cleanly through the air.

Wednesday turned fully toward her, voice level and cold.

“Where is Lurch?”

Enid blinked. “Oh! You mean your butler driving dude? He’s fine. Totally fine. Pinkie promise.”

In some kind of repulsive gesture, the girl extended her pinky finger, and Wednesday had to fight not to physically back away.

“I suggest you exit my car before I take corrective action,” Wednesday said. “No, rather before that, tell me who you are, why you are here, and why you are wearing my butler’s clothes. Do not lie.”

Enid opened her mouth, hesitated, then brightened again. “Right! I almost forgot the important part. I’m Enid, and I’ll be your personal Cupid for the next month! I’m here to help you find your true lov-”

The sentence died on her lips.

In less than a second, a blade appeared at Enid’s throat, sharp enough that she could feel its chill against her skin. Wednesday’s hand did not tremble.

And then in a second, Enid was gone, the driver’s seat left empty, as if nobody had ever been there in the first place. Wednesday was about to breathe a rare sigh of relief, convinced it had simply been an apparition of her worst fears.

A voice spoke into her ear from right behind her, dodging as she hurled her knife precisely behind her, sighing in frustration as it embedded itself into the upholstery instead of flesh and bone.

“Now that wasn’t very nice, you know. Totally unprofesh!”

Enid was now behind her somehow, not announced by sound or shadow, but simply there. 

Wednesday did not turn around. Something about looking directly at this stranger made her deeply unsettled.

“Teleportation. My madness is at least creative,” Wednesday muttered to herself, trying a variety of mental exercises to break from this nightmare.

“Welllll, it’s not teleportation. More like… repositioning. Teleportation is soooo messy, way too much cosmic paperwork.”

Wednesday’s fingers flexed, already cataloguing remaining weapons and resisting the urge to rupture her own eardrums.

“Are you real? Or a figment of my imagination.”

“Oh, I’m very real,” Enid replied quickly. “I swear on my wings.”

“You do not have wings.” Wednesday snipped, turning to confirm her statement. She caught a flash of hurt on that porcelain face, as if what Wednesday had said cut deep. 

“Metaphorical wings,” Enid corrected, covering up any emotion so fast it couldn’t be confidently said it ever happened. “Very symbolic. Very binding.”

Wednesday finally turned properly. Enid had taken the empty backseat, legs tucked beneath her, hands clasped as if she belonged there. Her smile was sheepish now, less dazzling, more cautious.

“You know most people would be more excited at the prospect of having their own personal Cupid,” Enid pouted a little, perhaps a little put out by Wednesday's lack of excitement.

“I am not most people.”

“No kidding.” Enid tilted her head. “You tried to kill me twice in under a minute.”

Wednesday met her gaze. “You are still alive because I am curious.”

“Curious,” the cupid repeated the word as if considering it. “Better than nothing i guess.”

Silence pressed in again, thick and watchful.

“Explain,” Wednesday said. “Slowly. Precisely. Or you will discover how many knives I keep hidden on my person.”

Enid swallowed, then nodded. The brightness dimmed, just slightly.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m a Cupid. A real one. And you, Wednesday Addams, are my next mission.”

“Mission?”

“I’m assigned to you,” Enid clarified. “Cosmically obligated. The heavens have decided you’re… a little difficult, and that you require assistance in finding true love.”

Wednesday’s expression hardened.

“Disgusting.”

“Yeah, I kind of agree,” Enid admitted quickly. “I’m not exactly thrilled about the whole cupid thing either. But it’s my job. Look, I don’t expect this to go smoothly. I just need you to cooperate.”

Wednesday nearly laughed. The idea was absurd enough to border on parody. A hallucination, then. An elaborate one. 

“How long?”

“Thirty-one days.”

“And after that.”

“I leave,” Enid said. “You’ll forget me. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Enid winced. “You’ll remember… impressions. Feelings. Probably annoyance.”

Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“But after that,” Enid added quickly, “it’ll be like nothing happened!”

“And if you fail? If you can’t find me true love.”

“Nothing,” she said at last, brightness snapping back into place. “I go back and get my next assignment. Don’t worry, I have a ninety-nine point nine per cent success rate.”

Wednesday’s eyes lingered on her, thinking that perhaps the only way to get out of this hallucination was to play along.

“Fine. I agree,” Wednesday said, voice flippant and dismissive. 

Enid flashed her one last grin of excitement, though it was a little subdued. 

From the driver’s seat, the engine started, causing Wednesday to freeze in surprise. 

Slowly, she turned back to find Lurch sitting behind the wheel once more, hands folded, expression unchanged, as if nothing had happened at all. Wednesday whipped her head towards the back again, only to find Pugsley sat idly, giving her a questioning look as she composed herself. 

Enid was gone. Perhaps it was just all in her head.

With an imperceptible shake to her hands, Wednesday rewound her tape, restarting the fourth movement, though everything was already hopelessly disrupted.

Lurch met Wednesday’s gaze as she turned back to him once more.

Wednesday nodded once.

“Drive,” she said.

❦ ➶ ❦

Wednesday felt she spent the rest of the day severely off kilter, as she tried to recover from… whatever had happened to her. It couldn't have been real, Cupids, Monsters, Gods and whatever else; they were all elaborately crafted lies. Folklore. So far estranged from the laws of earth and science, that they became myth. 

Nevertheless, she tried to recover, focusing on all her classes with a fervour, trying to will the feeling of being watched out of existence. Agnes DeMille, her permanent shadow and devout follower, was the only one who had a slight inkling of her unsettlement, though she soon became preoccupied in an argument with Pugsley, effectively distracted.

During the lunch hour, Wednesday slipped away to the library, settling herself into a familiar spot and trying to focus her mind on her current read, an anthology of Chekhov's work, though her interest kept wavering. Begrudgingly, she made her way to the Mythology / Ancient History section and pulled out a translation of Eros and Psyche. 

Psyche, a mortal princess, was considered so beautiful that people began to worship her instead of Venus, the goddess of love. Angered, Venus ordered her son Eros, more commonly known as Cupid, to make Psyche fall in love with a monster. Instead, Eros fell in love with Psyche himself and secretly married her, visiting her only at night and forbidding her to see his face

Manipulated by her jealous sisters, who had come to visit Psyche, excited to see her suffering but then dismayed to see her wonderful life,  Psyche broke Eros’s rule and looked upon him while he slept. She was so enamoured by his appearance that psyche did not notice a drop of hot oil from her candle, burning her lover's skin. Eros woke immediately, fleeing and consumed by hurt at this betrayal. Heartbroken, Psyche set out to win him back and endured a series of cruel tasks imposed by Venus.

With help from divine allies and through her perseverance, Psyche completed the trials, though she nearly died in the process. Zeus ultimately intervened, made Psyche immortal, and reunited her with Eros. The gods accepted their union, and they had a daughter named Hedone (Pleasure).

Regrettably, she got rather absorbed in the story of love, betrayal, and utter devotion. The stuff of fiction. It was as she reached the last page that she suddenly became aware of another presence beside her, slowly turning her head to see Enid, now dressed in a Nevermore uniform, reading over her shoulder. She was ashamed to admit she jumped.

“How long have you been there!”

Enid looked thoughtful for a second. “Well, technically… I'm always here, but I've been physically manifested since the first page. You really got into the story, huh?”

Now, if Wednesday had not spent her entire life training her body to keep a smooth mask of indifference, she might have burned a scarlet red, but as an Addams, she was able to show restraint.

“No need to be embarrassed! I totally get it,” Enid tried to reassure kindly, not realising the further blow she inflicted.

“You are mistaken.”

Enid tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t know. You have a tell.”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened.

“That is absurd.”

“Well,” Enid said gently, “your ears are pink.”

Silence fell.

Wednesday closed the book with deliberate care.

“They are not,” she said.

Enid smiled wider.

“Anyways, you’re reading about Eros? Someone really is curious. Maybe this job will be easier than I thought.”

“Nonsense. I was simply investigating the accuracy of my hallucinations. They seem to have missed the mark.”

Enid scoffed softly. “I already told you. I’m as real as it gets.”

“Can others see you?” Wednesday asked.

“If I want them to.”

Wednesday’s gaze sharpened. “At will.”

“Yep. Selective manifestation. Crowd control is a huge part of the job.”

A pause.

“And at present?” Wednesday asked.

Enid leaned back against the shelf, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Just you.”

Wednesday closed the book and slid it back into place.

“Let us assume,” she said, “that I indulge the delusion that you are real. Does that mean you are the Cupid described in these ancient myths?”

Enid grimaced. “Well… no. Not exactly.”

“Clarify.”

“There isn’t just one,” Enid said quickly. “There are thousands of us. All working under Fate’s direction. I’m just… one assignment in a very long queue.”

“And the original,” Wednesday pressed. “Eros. The son of Venus.”

Enid hesitated, then shrugged. “Ancient management, maybe? I don’t really know if he’s still… around.”

“A god does not simply retire.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m pretty low on the ladder.”

Wednesday watched her carefully.

“You are withholding information.”

Enid forced a laugh. “I mean, sure. Probably. But only the boring parts.”

“That is rarely true.”

Enid’s smile slipped back into place, bright and unconvincing. “Look, the myths are just that. Myths. Humans needed a face to blame for things going wrong.”

“And Fate,” Wednesday said. “Remains.”

“Always,” Enid replied too quickly. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, now that I’ve had the day to scope out your prospects, I’m honestly surprised you’re unl-”

She caught herself. “I mean. Single.”

Wednesday chose to ignore the Freudian slip, instead furrowing her eyebrows at the far more offensive implication.

“And what,” she said coolly, “does that mean?”

Enid shifted her weight. “It means people notice you.”

“They would be mistaken.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Enid said sincerely. “They’re not.”

Wednesday wasnt quite sure why that sentiment spoken by Enid made her heart beat just a fraction faster. She was losing it.

In a rush, she hurried back off to her spot, grabbing her book and resuming reading.

Enid, apparently incapable of taking a hint, had followed her, bouncing cheerfully as if Wednesday had just chosen to move their conversation elsewhere.

“You terrify half the school, yes, but underneath that, there’s a fascination!”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened. She did not look up. She did not respond. She read a sentence twice to convince herself she was still in control.

“You’re the kind of person people notice,” Enid continued, voice light but insistent, “even when they don’t want to!”

A bead of irritation, or something stranger, coiled in Wednesday’s chest. She closed the book deliberately, marking the page.

“I am not interested in being noticed,” she said, voice low and flat.

Enid tilted her head, undeterred. “Sure, sure. But it happens anyway!”

Wednesday exhaled, slow and deliberate, and returned to the page she had been reading, though she could feel Enid’s energy lingering in the air like static.

And when the bell finally rang for fourth period, Enid had vanished again.

❦ ➶ ❦

Enid did not reappear until Wednesday’s sixth-period chemistry class, and this time, it seemed like she was up to something. There was an odd mischief to her grin when Wednesday caught sight of her, tucked away in the back of the class, already donning a white lab coat and goggles. 

Wednesday took her usual seat next to her lab partner for that term, Xavier Thorpe. She didn’t particularly like him, as while he got the work done in the end, he wasted a significant amount of class time talking to her and trying to show her useless drawings. It was entirely unnecessary. 

What they were doing that day was a simple titration experiment, something not even Xavier could mess up. It had been going well, Xavier manning the tap while Wednesday watched to see any colour change and noted the volume of acid added. It had been time to refill the burette, Wednesday, climbing a stool to reach the top, when she suddenly felt a shiver, turning her head to find Enid’s desk empty. 

The lab smelled sharply of chemicals and heat, and Wednesday felt a deep sense of apprehension as she poured. It was just as she had been stepping down when she felt the push, a tiny invisible touch, and Wednesday immediately lost her balance. The fall had set her up perfectly for a repulsive safety net. Xavier’s open arms.

Determined to defy this indignity, Wednesday twisted midair, executing a flawless front flip. She landed unruffled beside him, while Xavier stood frozen, arms still outstretched, embarrassment written plainly across his face. She turned her head immediately to face Enid’s desk, where the girl was now innocently absorbed in her own experiment. You’d have thought she had nothing to do with the whole thing if not for the sly look she gave Wednesday, as if to say, “You’re Welcome.”

As soon as class had finished, Wednesday stormed over to Enid’s desk, dragging her out of the room by the arm, to the immense shock of everyone present. 

“Bye, Enid!” yelled out the awkward boy, one who Wednesday, had never noticed until Enid chose to sit next to him. She scoffed at his immediate, bashful interest in an immortale being who was on a time limit. So naive. 

She hauled Enid all the way to the deserted courtyard before suddenly remembering herself and releasing her grip, stepping back as if burned. Rash anger, she realised, had briefly gotten the better of her.

“Look, Sinclair,” Wednesday said coldly. “I don’t care what cosmic agenda you believe you’re bound by. You will never repeat what you just did in there.”

Enid blinked. “It’s not my fault you messed it up so bad. Thinking you’re falling and being caught in the arms of your one and only!  It would’ve been totes romantic. Didn’t you get butterflies?”

“Why on earth would I feel butterflies from being caught by Thorpe?” Wednesday snapped. “Or anyone. I abhor love and all its vessels. That includes you. If you attempt this again, I’ll make sure you never make it back up to heaven.”

“But… don’t you and Xavier have a vibe? I swor-”

“You’re wrong,” Wednesday cut in sharply. “I feel nothing for that worm. I feel nothing for anyone. I cannot love, and I will not love.

Enid’s smile finally faltered, as if the words had finally permeated her outerlayer of brightness.

“Wow. Okay. That was… intense. You know you don’t have to threaten eternal damnation every time someone tries to help you.”

“I wasn’t aware sabotage qualified as help,” Wednesday replied coolly.

Enid huffed, then sighed, the fight draining out of her. “Look, I didn’t push you. I just… nudged things along. There was a seventy per cent chance of you falling anyway.”

“I find that improbable. I am in excellent control of my faculties.”

“Not today,” Enid said with a smile.

There was a beat of silence. The courtyard fountain gurgled softly and painfully cheerful.

Enid seemed to regain her cheekiness as she leaned forward, something which caused Wednesday's brain to falter for a second. “You know, for someone who claims to feel nothing, you sure react like someone who’s terrified of feeling something.”

Wednesday’s eyes snapped to her. “Choose your next words carefully.”

“I’m serious,” Enid said, meeting her gaze with unusual steadiness. “You don’t hate love. You hate losing control.”

“And you think that gives you the right to take that control from me?”

“No, no! I just…” Enid faltered. “I don’t want you to be alone. I want to help you.”

“You can help me by listening. Never interfere like that again.”

Enid smiled once more, smaller this time, gentler. “Okay. I promise. No more nudging. No more ‘romantic accidents.’ Scout’s honour.”

Wednesday studied her, suspicious. “And your cosmic agenda?”

“Oh, it’s still on,” Enid said lightly. “But I won’t be so… forward. Trust me, I’m gonna find someone who gives you butterflies.”

Wednesday couldn’t help but feel immense dread for the torturous month ahead of her.

❦ ➶ ❦

Somehow, Enid had managed to take up residence within the Addams apartment.

It was as if her very existence warped reality; no one questioned her sudden presence, as though she had always been there. Wednesday strongly suspected memory manipulation, a theory only reinforced by the fact that Pugsley hadn’t even blinked at Enid’s abrupt occupancy of their home.

And it was certainly… an adjustment.

Where the apartment had once been perpetually dark and brooding, Enid unwittingly flooded every room she entered with blinding light.

 Honestly, it gave Wednesday migraines. There was no way to be rid of the relentless pest now seemingly glued to her side, though at least whenever Enid had a physical form, Wednesday no longer felt perpetually watched.

So she was exercising a rare virtue.

Tolerance.

It certainly wasn’t easy, with Enid always interfering with everything. 

And she was so endlessly curious about everything Wednesday considered normality, always so earnestly confused. On the first evening she had arrived, Enid had stationed herself at Wednesday’s cassette rack, utterly puzzled by the contraptions.

Wednesday, feeling like some kind of expert in comparison to the girl, had explained dryly that she refused to succumb to the evils of modern technology and streaming. Enid seemed to disregard most of that, instead genuinely fascinated by the concept of music being stored on a rectangular box. It was almost endearing. Almost. 

And so Wednesday had taken the liberty of introducing Enid to the joys of classical music, showing her the entire collection, slightly disappointed when Enid was not particularly receptive to it. She seemed the most partial to orchestral symphonies and Christmas Bach, demanding that Wednesday make a playlist for them specifically. What a simple idiot.

She still hadn’t ruled out the possibility that this was a prolonged delusion or a psychotic break, but that explanation grew less plausible by the day. Other people could see Enid, interact with her, which made hallucination unlikely, unless Enid had existed all along and Wednesday had simply never noticed her. That theory, however, did little to explain the teleportation. Or the altered memories.

For now, Wednesday had confined herself to her room, a sanctuary from which Enid had been expressly banned, and immersed herself in her novel whenever possible, desperately searching for plot threads untouched by her unwanted companion.

Viper was currently on the run from an overly eager police officer, determined to assist her in the case of-

Viper gaining a new, disgustingly bright assistant-

Viper coming face-to-face with the serial killer she’d been hunting, only to be blinded by a cheerful-

Wednesday frowned, grisly frustration settling in as she noticed the pattern. Even her sacred work had been infected by that leeching celestial presence. With a sharp motion, she tore the page from the typewriter, crumpled it, and hurled it toward the wastebasket already overflowing with discarded drafts.

Scowling, she shoved her door open and stalked toward the kitchen, intent on another coffee to soothe the pounding behind her eyes. As the espresso machine sputtered to life, she surveyed the room.

Though Enid had only been there a week, she had already left irritating traces of herself behind: strands of blonde hair clinging to surfaces, aggressively cheerful notes plastered across the once-bare fridge, and a new pink mug, one that Wednesday had no memory of allowing, or even seeing purchased.

Most concerning, however, was the damp cardboard box sitting on the floor.

It certainly hadn’t been there a few hours ago.

Wednesday could have sworn it shifted slightly, though she made no move to investigate. She would have continued ignoring it entirely, had Enid not burst through the kitchen door moments later, soaking wet, panting, and decidedly less ethereal than usual.

Wednesday watched with tired disdain as Enid rushed to the box, fumbling with a carrier bag. Then came a tiny, outraged mewl, followed by escalating hisses and yowls, each more feral than the last.

Goddamn Sinclair. It wasn’t enough that she had invaded their home; she had to bring strays with her, too?

“Wednesday!” Enid cried from where she crouched beside the box. “Help me, please! I found this… cat? That’s what you call them, right? It was so cold and wet outside, I couldn’t just leave it!”

With a heavy sigh, Wednesday approached. Inside the box sat a tiny tuxedo kitten, pressed into the corner, eyes wide with terror. Enid, clearly misreading its distress, kept attempting to pet it, earning herself another hiss in response.

Wednesday grabbed her wrist and wrenched it back, releasing her just as quickly when Enid startled. She ignored the faint, traitorous quickening of her pulse.

Crouching beside her, Wednesday examined the kitten more closely. Its back legs lay unnaturally still.

Paralysed, perhaps.

After a can of tuna and some careful coaxing, the kitten relaxed slightly, though it continued to hiss whenever Enid reached toward it.

“Not like that, you buffoon,” Wednesday muttered. “Have you never pet a cat before?”

“No…” Enid admitted sheepishly. “I don’t usually get much free time on a job.”

Taking her arm again, more gently this time, Wednesday guided her hand back toward the kitten, stopping just short.

“You let them smell you first,” she explained, her voice quieter now. “Imagine meeting someone for the first time, and they immediately try to touch you. The creature is rightfully afraid.”

“The creature,” Enid echoed with a soft laugh, breath hitching slightly as the kitten crept closer. Still held in place by Wednesday, Enid watched as the cat sniffed her fingers before nudging its head beneath her palm.

Tentatively, she stroked its fur, jumping when a low rumble filled the air.

“Is it supposed to do that?” she asked nervously.

Wednesday gave her an odd look before shaking her head, something like amusement flickering across her expression.

“It’s called purring,” she said. “A cat’s sign of contentment.”

“You sure know a lot about cats,” Enid spoke thoughtfully as she continued her petting, turning to face Wednesday, who quickly averted her gaze. “Have you had a cat before?”

Wednesday paused before she spoke, painful memories pricking at her psyche. She had never told this story.

“I had a cat once. His name was… Thing,” She started quietly, noting that Enid said nothing of the strange name. “He was a gift from my parents… after my previous, beloved pet Nero was murdered in cold blood.”

Wednesday’s fingers curled slightly against her knee.

“Was Nero a cat?”

“Nero was a scorpion,” Wednesday corrected on, tone flat, as if reciting a fact rather than a loss. “Highly venomous. Intelligent. Loyal.”

“My parents thought a replacement would be… therapeutic,” Wednesday continued. “So they gave me Thing. A kitten. Black, unremarkable, loud.” Her lip twitched almost imperceptibly. “I despised him.”

The kitten in the box let out a small chirrup, pressing closer to Enid’s hand.

“He followed me everywhere,” Wednesday said. “Slept on my chest. Chewed my shoelaces. Ruined three perfectly good cadaver dissections.” She paused again, longer this time. “I learned, eventually, that affection was not always subtle. Or convenient.”

Enid’s voice, when it came, was soft. “Did something happen to him?”

Wednesday nodded once.

“He lived a long, irritatingly healthy life,” she said. “And when he died, I buried him myself. In the garden. I did not cry. I never did after Nero.”

Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable. Enid didn’t reach for Wednesday, didn’t offer pity. She simply kept petting the kitten, slow and careful, exactly as she’d been shown.

After a moment, Enid said, “I think… that means you loved him.”

Wednesday scoffed quietly. “Incorrect.”

The kitten purred louder, leaning into Enid’s palm, and Wednesday, traitorously, reached out to steady the box when it wobbled, her fingers brushing soft fur for just a second too long.

“…I tolerated him,” she amended.

Enid smiled, small and knowing, but said nothing at all.

Eventually, Pugsely wandered in, breaking whatever strange moment had been transpiring, immediately scaring the kitten again with his loud excitement. The small wheels he built for those back legs redeemed him, and Wednesday felt a spark of begrudging warmth as she watched the kitten run around their dark lounge. 

And so she continued, to express…. Tolerance.

 ❦ ➶ ❦

To Enid’s credit, she mostly kept her word about the romantic interference. There were no more physical romantic accidents. More ones of proximity.

She seemed to have given up with Xavier, and was cycling through an uncreative list of everyone Wednesday vaguely tolerated, and she wasnt exactly subtle about it.

It started with Bianca. Wednesday’s sworn rival, the only person who could come close to besting her in fencing. School was still in session, right up until the week before the cursed event of Christmas. And so fencing sessions were very much still occurring. It had been a particularly intense spar, Wednesday eventually losing, being pinned down harshly by Binanca, and met with that infuriating smirk. Enid, somehow in this class, though Wednesday had never actually seen her participate, was tucked in the corner, whispering together with a girl called Yoko Tanaka. 

The sight made something sour in Wednesday's chest, though she was sure it was just confusion as to how Enid even knew the girl. Next to them loitered Ajax, the boy who had begun following Enid around like a lost dog. That just made her frown. Pathetic.

Bianca had been the one to notice her staring, as Wednesday herself had not even been aware she was doing, smirking at the sight.

“Wednesday Addams’ first Crush? How cute.”

Wednesday’s head snapped up so sharply it nearly dislodged Bianca’s grip.

“Your delusions are showing,” Wednesday said coolly, even as Bianca finally released her and rose to her feet. Wednesday followed, brushing imaginary dust from her uniform with exaggerated care. “I assure you, my emotional life is as barren as your moral compass.”

Bianca laughed, low and pleased, the sound of someone who enjoyed being under Wednesday’s skin far too much. “Uh-huh. Then why were you staring over there like someone just kicked your favourite puppy?”

“I was assessing a tactical weakness,” Wednesday said. “Yours.”

Bianca arched a brow. “Funny. Looked personal.”

Wednesday picked up her fencing mask and turned away, signalling the end of the conversation. She could feel Bianca’s gaze linger, sharp and knowing, before the other girl finally shrugged and moved off to rejoin her friends.

It was then that Enid finally noticed her, eyes lighting up in a disgusting way that made Wednesday's breath stutter slightly, abandoning her conversations and hurrying over. The sense of mischief was back in her eyes, instilling dread in Wednesday's chest.

“That looked pretty intense, huh?” Enid winked smugly, not noticing this time the pink that tipped Wednesday's ears.

Wednesday adjusted the strap of her mask with unnecessary precision, buying herself a fraction of a second to regain control of her lungs.

“It was adequate,” she said flatly. “Bianca fought with more enthusiasm than skill.”

Enid hummed, clearly unconvinced, rocking back on her heels as she leaned closer than was strictly necessary. “Mm. Still, getting pinned like that? Very dramatic. Very… intimate.”

Wednesday’s grip tightened on the mask. “If you’re attempting to provoke me, you’re doing an abysmal job.”

Enid grinned wider, undeterred. “I’m just saying, fencing is basically flirting with swords.”

“That is the most offensive mischaracterisation of a centuries-old martial discipline I’ve ever heard,” Wednesday replied. She started to walk, then stopped when Enid effortlessly matched her pace, hands clasped behind her back in that infuriatingly casual way.

“What were you guys talking about?” Enid questioned with a sly grin.

“None of your concern.” Wednesday snapped, a little harsher than she had meant to, noting the fleeting wince on Enid’s face, though she quickly recovered it.

“Okay, sure.” Enid continued, sing-songy, “But you still didn’t answer my first question.”

“There was no question.”

“Sure, there was, you just tactically ignored it.”

“I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” Enid huffed, beginning her walk back to Yoko, when she was suddenly cornered by the fencing instructor, Coach Vlad.

“Sinclair, I believe it is your turn to spar.”

Enid froze mid-step.

Slowly, so slowly, she turned around, her grin reassembling itself with visible effort. “My turn?” she echoed, one hand lifting to point at her chest. “As in… me, Enid Sinclair? Sparring? With swords?”

Coach Vlad loomed like a disgruntled gargoyle, arms crossed, bristling with judgment. “You have been enrolled in this class for four months,” he said. “You have successfully avoided participation for four months. This ends now”

The mention of four months, confirmed to Wednesday, of the memory-altering. The reality was Enid had been avoiding sparing for a week, but… one must reap what they sow.

A few students snickered. 

Enid laughed nervously. “Haha, wow, okay, about that, really it’s a funny story-”

Coach Vlad’s gaze swept the room once more, sharp and appraising, before settling, inevitably, on Wednesday.

“Addams,” he said. “On the piste. You will spar with Sinclair.”

She stood just off to the side, mask tucked under her arm, posture perfectly composed. Her expression was neutral. Entirely so. If one ignored the way her gaze had locked onto Enid with predatory focus.

This, Wednesday, thought, was unexpected.

And therefore… interesting.

Enid’s soul visibly left her body.

“Wait-her?” Enid squeaked. “Isn’t she, like, second best in the class this semester?”

Wednesday stepped forward without hesitation, already fitting her mask into place. “Your fear is rational,” she said calmly. “But unnecessary. I won’t kill you.”

Enid was handed a mask and épée with all the ceremony of a death sentence. She fumbled with the grip, nearly dropping it, then laughed it off, shooting Wednesday a sheepish smile. “Okay! Ground rules! No stabbing vital organs?”

Wednesday ignored her.

They took their places. Saluted.

The bout began.

Wednesday moved first, clean, precise, her blade a straight line of intent. Enid barely had time to squeak before Wednesday scored, the buzz sounding almost immediately.

“Okay”, Enid said, laughing breathlessly. “ At least I'm still in one piece, right?”

Wednesday reset, expression unreadable. She was so predictable.

The second exchange lasted longer. Enid didn’t try to meet Wednesday’s blade this time. She backed away, feet light, eyes sharp behind the mask. When Wednesday lunged again, Enid twisted aside with all the elegance of an elephant on stilts, but somehow still forcing Wednesday to overextend.

She recovered instantly, of course, but it was enough to make her eyes narrow in surprise.

She pressed harder. Enid stumbled, laughed, ducked, somehow avoiding a strike that should have caught her cleanly. The crowd’s murmurs rose, surprised.

“Stop smiling,” Wednesday said curtly, advancing, unable to resist the small smirk which was hidden behind her own mask.

“I can’t help it!” Enid shot back. “This is kind of fun!”

That was when Enid stepped inside Wednesday’s guard.

Too close, at an extremely wrong angle. Wednesday’s instincts screamed as she was forced to pivot, blade flashing, pinning Enid back with ruthless efficiency. Enid’s foot slid as her balance went, and Wednesday drove her down.

They hit the piste hard as the buzzer screamed a point.

Wednesday had Enid pinned, blade at her throat, knee braced against her leg. Close enough to feel Enid’s breath hitch. Close enough to hear her heart, the only confirmation she was real, racing beneath the uniform.

The room went silent.

Wednesday should have disengaged immediately. She should have.

Enid’s laughter had vanished. Her eyes were wide behind the mask, not frightened, thrilled. Something warm and reckless flickered there, directed entirely at Wednesday. Was she even aware of it?

“Well,” Enid said softly, “guess you win.”

Wednesday inhaled. Sharply. She pulled back at once, stepping away as if another second of contact would ruin her.

“Match,” Coach Vlad said, dryly. “Addams.”

Wednesday removed her mask, face composed, pulse traitorously loud in her ears. She offered Enid a hand.

Enid stared at it for half a second, then took it.

Wednesday hauled her up with more force than necessary, releasing her just as quickly.

“You adapt quickly,” Wednesday said. It was not praise. It sounded dangerously close to it anyway. “With training, you might become competent.”

Enid beamed, flushed and breathless. “Coming from you? I’ll take it.”

Their eyes held, and something charged, unspoken stretched between them, taught like a drawn red string.

Wednesday broke it first, turning away. “Do not mistake this for encouragement.”

Enid watched her go, smile softening into something genuine.

“Never.”

Thinking back, Wednesday was sure that was how she had ended up in the situation she found herself in now, stuck in the Principal’s office after narrowly missing striking Binaca with a throwing knife.

Over the days following fencing, Wednesday had noticed the change almost immediately.

Bianca was suddenly everywhere. Sitting closer. Speaking more. Offering pointed remarks that felt less like rivalry and more like… invitation.

And Enid, the traitor that she was, kept orchestrating it.

“Oops!” Enid said brightly, ducking away at lunch. “Only two seats left.”

“Bianca needs a partner for after-school fencing practice!”

“Wednesday, Bianca asked about your technique!”

“You guys should talk more!”

Each time, Enid wore the same pleased, expectant smile.

Wednesday endured exactly three incidents before snapping, as she was entirely sure Bianca could see through Enid’s attempts, but kept engaging anyway. It had culminated in a rather… colourful conversation with Binaca, who had pushed her to the absolute edge… and received a knife for her troubles. It was a shame it hadn’t landed.

It was also a shame Weems had given her detention, though detention was a generous term. This was something else entirely.

By that, Wednesday meant ten times more torturous than normal. The prospect of sitting in a silent room, contemplating mortality under flickering fluorescent lights, had been almost appealing. This, however, Carolling, Present drives…Decoration.

It was a fate worse than death.

Nevermore’s main hall had been transformed into a grotesque parody of festivity. Garland crept along the walls like invasive ivy, lights blinked in arrhythmic patterns, and a tree, far too tall and far too cheerful, dominated the centre of the room. The air was thick with pine, cinnamon, and forced goodwill.

Wednesday stood rigid near the entrance, hands clasped behind her back, expression carved from stone.

“Isn’t this fun?” Enid said brightly, already wearing an elf hat she had absolutely not been assigned. “It’s like detention, but with spirit.”

“I will kill it first,” Wednesday replied, eyeing the tree. “Then myself.”

Wednesday wasn’t even sure why Enid had accompanied her, though that familiar look in her eye told her all she needed to know. She never knew when to quit.

Weems’ true cruelty revealed itself ten minutes into detention.

“Additional students will be joining,” Coach Vlad announced, as if delivering a death sentence. “Late arrivals. Do not make me regret allowing your presence.”

The doors creaked open.

Joel Glicker stepped inside, clutching a box of donated toys like an offering to a hostile god. His sweater was aggressively festive, reindeer, bells, the works, and his expression was one of mild panic layered over politeness. 

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I was told- uh- present sorting?”

Wednesday turned just enough to register him.

Joel noticed her at the same time. His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, like he’d spotted a familiar landmark in hostile territory.

“Oh,” he said. “Hi, Wednesday.”

She nodded once. “Glicker.”

Wednesday knew Joel well enough to recognise his tolerability. He had been in her biology lab the previous year, one of the more agreeable people she had ever met. The boy had an overly sickly appearance and was outcast enough that she felt a certain sense of camaraderie with him. 

Coach Vlad pointed. “You. Glicker. Ornament restoration. With Addams.”

Wednesday raised an eyebrow. Joel winced.

“Well,” he said, attempting a smile as he set the box down and joined her at the table, “this is… seasonal.”

“Seasonal suffering,” Wednesday corrected, delicately examining a cracked glass ornament shaped like an angel. “Sit. Don’t touch anything unless instructed.”

Joel obeyed immediately, just the way she preferred, though she had an odd, fleeting thought about how Enid would not have listened so easily. She glanced up to find her, jaw tightening as she saw the other girl talking easily with Ajax once again, so genuinely interested. And she didn’t exactly know why the sight of that earnestness directed at someone else bothered her. Of course, it wasn't hers alone. 

Enid would be gone soon enough, and the swarm of confusing emotions with her.

They worked in silence at first. Not awkward silence, efficient silence. Joel handed her the tools when she held out her hand without looking. He waited when she paused, didn’t ask questions when she clearly didn’t want them asked.

After a few minutes, he ventured, “You’re good at this.”

“I am good at most things,” Wednesday replied. “You are acceptable assistance.”

Joel smiled, unoffended. “High praise.”

They leaned closer over the table, heads bent together, not touching, but aligned. Joel murmured an observation about stress fractures in the glass. Wednesday corrected him. He accepted it without ego. They fell into a quiet rhythm. Which was promptly broken by a chaotic presence.

“Heyyy Wednesday!” Enid said brightly, appearing far too suddenly at the table. “Coach Vlad said we need someone tall to hang lights. Joel, you’re tall!”

Joel blinked. “I am?”

“You are,” Enid insisted, grabbing the string of lights and pressing it into his hands. “C’mon!”

Wednesday looked up, eyes sharp. “He is in the middle of a task.”

“I can finish it!” Enid said quickly. “I’m great with fragile things!”

Joel, still clutching the lights, hesitated. “Uh- okay?” He cast a confused glance at Wednesday, then allowed himself to be herded away, drifting toward Coach Vlad with the expression of someone who had been reassigned mid-sentence.

Wednesday’s eyes followed him for a moment longer than necessary.

Then she looked back at Enid.

Enid was already seated in Joel's place, touching the ornament.

“Do not,” Wednesday said flatly.

Enid froze. “Do not… what?”

“Apply pressure,” Wednesday replied. “And tamp down the exuberance.”

“I can be gentle!” Enid protested, lowering her voice. “See? Gentle.”

The ornament slipped.

Wednesday’s hand shot out, catching it an inch before it shattered on the table. She straightened slowly, the glass cupped securely in her palm.

Enid shut up after that, assuming joels quiet role of passing tools, uncharacteristically subdued. Wednesday caught herself stealing glances at the girl, noting the conflicted and almost tortured expression on her face, one that was quickly covered up by that same, faux grin. Not the real smile she had when petting their stray. Something forced. And the force with which she seemed to be thinking. Enid had to be scheming something. 

Wednesday soon found out exactly what that was.

 ❦ ➶ ❦

She really should have seen it coming; perhaps she hadn’t taken Enid’s divine mission as Cupid seriously enough, lulled by the unusual restraint Enid had been showing.

Wednesday should have known immediately that something was off when Enid asked her to retrieve something from the greenhouse after school hours. Why hadn’t she just teleported there, as she sometimes did? Why hadn’t she simply dissipated and gotten it herself? And why, why had Wednesday obeyed without question? All questions she could not answer.

Lurch had driven her to the greenhouse, arriving precisely at 7 p.m. She wore casual clothing: flowing noir trousers, a checkered jumper, and the crisp edge of a white dress shirt visible at the collar. She approached the greenhouse flippantly, not even registering the faint glow of candlelight filtering through the panes.

Everything culminated in a moment of burning humiliation as she stepped inside. Candlelight flickered over a table set for a romantic dinner, and at that table sat… Joel Glicker. An odd old man, seemingly hired off the street, still dressed in his business uniform, stood there, perhaps as their waiter, though he quickly scurried away as Wednesday levelled him a glare.

Joel sprang up at her entrance, nervously approaching. His attire was formal, a full tuxedo, hair slicked back, and in his hand, he carried a single black dahlia.

“You came,” he said.

Wednesday halted. “What… are you doing here?” Her voice was low, slow, deeply unsettled by the scene before her.

“Well, I got your poem,” Joel said. “It was so thoughtful, I just had to come.”

“What poem?” she ground out, the horror seeping into her tone.

He offered the sheet. Wednesday snatched it, and her anger began to simmer as she read the ridiculous text:

“Joel, I think you’re so tall and bad,
You and me would be so totally rad,
If you don’t come to the greenhouse at 7pm, I’ll be mega sad,
My love for you isn’t just some passing fad,
I know you aren’t some good-for-nothing cad,
Sorry if this letter makes you mad,
Won’t you be my lad?” <3

Silence. Deafening. Damning silence.

Wednesday folded the paper with precise care. Then unfolded it, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration

Several conclusions presented themselves immediately:

1. She had not written this.
   
   
2. Whoever had written it was a danger to society.
   
   
3. This had Enid written all over it.
   
   

She looked at him slowly. “Glicker,” she said, voice unnervingly calm. “Explain.”

Joel swallowed. “You- uh- you asked me to meet you here? With the poem?”

She held the paper between two fingers, as though it might be contagious. “This document suggests I used the phrases ‘you and me’ and ‘mega sad.’”

Joel winced. “Yeah, I thought that was… bold.”

“I have never been ‘mega’ anything,” Wednesday said coldly. “Least of all sad.”

Understanding dawned on his face, followed swiftly by horror. “You didn’t- oh. Oh no.”

“No,” Wednesday confirmed.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m so sorry. I really thought… I mean, the handwriting-”

“Was forged,” Wednesday finished. “Poorly, but enthusiastically.”

Joel nodded miserably. “This is so embarrassing.”

“It is,” Wednesday agreed. “But not for you.”

She refolded the poem with deliberate finality. “You were lured here under false pretences. Whoever orchestrated this believed rhyme and proximity could manufacture attraction.”

Joel managed a weak laugh. “To be fair… ‘Won’t you be my lad?’ is kind of charming.”

Wednesday fixed him with a look that could curdle milk. “Burn it.”

He nodded immediately. “Absolutely. Ritualistically, in fact!”

She turned to leave, then paused. “For the record,” she added without looking back, “if I were ever to invite someone on a date, it would not involve forced rhyming, nor would it rely on the word ‘rad.’”

Joel blinked. “…Good to know.”

Wednesday exited the greenhouse, fury simmering beneath her composure. The suspect list in her mind had already narrowed to one:

Enid Sinclair. Cupid. Poet. Dead woman walking.

 ❦ ➶ ❦

Enid had been insultingly leisurely, actually lounging around listening to her cassette tapes, chatting idly with Pugsley by the hearth, which was actually lit for the first time in as long as Wednesday could remember.

She paid the peaceful scene no mind as she stormed back into the room, ushering Pugsley out with a snap, ignoring the surprised look on Enid’s face. Wednesday’s eyes were sharp, glinting with a mix of rage and pure disbelief.

Enid looked up from her spot on the floor innocently, though she could sense the rage  “Hey, Wednesday! How-”

“You,” Wednesday cut her off, voice low and dangerous, “are a traitorous leech.”

Enid froze. “What?”

“This.” She threw the folded poem onto the coffee table. “This absurd, criminal, literary atrocity. Explain.”

Enid’s face fell for a split second before the practised grin returned. “Oh! That! Uh… I was just trying to help.”

Not this again.

“Help?” Wednesday echoed, each syllable sharp enough to slice paper. “You forged my handwriting, fabricated a poem in my voice, and lured a perfectly decent boy to a romantic setup under false pretences. That’s your definition of help?”

“I thought… I mean, you and Joel got along so well during detention,” Enid said, hands raised defensively, “I just thought maybe you needed a… nudge!”

“A nudge?” Wednesday hissed, stepping closer. “You manipulated my autonomy, Enid. My schedule. My… entire social environment. You decided that this”, she gestured to the poem with a flick of her wrist, “was an acceptable representation of my intentions.”

Enid laughed nervously, a little too loudly. “I mean… It’s romantic! And funny! And a little sad! That’s…like… exactly how you would write it!”

“No,” Wednesday said flatly, her voice cold and measured, “I would not write it. I would not approve it. And I would not hand it to anyone to lure them into a scenario that reeks of forced sentimentality and ill-conceived rhymes.”

Enid’s grin faltered. “I just… wanted Joel to see that-”

“You wanted me to be paired off like some experiment!” Wednesday snapped, stepping even closer, so close Enid could feel the chill radiating off her. “You wanted to manufacture attraction. Manipulate me all for your stupid mission. Do you have any idea how utterly insulting that is?”

Enid opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she whispered, “I was trying to help. I swear. I didn’t-”

“You didn’t what?” Wednesday pressed, voice rising. “You didn’t consider that I might hate this? That I would see through it immediately? That I would burn it, refuse the setup, and reduce your meddling to ashes?”

Enid flinched. “I didn’t think-”

“No!” Wednesday snapped. “You never think. You act. You orchestrate. You meddle under the guise of kindness, and you think it’s cute or clever. It is not. It is infuriating. And it is unacceptable.”

Enid’s shoulders slumped, finally letting her guard down. “…I just… I really need this to work out.”

Wednesday’s gaze softened, not kindly, but precisely enough to pierce. “You do not get to decide what I need, Enid. You do not get to decide who I want or how I feel.

This,” she said, waving the paper, “is not your plaything. And you, ” she stepped back, voice razor-sharp, “are not my Cupid. You are not anyone’s.”

The room fell silent. Enid stared at her, conflicted and small, the bravado she usually wore stripped away.

Finally, she whispered, “…I understand.”

Wednesday’s chest rose and fell slowly. She folded the poem once more, setting it deliberately on the desk. “See that you do,” she said.

Enid nodded, words failing her.

Wednesday turned away, sensing Enid’s physical form dissipating, until she was suddenly gone. The message had been delivered. Clearly, painfully.

But it didn’t feel as gratifying as she thought it would.

 ❦ ➶ ❦ 

Enid did not reappear for several days after their confrontation. Wednesday told herself she didn’t care. It was… peaceful, having her gone, not having to watch her back, not having to anticipate when Enid might thrust her into another compromising situation.

And yet.

Some treacherous part of her felt hollow. A subtle emptiness tugged at her as she moved through the day. No one remarked on Enid’s absence, no one even mentioned her existence. Wednesday might have convinced herself that the girl had never existed at all, if not for that faint, persistent pull at the edge of her consciousness, a pull that whispered insistently that they were still bound together somehow, in ways she neither wanted nor understood.

It was infuriating.

But she could not deny it.

In just two measly weeks, Enid’s presence had become something she found necessary, grounding. She almost could not remember what it had been like before her.

Time passed, and Wednesday resented how an ache seemed to grow within her each day Enid was gone. The notes Enid had left on the fridge, the half-abandoned crochet on the couch, the still-full cup of ice-cold tea in a sickeningly pink mug, she could not bring herself to move any of it.

It was the sixteenth of December, a dreaded day, when the world felt different. The air carried a melancholy that was unavoidable, oppressive even. The sixteenth of December marked the anniversary of her father’s death in a mundane car accident three years prior. She remembered the day in excruciating detail: the phone call, her mother’s total devastation, the trip to the morgue, the vibrant funeral her father had insisted upon if he ever passed.

And she remembered her mother’s subsequent death a few days later. Heartbreak, the doctors had said.

Death, though Wednesday admired it, was absurd. So unyielding, so relentless, that not even her own will could defy it. No matter how much she begged, screamed, or pleaded. Nothing could stop it. And nothing could take the pain away.

On the sixteenth of December each year, Wednesday would miss school. Along with Pugsley, she would retreat to the family manor for a day of remembrance, mourning in the quiet way only the Addams could. The manor was both sanctuary and mausoleum, a place where memories lingered like cobwebs, delicate but inescapable.

Wednesday felt particularly hollow that day; throughout the entire car journey, she stared unblinkingly, pointedly ignoring the strange, warm presence tucked against her side, though there was nobody physically there.

The ceremony had been quiet, just Pugsley and herself, speaking a few words to the altar where her parents' photos sat, and eating a quiet meal together. Pugsely often vanished rather quickly, as he knew she felt particularly uncomfortable in the face of emotional displays. 

It had been as she sat, alone and unblinking, staring down her father's portrait, when she heard that voice, the one her heart had traitorously missed.

“Wednesday.”

The voice was soft, careful, familiar.

She froze, not turning. 

“Wednesday,” the voice repeated, this time closer, warm and hesitant.

Finally, she looked up.

Enid stood in the doorway. The usual bravado was gone. She was small, uncertain, hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her eyes, wide and earnest, met Wednesday’s, and for the first time in days, Wednesday saw not the mischief or manipulation she had come to expect, but something raw. Vulnerable.

“I… I didn’t mean to intrude,” Enid said quietly. “I just… I couldn’t let today pass without seeing you. I know I’ve been… awful.”

Wednesday’s gaze was ice, unblinking, assessing. The room seemed to shrink, the candlelight casting long, sharp shadows over both of them.

“You vanished,” Wednesday said finally, voice low, deliberate. “And yet… here you are.”

Enid swallowed, stepping forward a single hesitant pace. “I know. I was wrong. And I… I couldn’t not be here today. Not for me, for you.”

Wednesday’s chest rose and fell slowly. She could feel the tug, the same persistent pull she had tried to ignore all these days. Anger warred with something else, a recognition she did not want to admit.

”Is this… why you’re so against love? Because of your mother?”

Wednesday froze. Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing to sharp points. Horror, indignation, and disbelief surged through her like wildfire. The audacity. The implication. Mere moments after Enid’s torturous absence, daring to reduce her life and her grief to a simple narrative of heartbreak and loss.

She opened her mouth to retort. A scathing, devastating retort.

And then… nothing.

Instead, a weight settled in her chest. A tight, unfamiliar knot of… sadness.

“Perhaps,” she said finally, voice low and uneven, “perhaps the idea that someone could die of heartbreak terrifies me. And perhaps I resent love, for taking away my mother when I needed her”

Enid’s eyes widened. She took a tentative step forward, unsure, as if approaching an animal she did not want to startle. “Wednesday…”

Wednesday did not move. Her hands hung at her sides, rigid. But her eyes, glimmering with something she would never name aloud, softened just enough.

Enid’s next step closed the distance between them. She reached out, hesitantly, her hand brushing Wednesday’s arm. The touch was careful, respectful, an acknowledgement rather than an imposition.

“I… I’m here,” Enid whispered. “I know I tried to force things, just for my dumb mission. I guess it was all more about me than anything to do with you. I fucked up. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just…”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened. She exhaled slowly, the chill in her bones easing just a fraction. She didn’t step back.

“You’re reckless,” she said, voice still measured, still precise. “And intrusive. And far too confident in your assumptions about others.”

“I know,” Enid murmured. “I just… care about you. I wanted to be near you.”

The words, so simple and earnest, struck Wednesday harder than any insult, any manipulation ever had. And then, almost instinctively, she did the unthinkable: she stepped forward.

Enid’s eyes went wide, but she did not move away.

Wednesday’s arms, precise and certain despite the turmoil inside her, wrapped around Enid, in something that she would never name an embrace, but certainly something needy and childish and desperate.

Enid stiffened for a heartbeat, then relaxed, letting herself be held.

Wednesday rested her chin lightly on Enid’s shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of her hair, something bright and chaotic, so completely unlike the darkness that usually surrounded her.

“I-,” Wednesday said softly, her voice almost a whisper, “I need you to stop meddling in my life. And when you leave for good, at least say goodbye .”

Enid nodded, just barely. “I will.”

For a long moment, the world outside, the manor, the shadows, the looming melancholy of the day, faded. In that fragile space, for the first time in days, the two of them simply existed together, the knot of absence, grief, and misunderstanding loosening just enough to allow a tenuous sense of peace.

The hug broke eventually, reluctantly, both of them stepping back, but not completely away. And for the first time, Wednesday admitted to herself, however quietly, that perhaps… that was enough.

 ❦ ➶ ❦

Enid slotted back into her life perfectly by the 17th of December. It was as if she had never left. And yet, neither of them mentioned what had happened at the manor. Wednesday cursed herself silently for replaying the embrace over and over throughout the day, for the way her cheeks had betrayed her whenever their arms so much as brushed. Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

At least, for now, Enid seemed oblivious. She was preoccupied with her own dilemmas, the dark glances shadowing her pretty face only intensifying, sparking a burning concern in Wednesday’s chest.

Dutifully, Enid had nearly stopped her attempts at playing Cupid. Instead, she seemed to be whiling away her remaining days of term, embracing mortal life with an almost absurd intensity.

That, of course, was precisely why Wednesday found herself frozen in the doorway on the last day of term.

There, in the lounge, stood an entire real fir tree, resplendent in its festive glory. Enid was perched high on a stool, placing the star atop it with fierce concentration, lips pursed in the kind of determination usually reserved for life-or-death situations.

Wednesday’s entrance went unnoticed until Enid’s head snapped in her direction, eyes wide and sparkling. “Wednesday!” she exclaimed, excitement bubbling.

And then she lost her balance.

Time slowed. Wednesday’s brain barely registered the inevitable until instinct took over. She lunged, precise and unhesitating, catching Enid just before her head would have collided with the side of the glass coffee table.

Enid froze in her arms, the stool clattering to the floor behind them.

“I-” Enid started, voice pitched somewhere between embarrassment and awe.

Butterflies. Cursed, wretched butterflies, filled Wednesday’s stomach at their proximity, how close she was to Enid’s face, how she could make out all the individual hues of blue in her eyes, how she noticed a faint scar on her cheek she had the urge to trace, how her eyes strayed down to-

“I’m so sorry,” Enid interrupted her… unbecoming thoughts, awkwardly detangling herself from Wednesday's arms, though she noted the faint shade of pink now dusting her cheeks.

“You are far too reckless,” Wednesday said, voice flat but steady. “The angle with which you were about to hit the table would have certainly ruptured something important.”

“Right!” Enid exclaimed, far too high-pitched. “Silly me! I’ll just be… over here… setting up the elf.”

“The… elf?” Wednesday asked, tilting her head, eyes narrowing.

Enid’s hands fluttered over a small, garishly dressed figure she had retrieved from a box. “Yes! I read online that it’s a festive helper! Totally traditional. Completely necessary. Very important!”

The elf was… unsettling. Its leering eyes seemed almost sentient, as if it might spring to life the moment Wednesday looked away. She held it at arm’s length, studying it with the kind of scrutiny reserved for dangerous creatures.

“Curious choice,” she said flatly, voice dripping with judgment. “It radiates hostility. And poorly concealed malice.”

Enid flitted around the lounge, rearranging ornaments and tinsel with exaggerated care. “Oh, it’s fine! It’s perfectly safe. Totally friendly. Just… maybe a little… spirited.”

Wednesday did not reply. She had learned long ago that arguing with Enid about her bizarre enthusiasms was a losing battle.

Instead, she watched, faintly exasperated, as Enid stepped closer, lowering her voice slightly. “Um… Wednesday?”

“Yes?” Wednesday’s tone remained flat, but her eyes flicked toward her, wary.

“Well… I was wondering if you were… going to the winter ball?” Enid’s words came out almost as a whisper, like she was actively forcing herself to speak.

The winter ball. A soulless and entirely meaningless event Nevermore hosted each year, a breeding ground for teenage regret and … love.

“Enid”, She spoke warningly, already sighing at the clear attempt at matchmaking yet again. What did she have to do to get it into her thick sku-

“No, no!” Enid interrupted hurriedly, hands raised in mock surrender. “Nothing like that. I just… I got invited?”

The thought struck Wednesday like a bucket of ice-cold water, filled with shards of glass for good measure.

“By whom?”

“Ajax,” Enid admitted, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. “He… asked me.”

Wednesday’s expression remained unreadable, but something sharp and unwelcome tugged at her chest. She had anticipated wide varieties of Enid-induced chaos. This had not been one of them.

“Look,” Enid continued quickly, words tumbling out, “I-I just want to experience this once, okay? I don’t think I’m… well, I won’t get a chance like this again anytime soon.”

“I didn’t realise heaven permitted sampling of the goods,” Wednesday replied dryly.

Something about that particular barb sent Enid’s cheeks blazing scarlet. Wednesday noted it distantly, with mild confusion.

“The point is,” Enid pressed, voice softening, “I want you to go too. You’re the first… friend I’ve ever had, and I want to spend this time with you before I have to… leave.”

Wednesday stiffened.

She didn’t like the word friend, the way Enid said it, carefully, as if it mattered. She wanted to say they weren’t. That they didn’t fit neatly into such a term.

And yet, that thought led somewhere dangerous. Somewhere she refused to examine.

Enid’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Please. Can you go? For me?”

Wednesday said nothing. The room felt suddenly too small, the elf on the mantel watching with unearned interest. She folded her hands behind her back, jaw tightening as she stared past Enid rather than at her.

Finally, she spoke, measured, precise.

“I despise crowds. I loathe dancing. And I have no interest in watching hormonal teenagers attempt ritualised mating displays.”

Enid’s shoulders sank.

“…However,” Wednesday continued, eyes flicking briefly to Enid’s face before away again, “your argument is… persuasive.”

Enid’s head snapped up. “Does that mean-?”

“It means,” Wednesday said flatly, “that I will attend. Under protest. And only to ensure you survive the evening with minimal emotional damage.”

Enid stared at her for a heartbeat, then beamed so brightly it bordered on hazardous.

“Really?” she breathed.

Wednesday turned away, already regretting everything. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Enid bounced once, visibly restraining the urge to hug her. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Really.”

Wednesday did not respond.

But she did not retract the offer either.

And somewhere deep in her chest, that sharp ache settled into something far more dangerous: anticipation. 

Of watching Enid dance with that undeserving boy, but more of… the fact that in exactly two weeks, Enid would leave her, and she would never see her again.

 ❦ ➶ ❦

Most people, in the face of someone they value leaving, spend more time with them, treasure what they still have rather than mourning what they won't.

Wednesday Addams was not one of those people. Of course, avoiding a cupid who is bound to your soul by fate was difficult, but Wednesday thrived under unbeatable odds. She had finally found a place where Enid would not venture. 

The Weathervane, a small, dimly lit coffee shop tucked away on a quiet street.

She was not sure what about it repulsed her so particularly that she would not come anywhere near it, but it suited her well enough. She had to adjust to Enid’s absence. It was the only way she would make it out of this in one piece.

There was something about it, the scent of roasted beans, the subdued hum of conversation, the way the sunlight streaked through dusty windows, that allowed Wednesday to be invisible. Safe. Untouchable.

It was there, amidst the steam and quiet clatter of cups, that she first noticed Tyler, the barista. He moved with an easy efficiency behind the counter, hands deftly measuring, pouring, and frothing. Something about him caught her attention, not the charm most people noticed, but the precision.

“I didn’t expect anyone to be able to read over all the noise in here,” he said, approaching as she idly thumbed through the Chekhov anthology she had finally started to make progress on. His voice was quiet but confident, carrying a tone that suggested curiosity without intrusion.

Wednesday’s gaze lifted. “Neither did I,” she replied flatly, eyes assessing.

He glanced down at the cassette tape peeking from her bag, the handwritten label: Wednesday Addams- Selections. “Is that… classical?” he asked, a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes.

“Yes,” she said shortly, though she allowed herself a tiny pause. “Selections. Carefully curated.”

“I’m Tyler,” he offered, extending a hand, though she did not take it. “If you ever want… opinions on composers, or… discussion,” he gestured vaguely, “I’m here.”

Wednesday studied him. He wasn’t pushy, wasn’t irritatingly cheerful. There was a careful patience about him, a curiosity she could tolerate. “Perhaps.” The word was flat, but it carried a faint trace of promise.

“You go to Neverore? You’re not like the other kids who come in here”

“I consider my peers to be an entirely different species.”

Tyler snorted before he could stop himself, then quickly tried to school his expression. “Yeah… that checks out.”

Wednesday nodded curtly, turning back to her book.

He nodded, reading the cue correctly. “Well… I can play some of these tapes on the shop stereo if you like.”

Minutes later, the strains of Bach and Vivaldi filled the small room. Wednesday’s eyes followed the rising steam from the coffee cups while Tyler moved with effortless skill, refilling, frothing, cleaning, all without breaking the rhythm of the music.

“So You prefer strings unadulterated,” Tyler guessed, sliding a cup toward her. “Not drowned out by percussion.”

Wednesday’s eyebrow lifted. “Correct. Most interpretations are vulgar.”

Tyler’s grin was small, almost self-effacing. “I’d like to hear more sometime. Your selections… they’re precise.”

She considered this. “Perhaps.” The single word hung in the air, brief but charged.

Then, he glanced toward the flyers pinned by the counter. “The winter ball… are you going?”

Wednesday stiffened at the mention, thoughts snapping back to Enid and her impending departure. “I am attending,” she said flatly.

He leaned forward slightly, eyes hopeful. “Would you… take me with you? Mutual survival against adolescent chaos? My mom and dad really want me to go… something about engaging with my peers and being more ‘normal’.”

She studied him, weighing the risk against the promise of something… tolerable. Finally, she nodded. “Very well. You will accompany me. But do not presume familiarity beyond what is strictly necessary.”

Tyler’s grin widened just enough to be dangerous. “Understood. Strictly necessary.”

Wednesday returned her gaze to the dark wood of the counter, the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air, and an uncomfortable dread hanging in her gut. 

 ❦ ➶ ❦

December 20th arrived without much ceremony. The winter ball. Christmas was in full, unrestrained swing at this point, and Wednesday loathed being outside of her comfortable abode. 

Nevermore had been transformed, twinkling lights strung like constellations gone wrong, snow machines coughing artificial flakes into the air, students parading through the halls in shimmering fabrics and forced smiles. Music thudded from the main hall, something upbeat and aggressively joyful.

Wednesday moved through it all like a shadow.

She wore black, of course, a severe, high-collared dress, which resembled mourning attire more than formalwear. She was actually quite sure it had been worn to at least one funeral, but so had most of her clothes: it was a hobby. Her hair was perfectly neat, braids precise, expression unreadable. She had agreed to attend for exactly one reason: Enid Sinclair.

The girl whom Wednesday could not locate anywhere within this wretched event.

Wednesday stood at the edge of the ballroom, observing. Bianca glided past in something silver and dangerous. Xavier lingered near the refreshments, pretending not to look at anyone. Ajax hovered anxiously near the dance floor, eyes darting every time someone laughed too loudly.

No Enid.

The music shifted into a slower song, the lights dimming in accordance

Wednesday felt it then, that familiar, irritating pull in her chest. Stronger than it had been all day.

She turned.

Tyler stood a few feet away, clearly just as out of place as she was.

He wore a simple black suit, nothing flashy, hair still slightly unruly as if he’d fought with it and lost. He looked… nervous. Not panicked. Just uncertain, perhaps feeling out of their own skin. It was a familiar feeling.

Their eyes met.

“Oh,” he said, blinking. “Hey.”

Wednesday arched a brow. “You look uncomfortable.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was hoping it wasn’t obvious.”

“It is,” she said. Then, after a beat, “But tolerably so.”

That earned a small smile. “I’ll take that.”

Silence stretched between them, stale and stagnant.

Tyler glanced toward the dance floor, then back at her. “Would you maybe want to… dance?

No," she said immediately, before pausing. She pictured Enid, in all her radiant glory, dancing with... Ajax, and she immediately wished to rid her mind of the image. Her jaw tightened in frustration. 

Tyler noticed her hesitation, trying his best not to press. “We don’t have to. I just figured… standing here pretending we’re invisible isn’t working.”

She exhaled through her nose. “Dancing is a pointless ritual. It serves no functional purpose.”

“Sure,” he agreed easily. “But so is most of this.” He nodded toward the lights, the music, the forced cheer. “Sometimes people just want to move so they don’t have to think.”

Wednesday looked at him sharply. “And you?”

He shrugged. “I’m thinking plenty already.”

That earned him a long look, one that was weighing up her escape odds before resigning to her fate.

Finally, she said, “If I agree, it will not be for enjoyment.”

Tyler smiled, small and sincere. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She placed her hand in his, and they awkwardly swayed along to the last few minutes of the slow song, before it abruptly changed back to something more upbeat.

It was then she felt it, a sharp pain in her heart, and despite herself, she whipped her head towards what she knew she would find.

Enid. Just for a second, absolutely divine, ethereal in her pure white dress, wired wings positioned on her back, flecks of gold lining those hurt, devastated eyes which were fixed upon her. 

The next second, she was gone.

Was it Ajax? Had he offended her? Wednesday swore she would nail gun his ugly hair-

Turning her gaze to Ajax, she found him in the same position, waiting in clear anticipation, as if… Enid had still yet to show up.

Apologising weakly to Tyler, Wednesday rushed after whatever remnants of Enid were left, exiting through the back door and into the night. There she found nothing, nobody. She was alone.

The stars were especially potent that night due to the cold, and Wednesday found herself pitifully staring up at them, her truly hopeless brain wondering if somewhere up there was where she would find Enid, in the years and decades to come, where she would continue to think of her.

Wednesday wasn’t quite sure how long she had been out there. Time had a way of dissolving when she was left alone with her thoughts, especially the ones she refused to examine too closely. Eventually, the door behind her creaked open, and Tyler stepped out, hesitating only briefly before sitting on the stone step beside her.

It was comfortable silence until he suddenly turned to her, reaching into his pocket to hand her a small, black box. 

“It’s just a small gift. You don’t have to… do anything. No returning it. I just thought you might like it.”

Wednesday eyed the box suspiciously before taking it. She opened it.

The box revealed an old style Ipod classic, as Tyler explained, the next step up from her cassette player, while retaining the abhorance to modern technology. 

She turned the device over in her hands, noting the familiar weight, the simplicity. “Acceptable,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

He smiled. “Thought so.”

He reached over, gently booting it up, then handed it back to her. “I, uh… loaded it already.”

Wednesday frowned. “Loaded it with what?”

“Your music.”

She scrolled.

Every cassette she owned, every obscure recording, every meticulously labelled case, was there. Digitized. Preserved. Arranged with unsettling precision. Tyler couldn't have put this together, not even if he had seen into every crevice of her brain. Her cassette collection greatly mirrored her father's, and his influence was clear to be seen in the device. She opened a playlist.

Orchestral Symphonies and Bach: Christmas.

Her thumb hovered over the click wheel.

Oh Enid.

Wednesday exhaled slowly, something between exasperation and reluctant admiration curling in her chest. She could picture it, Enid meddling from the shadows, bright-eyed and determined, somehow orchestrating this without Wednesday ever noticing.

It would have been masterful.

If Wednesday had not already, somehow, fallen in love with the Cupid herself.

She shut the device off carefully and closed the box. “This was… thoughtful,” she said, the word clearly foreign on her tongue.

Tyler glanced at her, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She met his gaze. “You show an alarming aptitude for understanding me.”

He chuckled softly. “I’ll take that as a win.”

They sat there a moment longer, the cold creeping in, the music from inside muffled and distant. The moment swelled slightly, as if something were supposed to happen, though Wednesday remained still, mind wandering back to where Enid could have hidden.

And that was how the night ended, Wednesday making her way home to find Enid curled up on the couch, fast asleep, clutching a hoodie Wednesday had not been able to find in a while. She tucked a blanket over her with temporarily unrestrained tenderness, positioning herself on the floor, leaning back, and eventually falling asleep to the rhythm of soothing breathing and leaning her head closer to the warmth radiating from that sleeping angel

 ❦ ➶ ❦

The next four days leading up to Christmas flashed by in some kind of domestic blur. Enid had returned entirely to her normal self, and they seemed to just spend the days existing in each other's vicinity. Pugsley accompanied them on their gift shopping trips, and Wednesday begrudgingly helped Enid bake gingerbread men, though she insisted on decorating them with the faces of her enemies and mutilating them.

Wednesday found herself giving in to the girl's every whim, fulfilling her every wish of the mortal experience. She was doing everything to stop herself from thinking of the inevitable.

The morning of Christmas Day, Wednesday, awoke unusually. Rather than her usual alarm, an overly excited blur of red and green dashed into her room, yelling something about Christmas morning and presents. And Wednesday… did not even feel the slightest hint of annoyance. Instead, she felt something disgusting like… fondness, as she followed Enid into the lounge, where the entire household had assembled.

They sat in a loose circle on the rug, the room aglow with soft lights and the scent of pine and sugar. Enid filled the space with unbridled joy, practically vibrating as she watched the siblings open their carefully curated presents. She clapped and gasped at each reaction, delighting in every moment as though she were memorising it.

Their tiny kitten, finally named Caligula, had developed into a small black furball of intense judgment. He had claimed a nest in the discarded paper that day, pawing at a silver bow with murderous intent.

Pugsley laughed and scooped the cat up, earning a sharp protest. “It’s trying to assassinate the ribbon again.”

“It has excellent instincts,” Wednesday replied, scratching beneath its chin as it was deposited into her lap. The cat immediately settled, kneading her pyjama pants with unapologetic possessiveness.

Enid beamed. “See? Even he knows you’re his favourite.”

“That is because I respect his capacity for violence,” Wednesday said.

Enid clapped her hands together. “Okay! Next present!”

Wednesday ended up receiving an ornate pocket knife from Enid, sharpened to absolute perfection, and a small squirrel dissection kit from Pugsley, who received a miniature functional guillotine, perfect for beheading the tiniest of enemies and a small case of hand grenades.

In her excitement, Enid almost forgot she too had gifts to open, openly tearing up as she revealed a violently pink scarf, knit crookedly and clearly by hand, with far too much fringe. Pugsely loudly announced it was stab-proof, just as Enid hugged him so hard he squeaked.

Next, from Wednesday, a simple pendant necklace of a crescent moon, purely in gold.

It’s- Wednesday, it’s beautiful,” she whispered, reverent, like she was afraid the moment might shatter if she spoke too loudly.

Embarrassment tinged her cheeks as Pugsely looked between them curiously, and she muttered something vague about it being symbolic, cursing herself as she missed the opportunity to explain its meaning. 

Pugsley eventually left, dragging Caligula with him, eagerly rushing off to test his new toy and leaving Wednesday and Enid to their strange purgatory. 

“Wednesday?” Enid said softly.

Wednesday looked up from where she sat, aimlessly toying with her new knife. Enid couldn’t have known of its symbolic meaning for Addams, though the idea still made her throat dry.

“Yes.”

Enid swallowed, then crossed the room and held out a thin package, carefully wrapped in black paper and silver string.

“This one’s from me,” she said. “And, um. I need you to read it before you say anything.”

Suspicious. Naturally.

Wednesday took it anyway.

Inside was a book, old, well-loved, the spine carefully reinforced. Eros and Psyche. 

The very same tale she had read with such interest on the 1st of December.

A marked page peeked out, folded with care. Tucked just inside the cover was a small card, handwritten in Enid’s looping script.

Wednesday read it first.

“I little esteem to see your visage in light or dark,
for you are my only light.”

She froze.

Slowly, she turned the page Enid had marked. The passage was underlined in faint pencil, reverent rather than defacing. Psyche speaking in the dark. Loving without seeing. Trusting without certainty.

Enid shifted nervously. “I know it’s not… exactly literal,” she said quickly. “But it felt right. Psyche loving Cupid before she knew him. Loving him even when she lost him. Searching anyway.”

Wednesday found herself unable to look back up at Enid, afraid of the vulnerability she might find.

“People always talk about Cupid like he’s just arrows and chaos,” Enid continued, quieter now. “But in this story? He’s the one who gets hurt. The one who has to hide. The one who loves first and risks everything.”

That made Wednesday’s fingers tighten on the page, possessed with the instinct to reach out, but restrained by doubt.

“And Psyche,” Enid added, “she doesn’t stop. Even when the gods tell her it’s impossible. Even when love costs her everything.”

Silence.

Then, carefully, Wednesday closed the book.

“You are aware,” she said evenly, “that this is a story about suffering, separation, and nearly irreversible loss.”

Enid smiled, small and sad. “Yeah. That’s why I like it.”

Wednesday finally met her eyes.

“You should not,” she said. “It ends happily only through divine interference.”

Enid’s voice softened. “Still a happy ending.”

Wednesday stood, crossed the space between them, and handed the book back, then paused. Instead of releasing it, she placed her hand over Enid’s, holding it there. She wondered if Enid knew by now, the weight of the gesture.

“This,” she said quietly, “is not a frivolous gift.”

“I know,” Enid whispered.

“You are equating yourself with Cupid,” Wednesday continued. “And me with Psyche.”

Enid’s breath hitched. “Only in the sense that-”

“That I would search,” Wednesday finished for her. “Even in darkness.”

Enid didn’t trust herself to speak.

Wednesday released the book, stepped back, and reclaimed her composure with visible effort.

“I will keep it,” she said. “And I will reread it. Frequently.”

Enid’s smile trembled. “That’s… more than I hoped for.”

Wednesday inclined her head, the closest she would come to reassurance.

What she did not say, what lodged itself silently in her chest, was far more treacherous.

I will look for you, she thought, in every star, every fleeting light, in every night’s sky that dares to exist without you.

 ❦ ➶ ❦

An odd lull of energy flooded the apartment as Wednesday watched the days helplessly slip away from her. She knew what she ought to do; she ought to at least tell Enid how she felt, not even hoping for any kind of reciprocation, but for some respite from the torturous agony it was to love in the dark, in chains of self-restraint and fear. 

She feared so deeply. Wednesday feared losing herself, just as her mother had done, giving up everything for something as frivolous as love for another person. But… she finally understood. She understood why her mother had departed the world, forever chasing the one she loved, for she could not bear to live without him. It still ached and scorched that she had not been enough for her, that her mother could not have tried to live on.

But she understood.

Time, as ever, was cruel. It pressed forward without regard, and the days ahead of them were growing scarce, each one marked, numbered, slipping away with quiet inevitability.

And Wednesday Addams, who had always believed herself immune to desperation, was running out of places to hide from it.

It had been their last day.

It was spent in odd denial, like any other, both pretending that the clock would not continue to move, or the earth continue to turn.

But as the final hour of December 31st began to tick, Wednesday could no longer bear the anticipation.

“I’ve heard the view of the fireworks is good from the balcony,” Wednesday had said quietly to Enid, and Pugsley left them well alone.

Neither of them talked about how the fireworks did not start for another hour, but they both sat down in the chill night air, leaning against the parapet wall shoulders brushing together. They talked about everything, and nothing in particular, Enid periodically turning the pendant, which had not left her neck since being gifted, over between her fingers, thumb tracing the curve of the crescent.

“Why the moon?” she asked softly. “I mean- I love it, I just… want to know.”

Wednesday did not look away.

“The moon governs things people pretend they can control,” she said. “Emotion. Desire. Attachment.”

Enid stilled.

“It does not generate its own light,” Wednesday continued, tone even. “It reflects what is given to it. Yet people navigate entire oceans by it.”

Enid swallowed.

“You were created to influence love,” Wednesday said. “To guide it. To bend it. And yet you are forbidden from keeping it.”

Her gaze flicked, briefly, to the pendant.

“The crescent is transitional,” she went on. “Neither absence nor fullness. It exists between states.”

Enid’s voice wavered. “So… that’s me.”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Gold,” Wednesday added, as if discussing metallurgy rather than devotion, “does not corrode. It persists regardless of environment or time.”

Enid’s eyes shone now, unshed tears trembling at the edges. “Wednesday…”

“You will leave,” Wednesday said plainly. “That is inevitable. But influence is not erased by departure.”

She reached out, hesitated, then adjusted the chain so the pendant lay centred over Enid’s heart.

“This,” she finished quietly, “is proof that even borrowed light leaves a permanent mark.”

Enid could no longer control the overflow of her tears, burrowing her head into the crook of Wednesday's neck, who froze momentarily at the contact before melting into it.

“I have to tell you something,” She finally said, muffled as her voice vibrated through Wednesday’s neck, causing her to shiver. She wished distantly that she could preserve that sensation.

“Yes, Enid?” Wednesday replied, carefully steady.

“Heaven,” Enid whispered. “They didn’t just… assign me to your case.”

Wednesday stiffened. “What?”

“This- this was a punishment,” Enid confessed hoarsely. “I messed up. Bad. I missed one of the most important shots of my career. On purpose.” She let out a shaky breath. “And my punishment, no, my chance at redemption, it was finding true love for the most unlovable person they could find.”

The words struck harder than Wednesday expected.

She did not flinch. But she felt it. A thin, precise ache.

“I understand,” Wednesday said quietly, though dread had begun pooling in her chest, cold and insistent. “What happens to you if you fail?”

Enid laughed weakly. “Eternal damnation, I guess. Stripped of my wings. Maybe I finally die.”

Her arms tightened.

“But I don’t care about any of that anymore.”

Wednesday closed her eyes.

“When I first got you,” Enid continued, voice trembling but resolute, “I couldn’t understand it. Why you. Why Wednesday Addams, beautiful, devastatingly sharp, terrifying, was considered the most unlovable person they knew.”

Her head lifted just enough for her to speak clearly now.

“But I know why.”

Wednesday swallowed.

“You’re afraid,” Enid said gently. “Afraid of what happened to your mother. Afraid of loving someone so completely that you disappear with them. Afraid of losing control. Of giving yourself over to something that could destroy you.”

Wednesday did not deny it.

“That’s why this didn’t work,” Enid said softly. “Not because you’re unlovable. But because you won’t let love in, even when it’s right in front of you.”

Her voice cracked.

“And I don’t care if they called you unlovable, I know you’re not. All the cupids, their idea of love is obsession and lust and madness and bullshit. I know because I-”

She faltered, breath hitching.

“You’re capable of something real. Something terrifying and steady and enduring.”

Enid pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes red but blazing with certainty.

“So many people already love you,” she whispered. “You just have to let them.”

A pause.

“You’ll be okay, Wednesday.”

Enid,” Wednesday breathed, something fragile fracturing in her voice.

All she could think of was her. All she could conceive was that this moment, this, was already slipping away. That she would never find the words to tell Enid she had fallen for her. That she might never recover from this affliction, this quiet, terminal disease of love, Enid had planted in her chest.

Abruptly, Wednesday stood, panic seizing her as though she had remembered something truly horrific.

She was going to forget.

The realisation hit with sickening clarity.

She would forget the warmth, the sound of her laugh, the precise weight of her head against Wednesday’s shoulder. Every unbearable, exquisite detail would be erased.

And that, somehow, was worse than living with Enid’s absence.

She had begun to mutter things about writing it down and making notes so she would at least recall this torturous, indelible ordeal when Enid caught her, wrenching her gently but firmly back down by the arm, hands sliding to her shoulders to steady her.

“Wednesday,” Enid said softly.

“Enid-” The words jammed in her throat. The words she needed to say lodged there, immovable.

Enid looked at her then, not with fear, not with hesitation, but with a deep, broken understanding that shattered what remained of Wednesday’s restraint.

Slowly, reverently, Enid lifted a hand and cupped Wednesday’s cheek.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

And then she closed the distance.

Wednesday shuddered into the kiss, a sharp, breathless sound escaping her as she clutched at Enid, pulling her impossibly closer. It still wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Her hands traced Enid’s jaw, memorising the curve of it, the warmth of her skin, her thumb ghosting over the faint scar she had been fixated on for weeks, as if touch alone could anchor the moment to reality.

The kiss tasted like a bitter goodbye.

And then there was nothing.

Wednesday sat alone beneath the exploding light of fireworks, colours bursting across the sky she could no longer bring herself to look at. She was unsure why she suddenly felt so cold, and why her chest ached with something hollow and incomplete. Tears slid silently down her face, baffling in their insistence.

She hadn’t cried since Nero died.

So why now, on a perfectly ordinary New Year’s Eve, did she feel as though something irrevocable had been torn from her?

She sat with that emptiness until the dawn, when Pugsley finally came to check on her, finding her asleep, trying to curl into the empty space next to her. 

 ❦ ➶ ❦

Enid wasn’t actually sure how Cupids came to be. 

Sure, she was aware of all the stories of the Cupid, his mother Venus, mighty gods who all resided within Mount Olympus. But it all seemed like ancient, forgotten history, the gods falling deeper into obscurity. If not for her own existence, Enid would have likely written off the entire thing as a myth.

And yet here she was. She doesn’t remember being born. 

One day, Enid simply was. 

Perhaps she had a life before. But it mattered not now, because she couldn’t remember anything before this burden. 

Maybe ‘burden’ was a bit harsh. Cupids existed on a plane above mortals, though she wasn’t sure if that quite made them gods, or simply just other. She certainly didn’t feel very godly, carrying out the whims of fate, flitting around the world like an obedient dog. 

Enid often wished she had a home. Somewhere she could rest her wings after a long day's work.

But Cupids didn't rest. And days were odd here, the passage of time stilted in a way that escaped her. There was never a lull in orders, and Enid never experienced physical fatigue, only her mind dulling as she carried out tasks more and more numbly.  

She also did not have much in the way of companions, as running into another Cupid was exceedingly rare. 

Being a Cupid was a solitary existence, not like she would have imagined it, being the spreader of love and all. 

Fate, as much as she hated to admit, was the being she interacted with the most, even if it was only to take orders and try not to be swayed in anger by the cryptic and vague nature of its dialogue. 

It took many forms, never quite the same one each time Enid saw it. Sometimes Fate was an old, wise man, sometimes it was an infant, sometimes it was a red string, sometimes it was a solitary arrow, something she knew exactly what to do with. 

Fate's orders could always be conveyed, no matter which form it took. 

And they were absolute.

Somewhere within the fibre of Enid’s very being, steadfast duty was hardwired, and it compelled her to obey. 

Enid’s job was rather simple in principle. 

She shot people with arrows. 

The mortal understanding of Cupids bore only a vague resemblance to what they really did.

Cupid, the bringer of love and affection, was all… well, a sham. A myth that humans took advantage of, leeching money and energy on useless sentiments. 

Mortals would be more aghast to learn what the Cupids really did. Sure, they brought about lust, maddening passion with just the slightest prick of a golden-tipped arrow. But it was never a selfless pursuit for the great power of love. 

All the arrows Enid ever let fly with a hazy compulsion were destined to bring about a greater outcome. 

Destruction. 

Wars were waged, lives pillaged and stolen, great men destroyed, even greater women lost to lesser men, pain and misery pollinating the earth.

This love was never brought about with pure intentions.

This love carried the toll of blood, soaked with that coppery, writhing scent. 

Though somewhere deep down, Enid did not consider a cupid’s love real. It lacked what real love possessed. It paled in comparison. Real love was pure, selfless, inevitable.

Love that a cupid brought about was never anything more than an infatuation, a greedy entitlement. A curse.

An excellent example would be one of Enid’s recent tasks, delivered cryptically by Fate in the form of a serpent. It saw a singular gold-tipped arrow aimed true, straight into the back of the leader of a small, remote village. The names of places escaped her… not that it would do her much good to recall them. She rarely went to the same place twice. The cruel twist of fate here was that the immediate infatuation with the first person the man laid eyes upon was with none other than the wife of his biggest political rival. 

The relentless flirtation he began eventually led to his own death at the hands of that enraged husband, who had been pushed almost to insanity by the whole affair. That man went on to become the next leader of the village, who, under his guidance, did not make it through the next winter. 

A Cupid's love was dangerous. It was truly its own calculated weapon of mass destruction.

Maddening, irresistible, love. 

Cupids were not supposed to have any opinions or strong feelings about what they did, nor were they supposed to actively seek out the truth of the aftermath. And yet Enid did, each and every time. She felt guilt in her every bone, as if it seeped into her like aching sin. With morbid detail, she catalogued each casualty in her mind. Enid wondered if fate, her only reference point for any authority, could sense the growing resentment within her, the change and shift of her willingness to take part in what was so clearly wrong. 

Despite that, the impact of Cupids through time was plain to see if you knew what to look for. Like King Edward VIII of England in 1936, a man who fell madly in love with an American socialite, and eventually chose to abdicate the throne to be with her. The next king, George VI, took his place on the throne, leading Britain through World War II. Enid had read it all while waiting for the perfect moment to shoot, in some stuffy old museum. She had found the story so poignant, she almost forgot her mission entirely. 

No, Cupids were not some new thing that had just come about, though with the current state of the mortal world, she was sure they had increased in number.

Cupids were ancient. Pulling the strings of history in plain sight, sometimes doing more harm than good. It didn't matter if you were young, old, the tiniest insect or the biggest giant. Fate had a plan for you. And mortals were at its mercy.

Enid knew she was around the mortal equivalent of 18 years old. Or perhaps she had been at one point. The passage of time as a Cupid was different; each millennium felt like a day. Enid could not age, each period which passed rendering her the exact same. Fate was the one who had granted her that small truth of her “age”. Small mercies.

Then there was the nuisance of cosmetic appearance, something which Enid could identify as her vanity. Her hair was a blond mess of jagged edges, chopped roughly into a bob, the ends split and oddly blackened.

No mortal implement could make a dent within her skin or hair, so it was a lost cause to try to change anything. Her hair would not grow or budge. It simply was, just like her. The rest of Enid was standard for a Cupid, though that’s just what she knew from Fate. She had a set of wings, powerful things, covered in pristine porcelain feathers. They were a source of pride for her, and she took extreme care with preening. 

Clothes were a similar problem, not something she could steal from the mortal dimension, and not something she could acquire anywhere else. So she was stuck in a dark, oddly charred linen gown, topped with some kind of frumpy skirt. Her feet remained bare, and it shouldn't have bothered her since she had little use for shoes. But during that time she spent watching mortals, envy pricked when she observed their attire. It was like a yearning want, frivolous and out of reach. 

Nobody would be able to see her anyway. 

Nonetheless, something in Enid was shifting. 

Enid would say it had been the very next task assigned to her by fate, which marked the start of everything going very, very wrong. Fate had come in the form of a ….. Presenting her with a singular, golden-tipped arrow. 

‘Standard, nothing unusual, ’ Enid had thought.

And she supposed it wasn't unusual. The only anomaly… turned out to be her.

The task had been going to plan. The minute the arrow entered her possession, Enid had taken flight from her current residence, a small city just out from the village, jostling nobody as she left, invisible to the mortal eye. Nobody ever saw her. Her destination was somewhere urban, and some instinct led her straight to her targets. It had been a blindingly sunny day, and there they were, a young boy and girl walking side by side. 

Her tasks usually went like this.

Step 1.

Assess the situation:

Fate always gave her the ammunition, but it was up to her to discern the purpose and who to shoot. It seemed counterintuitive, like if fate wanted things done so precisely, why did it never give specific orders? But somewhere in Enid's instinct, it made sense. Things always clicked eventually with enough observation. She didn't always like the answer. But it still made sense.

So Enid’s official assessment of this particular situation was that these two youngsters (maybe even her peers) were both the children of associated parents, maybe family friends, or perhaps something more formal. 

They both seemed about late teens, maybe early twenties. 

The boy was tall but frail-looking, with neat hair slicked back and a bespectacled face. Enid thought his demeanour was particularly nervous. 

The girl, on the other hand, had a demanding presence, inky black hair long, falling below her shoulders. On this particular day, she was wearing quite odd sunglasses. They were circular, perhaps vintage, and Enid got the impression she wore them very often, even in the shade. 

Step 2: 

Identify who needed what.

The boy already seemed plenty interested in this girl, judging by the way his eyes wandered and the increased heart rate. The girl, though, could not have been less interested if she tried. It seemed she was both oblivious and entirely indifferent to the boys' demeanour. 

So it was pretty clear… Enid needed to shoot this girl while she was looking at the unfortunate boy, sealing the deal. If she were to speculate, this was probably some kind of business-arranged relationship, though to what end Enid wasn't sure.

Step 3:

Wait for the perfect moment.

This was the part Enid both dreaded and anticipated the most. It was definitely a mixed bag. Sometimes she could overhear some pretty juicy, entertaining gossip, and that was always a bonus. But other times, it was a matter of listening to meaningless jabber for hours, always having to pay attention for fear of missing the moment. 

The perfect moment always arose, and it set something nervous whirring in Enid's gut. She would feel a shiver down her spine, and just know it was time. Nock and shoot. 

That day, it was decidedly boring. Honestly, it was kind of painful to watch that poor guy struggle through hours of conversation with someone who could not have cared less. Over coffee, he kept trying to tell her about something called… “crypto”, and how he was starting his gym journey. 

It was only after they had left that cafe, walking down the street side by side, that he suddenly stopped. Excitedly, the boy disappeared into a flower shop, coming back out with something hidden behind his back. Presenting it to her in a flourish, he revealed a singular red rose and began to obstruct the flow of foot traffic with the display. Enid felt the girl's discomfort heightened as she looked around, noticing people stopping and watching with interest. Humans were nosey like that.

And then she felt it. The shift, the shiver. 

The boy dropped to one knee, though there was no ring in sight. He offered her the rose, beginning some speech on how perfect they would be together.  

Black hair whipped as the girl recoiled violently, jerking him back up and pulling them to the side of the pavement. She huffed a sigh as an explanation began. 

“Listen, Rowan, I know you think this is what you want, but it's not. Its what our parents want. But they can't control our lives like this.”

Rowan deflated at this, the sincerity in his eyes not wavering. 

“Look, I don't care about all that. I still think we would be good together.”

“Good together? Dude, I barely know you!”

“Then get to know me. I feel like maybe you aren't interested or something.”

“Thats because I'm not. I already have a girlfriend, who I love very much.”

“If this is what our parents both want, and it's what will save our companies, then why can’t you give it a shot?”

“Screw the company! If they’re bankrupt its no fault of mine.”

“Yoko… please?” Rowan whispered, reaching his hand out to clasp Yoko’s, which hung limply by her side.

The shiver intensified, Enid shuddering at the urgency of this order. 

It was time.

 She had to do it. 

But something about this… felt very wrong.

Despite this, Enid reached behind her back, where a golden bow had suddenly materialised, numbly nocking her singular arrow. 

Twisting, Enid set her aim right into Yoko’s back as she watched Rowan plead.

She drew the string.

It was then, almost in slow motion, that she noticed Yoko raising her arms, gearing up to push Rowan away, hard. 

From this angle, Enid could see he was going to hit his head or something worse if she did not stop that from happening. Extra incentive, she thought distantly

Fate could sense her wavering. 

Somehow, it made her angry. And maybe she was tired, tired of ruining things for others. Enid could picture these two 20 years down the line, trapped in a marriage of obligation. She could imagine a faceless girl, devastated by betrayal, her love eventually curdling into scorn and bitterness. 

Her shoulders swung just the tiniest inch.

But it was enough so that as the shivering reached its peak and the compulsion forced her hand, the arrow flew true.

It missed Yoko entirely.

Instead, it buried itself deep into the back of an old man walking alone.

Step 4:

Shoot?

❦ ➶ ❦

When Enid had awoken from the sudden darkness she had found herself engulfed in after her transgression, she felt utterly disoriented. 

It appeared she was still entirely in the dark, though she could feel her wings bound tight against her back, harsh cords cutting into feather and bone. Her legs were drawn together and tethered, just enough that she could not kick, could not brace herself. 

In a swift motion, the covering from her head, some sort of bag, was yanked off, leaving Enid to squint in an attempt to adjust her eyes. The light emanating from the room she found herself in was blinding. A shining haze of pure white.

As soon as her eyes adjusted, Enid began to dart her eyes around the cavernous expanse she found herself in. She was forcibly bound to a chair at the bottom of a marble staircase, surrounded by columns held by ancient pillars. Above that sat an enormous sea of clouds, spiralling upwards into faraway heights. Upon these clouds sat a vast array of beings, all entirely different apart from the brilliant white wings which adorned their backs. Each figure wore an equally strange outfit, with almost all being in some stage of disarray. From bloody tears to some being riddled with gunshot holes, each seemed just as violent as the previous.

It made Enid reconsider the state of her own appearance. The shock of seeing so many other Cupids in one place, though, was quickly overpowered by an intense dread building in her stomach. 

It seemed the figures situated above her could not agree on anything, though, as they neglected to acknowledge her, in favour of bickering relentlessly. From somewhere behind her, a loud cough echoed out, silencing the crowd and drawing all attention back onto Enid. She felt deeply uncomfortable under the scrutiny of so many eyes. Well, most of them had eyes.

“ENID SINCLAIR.”

Enid had almost no time to adjust as a booming, disembodied voice suddenly deafened her. 

“YOU STAND IN FRONT OF THIS TRIBUNAL ACCUSED OF DELIBERATELY SHIRKING YOUR DUTIES, AND CAUSING AN UNFAVOURABLE CHAIN REACTION.”

The voice had an authoritative quality, and Enid instantly felt herself shrinking into her seat. One micro movement, and she had doomed herself to a life worse than death. 

“YOUR DEFENCE?”

At this cue, a small cherub stepped out from behind her legs, causing her to jump slightly as she hadn’t sensed the presence. His voice was a nasal squeak as he rearranged a few papers in his tiny grip, not exactly what she would have wanted in her defence.

“Enid Sinclair, though she did fail to shoot Yoko Tanka and has thus doomed the future of both Tanaka Defence Systems and Lasow Armoury Group, did not do so intentionally !”

Turning her head in indignation, Enid peered over her legs at the Cherub, trying to signal to him with her eyes that he wasnt exactly selling her.

“I mean, we’re talking about a new level, rookie Cupid here. Respectfully, if this mission was so crucial for the next war, why did fate assign it to someone like her?” 

Now he was insulting her abilities? Enid wasn’t above kicking a-

“Everyone’s been a new Cupid, shaky while aiming and missing an important shot.” Her lousy defence interrupted that particular thought, “ Why punish her harshly when you could correct the behaviour and end up with a much more efficient Cupid? I propose only 1 month of agricultural work”

One of the older tribunal members finally spoke out at this, as the room gasped in disbelief. He was a red-faced, stocky man, hair slicked back with a single gorey hole in the side of his head.

“1 month?? Is this a joke? We had a lot riding on this war! 1 month is nothing compared to the amount of work it will take to fix this.”

“That’s right!” Another Cupid spoke out indignantly. “The chain reaction of this event is going to be a major pain. The least we could expect is some kind of serious punishment.”

“Yeah!” a hulking Cupid snapped, springing to his feet. His toga was singed at the hem, one wing noticeably shorter than the other. “Do you have any idea how many probability threads snapped the moment that arrow missed?

“Oh, please,” scoffed a willowy Cupid lounging sideways on a cloud, working away at her nails with a glowing file. “You always exaggerate. Last time you said a baker marrying the wrong man would cause the fall of Rome.”

“And I was off by only twelve years,” he shot back.

A third voice chimed in, nasal and annoyed. “Can we focus? This isn't about what might happen. This is about accountability.” He gestured vaguely at Enid. “She failed a direct fate assignment.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’ve never failed one,” another tribunal member muttered. “I still remember Napoleon. Europe got a decade of wars instead of a settled marriage because someone sneezed mid-shot.”

“That was allergies!” came the furious reply. “And for the record, ambition outruns affection.”

The stocky, red-faced Cupid slammed a fist down, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. “Enough! This isn’t storytime. Two major arms manufacturers were supposed to be joined and a key factor in the defence of the United States in the next war. Do you know how much reworking this will require to replace them??”

“Ugh,” groaned someone from the back. “War cleanup is the worst. The paperwork alone-”

“-and the mortal guilt prayers,” another added. “They reek.”

The cherub defender cleared his throat loudly, flipping through his papers with exaggerated seriousness. “All valid points, esteemed members, but let’s remember: she didn’t defect, she didn’t rebel, she just… shot the wrong person”

“Has anyone looked into that by the way?” A small voice questioned from somewhere, though it was quickly buried by more muttering

“-she hesitated,” the cherub finished. “A rookie mistake.”

“A rookie mistake with intercontinental consequences,” the stocky Cupid growled.

“The room erupted again, voices overlapping:

“She needs discipline!”
“She needs guidance!”
“She needs glasses!”
“Hey, my eyesight’s fine-”

Enid sat frozen as the argument spiralled, the fate of wars and lives reduced to bickering that sounded suspiciously like coworkers arguing over lunch breaks.

Above it all, the disembodied voice boomed once more.

“ORDER.”

Silence possessed the room instantly.

“THIS TRIBUNAL WILL DECIDE A PUNISHMENT FITTING THE SEVERITY OF THE CONSEQUENCES.”

Enid swallowed hard.

“And,” the voice added, with something almost like irritation, “ONE THAT DOES NOT INVOLVE AGRICULTURAL DUTY AGAIN. THE CLOUD FIELDS ARE STILL RECOVERING FROM THE LAST ‘LENIENT SENTENCE.’”

The cherub winced. “In my defence… the corn situation was unforeseeable.”

“REGARDLESS. ENID SINCLAIR, HOW DO YOU PLEAD?”

Her throat was bone-dry, burning as she swallowed, buying herself a moment to think. If this truly was the end, there was no point in lying now.

“I admit it,” Enid said quietly. “I missed the shot. But not because I hesitated.”

A hush fell over the chamber.

“I chose not to take it.”

Shock rippled through the tribunal, sharp and immediate.

“You mean to tell us,” the red-faced Cupid said slowly, disbelief etched into his expression, “that you willfully disobeyed Fate’s directive?”

“Yes,” Enid replied, her voice trembling but resolute. “But I had a reason.”

“And what reason,” a voice demanded from the clouds, dripping with disdain, “could possibly justify that?”

She swallowed again.

“Love.”

“Love?”

The word barely left her mouth before the chamber erupted. Laughter rolled like thunder, faces twisting from astonishment into open mockery. Enid’s unease deepened, her wings straining uselessly against their bindings.

“Yes,” she pressed on, forcing the words out through the noise. “If I had fired that arrow, I would have condemned two people to a loveless marriage, stripped them of their autonomy. Ruined an existing loving relationship! I couldn’t do that.”

The laughter only grew louder, harsher, echoing endlessly against marble and cloud.

“Love?” someone scoffed between laughs.

“You believe in that?” another jeered.

The red-faced Cupid leaned forward, his grin cruel and patronising.

“You believe in what humans call love?” he said. “Oh, dear, sweet summer child.”

His smile vanished.

“You’re a fool.”

The condescension hit Enid like a slash of icy water. For a moment, she struggled to form a response, then something raw and furious surged up, drowning out her fear.

“Look, yeah,” she snapped, lifting her chin despite the restraints. “I think love is real. Obviously not this disgusting, dangerous infatuation you force onto people, but real love. The natural kind. I know it exists.”

A murmur of disapproval rippled through the tribunal.

“Miss Sinclair,” intoned one of the elder Cupids, his voice smooth and merciless, “mortals themselves are disgusting and dangerous creatures; we all should be a prime example of just what they can do. They are not capable of real love; they are greedy and ruinous beings.”

Enid clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. She didn’t bother responding to that. She was far too angry to dignify it with thought.

The clouds above shifted. The disembodied voice returned, heavier now, contemplative.

“YOU CLAIM TO BELIEVE IN TRUE LOVE.”

“Yes,” Enid said immediately. “I do.”

“VERY WELL.”

The tribunal leaned forward as one.

“IF LOVE IS AS PURE AND POWERFUL AS YOU INSIST, THEN YOU SHALL PROVE IT.”

A suffocating pause rang out.

“YOU WILL BE GIVEN ONE MONTH.”

Enid’s breath caught.

“ONE MONTH,” the voice repeated, “TO FIND TRUE LOVE FOR ONE MORTAL.”

A figure was conjured above her, a distorted silhouette, vague but unmistakably human. She thought she could just about make out two braids from the image. The tribunal’s expressions curled with cruel amusement.

“THE MOST UNLOVABLE ONE WE CAN FIND.”

A low chuckle spread through the chamber.

“NO ARROWS. NO MANIPULATION. NO INTERFERENCE FROM FATE.”

The voice dropped, cold and final.

“IF YOU SUCCEED, YOUR SENTENCE WILL BE RECONSIDERED.”

The bindings around Enid’s wings tightened, just enough to make her gasp.

“IF YOU FAIL,” the voice continued, “YOU WILL BE PERMANENTLY STRIPPED OF YOUR WINGS, YOUR TITLE, AND YOUR PLACE AMONG US.”

Silence followed.

Then a poignant question.

“DO YOU STILL BELIEVE IN LOVE, ENID SINCLAIR?”

Enid didn’t even pause before blurting out her answer. 

“Yes”

❦ ➶ ❦

When she next opened her eyes, Enid found herself back in the mortal world, every sensation acutely alive, every nerve tingling, and fate tugging insistently at her, guiding her toward her mission. Discovering her new abilities had been a delight: teleportation, dissipation, and, best of all, the outfit changes! Gosh, she had tried so many, finally shedding that charred, chaotic look for something… contemporary, stylish even.

And then she had met Wednesday Addams. Now she understood why heaven had assigned her this one. But this task was different from any she had known before. Here, she had freedom. Freedom to choose. Freedom to do things the right way.

The only problem: this icy beauty had no intention of loving, or even attempting to love, anyone. Barely convinced of cooperation, let alone participation, she left Enid no choice but to take more creative measures. It wasn’t exactly what she was asked to do… but it was what she told herself was best. Until Joel.

That day, Enid had been watching, curiously, the strange synergy between Wednesday and Joel as Wednesday looked at him with warmth and respect. It should have satisfied her. It should have been the very thing she had been working toward. Instead, it left a sour bitterness in her mouth. Before she even realised it, she had replaced Joel at the table, sitting next to an army-precision machine. Why? Things had been going so well, without interference. Why had she ruined it?

For days, she stewed over the question before finally reaching the unfortunate answer: she had replaced Joel because she wished it were her. Somehow, in a matter of weeks, she had begun to feel something for Wednesday. Typical, really, she had fallen for her mission.

So she tried to rectify it. She could suppress it, help Joel win the girl, and fly off to an eternity of obeying fate’s will. That was how it was meant to be.

She tried. But Wednesday was impossible.

Enid had been dumbfounded by her anger, unable to comprehend what she had done wrong, until the truth was laid bare. Despite her loathing of the ways of the cupid, she had done exactly what they did: forcing her agenda onto others to get what she wanted. How had she missed it?

Shame consumed her. She hid for days, only reemerging when confronted with a harsh truth about Wednesday’s nature. Fear held that girl hostage, fear of being loved, fear of loving too deeply. 

That day when Wednesday had clung to her, Enid thought it might be etched into her skin for eternity by the way she remembered her softly shaking, her slow breathing and desperate hold.

Enid had tried to push it down, to spare Wednesday from her treachery. That was why she had pushed her away. She knew where Wednesday’s path would lead; she had even seen her interact with Tyler.

One last time, she tried to make it work. Pull the strings, give Wednesday the happy ending she deserved. And it should have worked. But it didn’t.

At that moment, seeing the painful beauty of Wednesday’s sheer black dress, Tyler awkwardly holding her close, swaying to the music, she lost it. Dissipated. Ran. Watched Wednesday wait for her outside for almost an hour, until Tyler finally joined her.

Then a voice broke through from behind.

“Enid dear, aren’t you pleased?”

It was new. A presence fate had yet to claim. A woman emerged, pale and magnificent, clad in flowing black silk. Her hair framed her face like liquid night. She extended a single, golden-tipped arrow toward Enid, and the bow materialised at her back.

This was it. Her one true shot. Her only redemption.

Enid notched the arrow, drawing back the string, aiming at Wednesday’s back as she faced Tyler, explaining her gift with the intensity Enid herself had instilled. Just release it. And it would all be over.

She could not. Would not.

Then a shove sent her sprawling, releasing the arrow, yet somehow it rebounded, striking her right in the chest. Unblinking, she stared at her girl, still engrossed in conversation with Tyler, and Enid realised she felt no different than she had a moment before.

It was then that Enid accepted her fate: doomed to love Wednesday Addams, doomed by fate itself. To love without holding, to yearn without touch.

She threw herself into the facade of Christmas, trying to survive without breaking. But Wednesday had a way of making her lose control.

It had been an odd experience…. Fading out of mortal existence. She was glad Wednesday hadn’t felt it. For her, she had been simply there one second, and then gone forever. For Enid, it had been slow, agonisingly slow. 

And then there had been darkness once more.

The end was near.

❦ ➶ ❦

Enid expected to be back at the courts, ridiculed by the cupids galore and stuck with her trashy cherub lawyer who secretly hated her, but instead she was dumped in a rather grand office. Blinking against the sterile light, she took in the tidy little room with a polished wooden desk and the two strangely familiar figures seated behind it.

The woman fate had once assumed, tall, elegant, dressed in flowing black, watched her with an intensity that made Enid’s stomach twist. Beside her, a man in a sharply tailored suit twirled a pen between his fingers, grinning in a way that made her uneasy.

“Enid,” the woman said, her voice smooth, almost hypnotic. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Enid froze. “You have…”

“Yes, you were tasked with finding true love, for one impossible mortal”

“But I… failed.”

“Did you?” The man leaned forward, eyes bright, amused. “You think you ruined everything. But perhaps… not.”

Enid’s eyebrows knitted together. “Not? But I let my feelings get in the way! I interfered! I-”

The woman’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “And in doing so, you revealed something neither you nor she could see.”

“I-I don’t follow,” Enid whispered, shaking her head. “I thought… I thought I failed.”

The man leaned back, twirling the pen like a conductor with an invisible orchestra. “Failure is subjective. In your meddling, the truth… surfaced.”

Enid’s stomach twisted. “The truth?”

“Yes,” the woman said softly, leaning forward just enough to make the words feel like a secret being shared. “The love Wednesday has been avoiding, denying, your interference… made it possible for her to face it.”

Enid stared at them, disbelieving. “You mean… I helped her… find love?”

“Precisely,” the man said, smiling wider now, though still enigmatic. “Only it wasn’t with Joel or Tyler. It was… you.”

Enid shook her head, a laugh slipping out that was half-nervous, half-panicked. “Me? But I’m not… I’m not supposed to-she-”

“You’re not supposed to?” The woman tilted her head, intrigued. “Perhaps that’s exactly why it worked. Fate has a way of hiding the obvious in plain sight. You thought you were meddling, but you were… illuminating.”

Enid slumped back in her chair, feeling both dizzy and light at once. “So… it wasnt all meaningless?”

“Not meaningless,” the man said. “Necessary. You were the catalyst for her realising what she’s been afraid to admit for years. You, Enid, were the answer she couldn’t find anywhere else.”

Enid’s mouth went dry. “…I still don’t get it. How… how is that possible?”

The woman’s smile softened, almost wistful. “Hearts are rarely logical, dear. They are… strange, and sometimes it takes a storm to show the calm.”

Enid exhaled slowly, still unsure if she was dreaming or if heaven itself had a sense of humour. “So… what now?”

“Enid, do you know how Cupids come to be?”

“No.”

“A cupid is born when someone dies the victim of their own love. They are cursed to carry out the will of fate… until someone loves them in return.”

Enid froze. “…Wait… so I-?”

The man’s expression darkened slightly, though his smile remained faintly wry. “You were killed. Betrayed by the man your parents had betrothed you to. He sowed seeds of doubt and suspicion around the town, eventually accusing you of being a witch. Unfortunately… the seventeenth century was not forgiving.”

Enid’s mouth went dry. Her mind tried to protest, to argue, to deny, but the weight of it pressed down like centuries of dust on a coffin. “…And that made me a cupid?”

“Yes,” the woman said softly. “Your heartbreak, your death, the love that consumed you, it became your burden. Your purpose. Until you could learn, through others, what true love is… and perhaps, find it for yourself.”

“And… this mission? I…”

“Yes, you, Enid Sinclair, have learned the meaning of true love, to sacrifice, to mourn, to forgive. And thus I grant you a choice.”

The woman’s dark eyes glimmered. “You can remain a cupid. You can continue to serve fate, helping others, guiding hearts. You can be… essential, eternal. Immortal in purpose.”

“And the other choice?” Enid asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Mortality,” the man said. “You can return to the world of the living. You can have a life of your own, free will… even with the pain, the uncertainty, the messiness of human love. But it will be finite. Fragile. Full of risk.”

“Which do you choose, Enid Sinclair?”

❦ ➶ ❦

Wednesday Addams awoke as she always did on January 13th, to the shrill blare of Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique. The music did little to rejuvenate her, but awaken she did, eyes flicking open to the familiar grey light of her room.

She stared at the wall for a moment, expression blank, missing the end of the first movement entirely. Panic set in as she realised Pugsley was already up, likely plotting to dump the snakes on her.

She reached the door first, startling him. Snakes tumbled back onto his own lap, and he grumbled something about “two bites” as he scrambled to save himself. Wednesday, as usual, remained unimpressed.

She moved through her morning routine almost mechanically, restarting the symphony on her iPod as she ate breakfast. A pink mug she didn’t remember buying caught her eye, and the sticky notes on the fridge, strangely cheerful, made her frown. Pugsley must have put them up, she guessed, as some twisted joke.

Wednesday made sure to feed their kitten, Caligula, breakfast before leaving, reaching down to scratch his ears and frowning at the sad mewl he let out.

Her worn copy of Eros and Psyche was tucked into her bag as she followed Pugsley to the car, and once seated in the passenger side, her mind drifted into its usual daze.

The first real interruption of her day came in the form of Agnes, her devout follower, who had returned from an expensive family ski trip, one she had been on since about mid December.

“It’s so nice to see Rainbow Barbie gone, isn’t it?” Agnes sighed contentedly as she spotted Wednesday alone.

“Who?” Wednesday asked, her tone flat.

“I know, right! She’s so last year.”

Wednesday considered the girl for a long moment, then chose to ignore the drivel entirely. Retreating back to the library to read, she settled into the comforting embrace of books, where the world made a little more sense, or at least, less sense than the chaos outside.

Eros and Psyche rested on her lap as her fingers traced the familiar words, the weight of the book grounding her in the quiet hum of the room.

A note in the margin caught her eye, almost buried in the printed text:

"It is love, not fate, that must guide her hand."

She blinked. Neat, careful handwriting. She frowned slightly and set it aside—curious, maybe, but unconcerned. Probably a previous owner’s prank, or an old annotation she hadn’t noticed before.

She flipped the page.

Another note.

"The heart sees what the eyes cannot."

Strange, but not so odd.

She flipped again.

A third note:

"She who fears love will always find herself in its path."

Her chest tightened, though she didn’t let it show. That phrasing, precise, certain, knowing, felt oddly familiar. Strange. She set the book down for a moment, leaning back, eyes narrowing.

Flip. Another page.

"Sometimes it is the one who leaves who teaches us how to return."

Wednesday froze as something inside her clicked, the sudden, impossible clarity of memory rushing in like a flood. Moments she had thought lost, feelings she had buried, all rushing back in fragments. The laughter, the chaos, the presence she hadn’t realised she’d been waiting for.

She was on her feet in a flash, book slipping from her hands. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to act. Enid was out there somewhere. Gone, maybe lost forever, maybe… in some eternal damnation she could not allow.

She burst through the library doors, the cold January air biting her cheeks, wind whipping her dark hair. And there, across the courtyard, framed against the bare winter trees and grey sky, she saw her.

Enid. Standing on the edge of the fountain, one hand raised as if balancing herself against fate itself, the other clutching her coat. The same fountain where she had first confronted her, reprimanded her.

She was impossible, radiant, fragile and defiant all at once. And she was real.

Wednesday’s chest tightened. She ran. Every step echoed with urgency, fear, and something she hadn’t dared to name.

“Enid!” she called, her voice carrying across the empty courtyard, sharp and insistent.

Enid turned, startled, eyes wide, and for a moment, time froze. The wind tugged at her hair, the world around them disappeared, and all that remained was the impossible, undeniable truth between them.

Wednesday skidded to a stop a few feet away, breath ragged, heart hammering, mind racing. “…Enid,” she said again, quieter this time, almost a whisper, but weighted with every unspoken thought, every memory, every fragment of feeling she had buried.

Enid’s gaze met hers, tentative, questioning, and in that charged silence, Wednesday realised that she wasn’t alone in remembering, in burning. She wasn’t the only one who had waited.

She seemed a little different to Wednesday,  More… solid. Anchored. She no longer glowed, not literally, but there was still something radiant about her, something warm and unyielding that refused to fade.

“Are you real,” Wednesday asked softly, “or a figment of my imagination?”

The question escaped before she could stop it, stripped of sarcasm, raw and unguarded. She was vaguely aware of the déjà vu, but she didn’t care.

Enid smiled, slow, careful, familiar in a way that made Wednesday’s chest ache.

“Oh, I’m very real,” she said, a hint of playfulness threading through her voice. “I swear on my wings.”

“You don’t have wings,” Wednesday replied, studying her with surgical focus. This time, there was no teasing, only sincerity.

“Nope.” Enid swallowed, then squared her shoulders. “I’m… human. I guess. You’re stuck with me. If you’ll have me.”

The world seemed to narrow. The courtyard, the cold, the distant sounds of Nevermore, all of it fell away. Wednesday stepped closer, slowly, deliberately, as if approaching something volatile. Something precious.

“You left,” Wednesday said quietly. Not an accusation. A truth.

“I know,” Enid replied. “And I came back.”

That was enough.

Wednesday reached out, fingers curling into the fabric of Enid’s coat as if grounding herself in proof. Then she kissed her, careful at first, restrained even now, but unmistakably real. When Enid kissed her back, warmth spread through Wednesday’s chest, unfamiliar and terrifying and perfect.

When they parted, Wednesday rested her forehead against Enid’s, breath unsteady.

“I do not love easily,” she said, voice low, unwavering. “Nor lightly. I tried to exorcise you. Purge the curse you’ve placed on me. But the mark you have left on me is indelible, Sinclair. I can’t forget you.”

Enid let out a breathless laugh.

Wednesday lifted her gaze, dark eyes intense, resolute.
“I love you,” she said simply. “I believe I always have. I merely lacked the vocabulary and the courage to admit it.”

Enid’s eyes shone. She smiled, radiant in a way no divinity could rival.

“Good,” she said softly. “Because I love you too. And I choose you, every time.”

Wednesday’s fingers tightened slightly, possessive, certain.
“Then,” she replied, “stay.”

And Enid extended her pinky finger out, something that was quickly accepted, and vowed to never leave her side, until the inevitability of death, in some distant, far-off future, pulled them apart.

“If you saw me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me, but all I ask of you is to love me. I would rather you would love me as an equal than adore me as a god.”
― Apuleius