Young and in Love - Wenclair

your lips my lips, apocalypse

What an insipid, pathetic, ignorant display of humanity.

Really- humans have braved war, the seven seas, survived plagues and famine and created weapons of mass destruction.

And yet Wednesday Addams, for the life of her, could not stop staring at Enid.

She feels nauseated- watching as Enid sleeps on her side of the room. It was a full moon, but thankfully, the giant puppy had managed to taper down her transformations and control them, so she wasn't as affected by the woman in the sky. But alas, the moonlight still affected Enid.

Because the way it was reflecting onto her nauseating coloured glass pane was bathing her in this kaleidoscope of colour that made her look ethereal- like something out of a very old painting where the canvas was rough and furling at the edges.

She was... beautfiul.

She screws her eyes shut in a bid to relieve the flush coming over her from ivory cheeks tinted pinks and blonde hair looking bathed in fire, and swallows down the bile threatening to rise.

How desperately sad to be so enamoured by one, idiotic person?

Her spine was ridgid, wooden.

Ophelia hall was her nightmare. But sweet, Enid was her dreams incarnate.
The ones she keeps buried deeper than even she can reach- that have been piled upon by morbid fantasies and mystery fetishization.

Enid wasn't an idiot. She wasn't a person.

She was smart. She was Wednesdays person.

It was 1:18 am, and Thing had fallen asleep like a cat at the foot of Enid's bed. He adored her. So why couldn't she allow herself to? Why did she have to brush Enid's affections off day in day out, and as soon as she slept, watched and wished for nothing more. For nothing other than to be celebrated and touched the way only Enid knew how to. Like she was a prize- a trophy of some kind.

She worshipped Wednesday like she worshiped the moon.

Maybe she realized it belatedly. Maybe she should have told her how she felt before. That she was proud. That she was there through blood and tears. Would clean the wounds that littered the Lycan's heart- from her parents, and Wednesday, herself.

She wished to adore her.

She couldn't tell her so. She hadn't the courage, or bravery that Enid had tenfold- she hadn't the latent power to make her something with her bare hands until her bones ached, like a house that Enid could make into the home she never had. Filled with the gratuitous devotion from all that supported and cared for her.

A gift wouldn't do it. She couldn't buy all the diamonds or private isles to adequately prove her love.

Love.

It burned in her throat and burrowed into her chest cavity to take up home, sending waves of warmth flooding her veins and frying every nerve with an earth-shattering tingle. Her head felt hot. Her skin was flushed.

Love. That was it.

That was this gnawing feeling she could not comprehend nor control- and there were things she loved in the world. Two were sleeping soundly across her, most sharing her genetic composition and—

Her typewriter. Her writing. Her words. She could not speak them- but she could write them.

Moving deftly to not make a sound, she sits at her typewriter. Stares. Wiggles her fingers in the air like weaving a web. She nods, slowly and surely, placing her fingers on the keys and letting her heart speak for her.

Dear Enid.

When I first met you, I was under the presumption I detested you like the moon hates the sun. How a cat hates a dog. But that isn't hate, at all, is it? Those animals contrast beautifully. Soft and coarse, black and white, withdrawn and self-assured.