Wenclair One-Shots

if she grabs for your hand (she might want a kiss)

Summary:

"How long have you known you've liked girls?"

Enid smiles. It reaches her eyes, and Wednesday's heart does a little flip where it's beating erratically in her ribcage.

"How long have you been at Nevermore again?" she jokes with a tilt of her head.

or

enid has a mild lesbian panic and first kisses follow

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Enid has been pacing their room for what feels like hours. Wednesday's sure she's going to create a hole in the floor, and as much fun as it would be to watch her fall through it, Wednesday doesn't want to have to deal with being forced out of her room while they patch the hole up.

Enid's probably the only person in this entire school she'd be okay rooming with.

Not that she'd ever tell her that, but it's true. It's mild torture, being assaulted by bright colors and shitty pop tunes, but Wednesday's yet to meet an unpleasant situation she hasn't already requested as a birthday party.

Watching Enid's anxiety practically bleed onto the floor, though, is just annoying.

That's not nearly as fun as torture.

She's been off for the past few days. At first, Wednesday didn't think anything of it. Enid had enough emotions for the entire town of Jericho. When they first met, Wednesday was certain the over-eagerness, the genuine flush of her laughter tinting her cheeks pink, the unnecessary amount of friendliness was going to drive her into an early grave.

It's not that she's fond of it now, because it's still irritating, but she hates it a lot less. On days when she pushes one too many of Enid's buttons and it sends her stomping to Yoko's room, she can admit that it's...lonely. In a way she never thought loneliness could feel.

There's an ache in her chest when she looks at her. There's an ache that feels traitorously unlike a stab wound, and a lot more like a sunburn. Like something red-flushed along the high points of her cheeks, warm and inviting, tender to the touch.

Wednesday's had crushes before. Of course she has. She might have what some would call homicidal tendencies and a penchant for the bizarre and occult, but, unfortunately, she's still a sixteen year old girl.

It's never been as bad as the one she has on Enid, though. Maybe because it's her first crush on a girl. Maybe it's because it's kind of impossible not to get dragged into Enid's orbit. A blinding, rainbow colored gravitational pull.

So, yes, her pacing is driving Wednesday mad, not just because the sound of her sneakers against the creaky hardwood is aggravating, but because Wednesday kind of, sort of can't stand when she's upset.

"Quit that," she mutters. She's been staring at the blank sheet of paper in her typewriter for the better part of an hour. Words aren't working, she's too distracted.

Stupid girls with cotton candy colored hair.

How life ruining.

Enid, uncharacteristically, stops immediately. "Sorry," she mumbles. Wednesday looks at her over her shoulder, Enid fiddling with the hem of her sweater. It's pink with red hearts, she finished it last night. The crochet stitches are a little uneven. Wednesday watches as Enid twirls a loose thread of yarn around her finger.

She turns around fully, staring at the wolf, unblinking.

She sighs, put-upon.

"What's wrong?"