Listen to Me Now // Wenclair

One

The first thing Enid noticed as she walked into the room was Wednesday—or, in this case, the lack thereof. Her desk was abandoned, papers scattered carelessly to the side and crumpled; some stuffed in a trash can that was just on the brink of overflowing. Nothing too uncommon for the average board schoolgoer, but if Enid knew anything about Wednesday, then it was only common sense that the young Addams couldn't be deemed as anything close to "average" in any way, shape, or form. To Enid, it seemed off; Wednesday was never this unorganized, perfection and neatness being something that the goth practically thrived in, right next to torture and necromancy.

Then there was Thing who, similarly to Wednesday, was absent in their shared room. Though Enid knew that the hand had a life of its own, much like any sentient creature, it felt off-putting, its presence something that the werewolf had adapted to; Thing having almost always been there to greet her once her classes had ended. Now, in the buzzing silence of the room, the insistent tapping of its fingers seemed to be nothing more than a ghost; a faint whisper in her imagination.

And then, there was the cool draft that she felt in the room—far different from the hot, stuffy air that she usually associated with Ophelia Hall—as well as the now-present and ever-growing hum of a cello's song; a symphony of solitude and forlorn; a requiem of death. It was something that, on any other day, would be what lulled her to sleep, the sound of Wednesday's powerful notes making her body relax and putting her at ease after a long afternoon of studying and drama. A part of her wanted to do nothing more than just that—lie back on her bed and allow the ghostly orchestra to swallow her; wrap around her like a blanket as it eased her into the depths of sleep. But she knew that there could be no more putting off what had been playing in her mind for the past few hours; something that Enid had wanted so desperately to get off her chest.

The more she thought about it, the stranger it felt, the light flutters in her stomach almost matching the crescendos in Wednesday's music outside. It had taken an absurdly long talk with Yoko and Bianca (yes, Bianca—despite how ridiculous it may seem, the two outcasts had slowly gotten on better terms with each other ever since the last semester's undead pilgrim fiasco), to make Enid realize just what it was that made her roommate the captivating divinity that the werewolf made her out to be; just what it was that made her realize that there was something far greater at play behind the butterflies in her stomach than the intensity (and slight charm) of a tired and brooding gaze.

It felt almost childish; Enid had gone into the dorm to spill her heart out to her roommate ("rip the bandaid off" as the ever-so-wise Yoko had put it), but as she stood in the room, staring almost helplessly out the window, she could only hold back a whimper at the passing thought—a very real worry—of being rejected. She had never once before feared such an outcome—when she had asked Ajax out only a few months prior, she had been well aware of the possible turndown. But, at that moment—in those few seconds that she blurted out those words—she didn't fear it. Even when she had been dropping hints, the fear had never felt as prominent as it did now; staring out the window, watching Wednesday's faint figure move her arms fluidly as she forced the music out of each chord.

It took Enid a moment, allowing herself to take in a breath of air, courage filling up her lungs before she walked towards the window. The door that led to the balcony was already pushed open, though only slightly, but it still made an easier exit for the werewolf to sneak outside. The air was cool, almost chilly, against Enid's skin, though the instrumental hum of a song Enid quickly recognized to be Freak—one of the many songs that Enid had presented to the goth woman and, seemingly, succeeded to catch said woman's engagement—caused for the blonde's ears to perk, her attention now and well caught. Enid smiled warmly, her heart fluttering in her chest at the thought that Wednesday had taken the time and effort to practice something Enid had shown her—something that, at the time, Enid had given no second thought to. She was careful not to disturb the cellist as she slowly made her way to the opposite railing, watching blissfully as Wednesday moved the bow with practice and precision. It was enchanting.