Wenclair One-Shots

i'm your garbageman (Part 1/3)

Summary:

"No, it's much worse than that," Wednesday said. She looked down, gaze focusing intently on the corner of Enid's bed. "It concerns ... feelings."

She bit out the word like a child attempting to chew and swallow a Brussels sprout. Enid had the instinct to laugh, but she didn't dare.

-

Or, Wednesday has a crush, and so she goes to Enid for help.

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Wednesday didn't practise cello when Enid was in their room. At least, she didn't before.

Enid found that if she was very still, and very quiet, that Wednesday would almost pretend she wasn't there. She'd sit in front of her music stand and pull out her rosin-thick bow and torture something truly mournful from the strings with her nimble fingertips.

Wednesday wasn't shy. That was something she and Enid had in common. She had no trouble publicly demonstrating a skill she'd perfected (and she'd shown off several since starting at Nevermore, to an annoying degree). But she had that notion of herself, that flawless obsidian perfection that she needed to broadcast to the world: Wednesday Addams didn't make mistakes.

So no, it wasn't the broad swells of sound, notes hopping and crashing, Wednesday's fingers dancing over strings with deadly precision that made Enid burst into exuberant (though carefully silenced) schoolgirl grins—those were the kinds of things she played on the balcony for all to hear. It was when Wednesday's hands stumbled, bow tearing through a quaver recklessly. When Wednesday took a breath, repositioned her hands, and began the piece again.

It was that shade of difference between performance and practise. Enid had settled herself comfortably, and hopefully quite permanently, into Wednesday's life. It was probably the greatest thing to happen to her. Like, ever .

"What do you have to be smiling about?" Wednesday asked, as flatly as if she was stating a fact. Her hand sat perched over the strings, as if she was about to restart the line she had fumbled over just before.

"What? You can't even see me," Enid said back, not bothering to school her expression. "You're facing the wall right now, like you always are."

"Well, your side of the room looks like a My Little Pony vomited all over it, like it always does. I'm simply protecting my eyesight." Wednesday punched out a few bars to punctuate her quip. "Besides, I don't need to look. Your smiles are ... noxious. I can smell them like I can smell rancid, maggot-ridden meat."

Erin's grin cracked wider and she looked away from Wednesday, opting to stare up at her ceiling. "You like the smell of rancid meat."

Wednesday's bow flew, drawing out a few quick, trembling notes. She herself was silent.

—

It was the greatest thing to happen to Enid, ever, until it wasn't. There had to be a moment when she regretted earning Wednesday's trust, and being the only person at Nevermore so far to manage it, because she could never have anything good.

She was hunched over her laptop on her bed, makeup off and clad in a lumpy green sweater she refused to wear out of the comfort of her dorm room. She was editing her most recent post, a hard-hitting critical analysis of the Y2K fashion resurgence, when Wednesday appeared at the foot of her bed.

This was just sort of how she arrived places, having travelled in deathly silence, with a look on her face that screamed some kind of murderous intent. Enid was proud to say it no longer made her totally jump out of her skin.