Wenclair One-Shots

Kiss and Tell

Summary:

It's drafty in their new dorm room.

The only way to stay warm is by sharing body heat.

———————

"Wednesday," she whines, the grating sound of her high-pitched voice a ruder awakening than any early morning summer sunrise. "Wednesday, it's freezing." 

"It's winter," Wednesday corrects, eyes still stuck stubbornly shut. "The cold is good for you. It'll help you assimilate to your eternal slumber, six feet underground where the frost is much more unforgiving."

Now go back to sleep, she'd like to add, but she's been challenging herself to say more with less lately. It's something she'd like to infuse into her writing, and she figures real life is the best place to start. It's more impressive to be concise, and then let the reader find satisfaction in piecing the puzzle together on their own. Only idiots need every complexity explained to them, which is not Wednesday's desired audience.

Enid is no idiot, but she certainly isn't one to pick up on subtleness, either. Despite Wednesday's fairly obvious dismissal, her presence is still looming over the bed. She hasn't budged even an inch.

"Unless you prefer cremation, that is."

Enid whimpers. "I don't want to be nothing but ash."

Wednesday flicks an eyelid open at that, inspecting her roommate's expression. Enid's face is open and sincere, big blue eyes hiding between fluttering lashes. There's a touch of fear to her, and Wednesday has always found any sort of fear at least a little alluring. Perhaps that's why she hasn't jumped out of bed yet to banish Enid back to her side of the bedroom.

"C'mon," she mumbles, tightening the blanket around her shoulders and giving a little shiver for effect. "Move over. We can share body heat."

Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "I'd rather have the threads of your rainbow book bag sewn into my skin."

"You're so dramatic, Wednesday," she exclaims, ignoring the dig. "I know for a fact that you're cold, too. You're literally always wearing a sweater. Play corpse all you want, but you're still human and at this rate we'll both get frostbite."

"Dying from exposure is actually in my top five ways to go," Wednesday muses. "Quiet. Slow." And, with a little luck, solitary.

"Yeah, well I'm not planning on dying tonight and neither are you," Enid says firmly. "Now move over."

Just to be perverse, Wednesday retreats less than a quarter of an inch deeper into her bed. The intention, of course, was that there wasn't nearly enough space for another person to fit, but puppy-brained Enid views it as a full invitation. She dives into the gap on the bed, eliciting a soundless gasp from Wednesday as she rushes to press her back against the wall to keep space between them.

"You're being ridiculous," she hisses. "And you're absolutely scorching, by the way. I'm not entertaining this facade of frostbite for even another second."

Among the many not-so-charming quirks Wednesday has discovered about her new dorm room, the draft that pokes between the metal seams in their mosaic window might be one of the most unsavory. Wednesday has made her peace with it though, since the chill keeps her alert when she's writing late into the night. She's always wondered how Enid tolerates it though, and now she has an answer. Enid is radiating heat. Wednesday's skin still tingles from the sensation of their brief contact.

"Wolves run warm," Enid explains, undaunted. "But we still feel the cold."

"We are not sleeping like this," Wednesday tells her seriously. She can practically feel herself shaking with rage over the invasion. Why does Enid always take things too far?