Young and in Love - Wenclair

I Dont Want to be Without Knowing You

hi <3 sorry I literally ceased to exist!!! I got very very extremely sick and I'm still feeling the effects of it (brain fog and dizziness mostly which SUCKS as a writer) but i wanted to make a recovery in my works so enjoy this MESS of writing that I loathe <3  anyway set during 1x07 and 1x08

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Wednesday always smells her before she sees her.

Wednesday looked up from her vegan-jerky bag to eye her roommate who stood flocked by half a dozen girls she personally didn't care to know— had resisted on several occasions, truthfully—  smack dab in the middle of the courtyard like some sort of sculpture, Enid the artist with a hotdog for a brush in her hand. A mosaic of sunset colours dotting her chin and cheeks in the form of.... mustard and ketchup.

Wednesday quirks her head to the side, one eye squinting as if it might help her understand the visual before her (or that she'll give herself an accidental case of whiplash that might knock some better metaphors together).

Enid shouldn't be so pretty. She was— both conventionally and otherwise, but not to such an extent it would render Wednesday completely useless in her own body.

Yet it had. Like a skin eating disease that takes its time in spreading, but once it reaches your vital organs you feel it blistering.

Over time, Enid had become just that. This otherworldly tale on long legs and I'm colourful sweaters. Blonde turned flaxen gold, eyes striking in tones of a blue jay's feather that compliments alabaster skin peppered with little stars deigned freckles.

She was something haunting in Wednesday's dreams, pallor features gentle in a world she favoured made of fire and bloodshed. A mawkish grin answering her mornings and nights for months on end like the burn of a leather strap to the back of the hand and the reprieve of a calamine lotion simultaneously.

Oh— how she haunted her.

Even in their falling out— she was all consuming. Because, of course, the administration did not accept the transfer request and that left them as two odd ends in one space split in half. Like they hadn't changed each other. As if they weren't cosmically connected, whether Enid wanted to believe, or whether Wednesday would accept it, or not.

Enid would be wide awake alongside the moon every night, dancing around to songs that sounded like a drill was taken to Wednesday's skull. But for the life of her, the many threats she had uttered once had paled into inaudible sounds of discontent and then to absolutely... nothing.

Nothing— even when She Wolf was so stereotypical and stupidly playing at full blast, and Enid did her little finger wave dance. Over. And. Over.
(Which, if Wednesday had learned the string instrumental part on her cello, that was completely by coincidence of it eating at her braincells and nothing more).

And in the same vein that ghosts of werewolves danced and music flowed, oh, how Wednesday longed to loathe her.

Her stomach rolled like the over consumption of liquor at the memories of cherry-glossed lips mouthing sentences she couldn't focus on— because Enid wasnt touching her anymore. A brush of her forearm against Wednesday's shoulder, or a hug that didn't quite encircle her. Something that had quickly grown to feel like something was liquid heat and burning her flesh that a cortisone could not soothe at the small show of affection. An addiction, perhaps, Wednesday had befallen. The only respite was more of the werewolf so clumsy she could hardly stand straight for five minutes without toppling over. A drug that no longer wanted to be in her blood.

What a hell of a drug that was.

She wanted to hate her. It would be far easier. They weren't friends anymore, and hadn't been since Enid had exploded at her and Wednesday had been left to cry on the floor with nothing but shattered dignity to keep her warm. But yet, looking up at the girl she consistently stole glances from, she felt that hollow pit in her chest fill pleasantly so.