Young and in Love - Wenclair

the Grinch wears black

They used to have a routine where they would avoid each other or only exchange snarky comments if they had to. And it was comfortable- a kind of morbid dance of theirs. Wednesday would threaten to murder her in the most poetically disturbing ways, and Enid would insult (barely- she wasn't too good at being mean) Wednesday's lack of general human emotion, or if she truly wanted to grate on her, mock her inability to burn the school down.

Which was one jab she wouldn't go about again, considering, apparently, that if you told Wednesday she couldn't do something- she would take it as a challenge.

And the several gallons of lighter fluid that were filling up Enid's side of the room the next day was concerning.

But suddenly, abruptly and unprompted, Wednesday seemed eager to change their routine. Her threats didn't fall empty and taper off- they just... stopped. And it was radio silence for about a week, Wednesday hardly home when Enid was, and sneaking back in when she was sure Enid would be asleep- gone when Enid woke.

Then, this started. And now hardly a day goes by without Enid being bombarded by compliments and it's... weird.

Uncomfortable. Disturbing, mildly.

Enid was reminded of how strange it all was when she got out of the shower about 10 minutes ago, and instead of canisters of flammable priorities littering her room there were... black roses.

Dozens upon dozens. On her desk, on her bed, even in her closet. So many flowers there was more petals then there was floor space.

And Wednesday stood in the middle of it all, a single red rose in her hand and wearing a floor length black lace gown.

And that's where she had stood, for the 10 minutes of contemplation on Enid's part, hovering awkwardly in the bathroom doorway with a towel in her hand and soaking wet hair dripping down her neck.

Finally, Enid let's go of the breath shes been ruminating on never letting go, because perhaps it would kill her and she wouldn't have to exist in this strange dimension where Wednesday is...

What? Kind? No. Because Wednesday was anything but, as shown apparent through the many times she has woken up to pictures of her drawn in disturbing medieval torture devices.

And now this...

"Wednesday? What the fuck?"

Wednesday's head tilts to the side, her hair out of their traditional meticulous braids and cascading in dark waves down her back. It's almost beautiful, if not for the macabre funeral home selectional surrounding them.

"Do you not like it?"

Enid laughs- because what else was she meant to do?- stepping around some of the flowers so she didn't feel separated by a sea of obsidian, "No." and then, "Yes- I mean... what?"

Wednesday's lip quirks, holding the single red rose out for Enid to take, with shaky fingers,

Wednesday starts to do some sort of dance- something odd and 80's and very well thought out given she's able to move through the flowers as fluid as water with all the grace of a winged beast, stopping once she's made an entire circle around the room and now is in front of Enid

Enid backs up, unsure, but Wednesday doesn't falter, pressing and pressing closer until Enid feels her back hit the wall.

Wednesday runs the back of her hand along Enid's face, with a sordid sort of smile that looked like it was paining her to do, speaking, "She kissed me, she kissed the devil. Only a beautiful soul would kiss the damned."

They stood there, a girl befitting a Tim Burton bride, and a werewolf as skittish as a puppy for a moment longer, before Wednesday recovers from whatever haze had taken her, and moves back to her- decidedly empty side of the room- returning to her typewriter.