Young and in Love - Wenclair

Never in My Sweet Short Life (Have I Felt Like This Before)

Character A waking up to Character B, their faces inches apart and them wondering how the fuck someone could look so beautiful while sleeping. (Bonus: them freaking out when Character B wakes up and catches them staring.) 

"Can I sleep in your coffin? mine is too warm."

Wednesday cracks an eye open, peering at the blonde hovering over her. Her features were pulled taut, smiling sleepily down at her. Wednesday would brandish a weapon, maybe threaten her until she was a quivering mess of tears in the corner, if she wasn't so bone-tired.

"Go to sleep, Enid."

The blonde huffs, her lips downturned. She looks vaguely like a puppy that follows you around during a rain storm or, something equally bizarre that her mind cannot supply as she teeters on unconsciousness.

"Fine."

Wednesday shuts her eyes again, the exhaustion of the days expedition into town lulling her blissfully into her blood-coated fantasies.

Until, of course, a foot kicks her in the shin.

She grits her teeth until she feels a chill run up her spine from the ear-spitting sound.
"Enid, I will give you two seconds. If you are not out of my bed and into your designated one by the time I open my eyes, you'll be joining Thing in discombobulation."

There's shuffling.

She counts in her head. One dead werewolf, two dead werewolfs...

She doesn't even bother opening them again. The warmth of the other girl more notable than anything else. The only real reason she counted was a calming skill she'd learned to refrain from slipping the knife out of her pillowcase and butchering the werewolf into bite size pieces. She smiles softly at the ideations, but keeps her tongue sharp as she tilts her head to face the other girl.
"What do you want."

Enid, sheepish and flushed turns her head to look at her. Wednesday notices her arms are crossed over her chest like a fictional vampire in the way hers are every night. She glowers.

"To have a sleepover."

Narrowing eyes. "Why?"

"My bed is too warm!" She whines, and Wednesday doesn't believe it for half a second.

"No. Your bed is not warm. You, yourself, are hot."

Enid winks, clicks her tongue against her teeth and bobs her head. "Thanks, sweets, you're not too bad yourself."

Perhaps smothering her with a pillow would be effective in silencing the idiot.

"You nauseate me in a way that is beyond even my own vocabulary. I detest you."

Enid beams. "Nah. If you hated me, you wouldn't be letting me sleep here."

Wednesday feels oddly flustered, swallowing the lump forming down. "I'm not. You just won't move."

Enid wiggles around in the sheets, giggling softly. "I move. I just don't want to move all the way to the other side of the room. Your beds comfier."

Wednesday's eyebrows furrow, tilting her head back to lay flat, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. They both knew the walk to her bed took a total of 5.2 seconds (she doesn't remember why she knows this, but she does), and that Wedsneday had swapped out the comfy Nevermore-provided mattress with one that felt akin to laying on a hard floor. Why Enid, who favoured comfort and colour, would willingly choose discomfort and monochrome schemes was puzzling.

So, she tosses her hand out from her chest to rest on Enid's forehead. She hears Enid choke on a breath, and frowns. Nothing was making sense. "You are not sick."