Young and in Love - Wenclair

He'll Never Love You Like I Can

Based so fully off listening to Speak Now by Taylor Swift on repeat. Also, I have really awful writers block so bear with me through all mistakes and loss of vitality <3

-

She didn't hate Ajax. Not in such a way that made her want to claw her own eyes out- no. That was just the side affect of watching your best friend make out with someone, who just so happened to be that blasted gorgon boy who looked like he'd barge into a wedding on horseback wielding a scythe- in the offset, saviour-complex type of way.

And God- what a hideous thing to imagine. Enid didn't need some white knight, or someone using metaphors in his vows in such a superfluous way.

And it was fine. Really. She hadn't been plagued by such upsetting nightmares prior. Until he'd given her a promise ring.

For a werewolf- a promise ring was just an unnecessary gesture that was more a death march in jewellery (in a derogatory form, not the fun kind), than a genuine profession of love.

And Wednesday, for all her personal undoings, knew that much. Had spent a fair share of sleepless nights that would indefinitely shorten her life span researching the werewolf customs.

And, in her own personal (peer-reviewed) opinion, a mate wouldn't need a promise ring. They'd have a bite. Even with full human teeth leaving hardly a noticeable dent in the impossibly-thick skin of a wolf, it would still mean enough to not overcompensate with some shitty mall ring he'd gone around at lunch one time to ask for donations to the fund. She'd nearly poured her steaming plate of scallop potatoes down his pants, before Enid had appeared at the threshold of the door. And she isn't sure, at all despite her intelligence, how she always knows Enid's there. Senses her presence in a sea of bodies. But it's enough to make her still her spoon full, until she'd skipped over to the table and Wednesday had to force the scorching potatoes down her throat to avoid cursing their happy little union in every possible incantation that lived in longevity within the Addams' line. Because she had kissed his cheek, and for a millisecond he'd flinched away.

And that was not good enough.

And this idiotic, tarnishable promise ring, that Enid flaunts around like it was a key to a manor, was certainly not good enough.

It should be made of palladium, or a precious metal like gold. Not plated, either. Forged straight from the uncut element itself and hand-weaved until the grifter's fingertips were lacerated and stained the metal with their own blood to signify their devotion.

She hadn't said a thing in response to her room mate flaunting it about, gushing. She, preferably, ignored Enid's presence in its entirety because she feared if she looked at those soft blue eyes- she'd lose herself in a daydream where she stands beneath a rain cloud and proclaims her undying adoration, the night before their doomed wedding. But sometimes, Enid wouldn't take her silence for an answer. She'd sit nearly atop Wednesday's beloved typewriter with this look that she couldn't put into words, waiting.

Wednesday would just sigh- heavy like it carried a part of her soul with it, because it did. And it was a small death. And not the romantic and intimate translation behind the French saying.

It was like a ruddy wine stain on a wedding dress. And she wanted to proclaim like a preacher, how Ajax wasn't enough. He was fine, as a person, she supposed. She tolerated him, and he levelled her insults with his own which she admired.

But even still, she'd be marrying the wrong person.

Oh, a wedding. Such a patriarchal, ridiculous tradition that Enid seemed so fond of, as she frequently browsed bridle catalogues and had an entire Pinterest board dedicated to her own wedding. (Wednesday did not follow it. It was simply bookmarked for a later date.)