Young and in Love - Wenclair

Theres a She Wolf in the Closet....

The foreboding clock in the library had hit the half hour mark, when Xavier finally snaps. Blows his top, spins off his rocker- whatever metaphor you want to use and whatever passage of time you so wish it to happen during.

He had had enough of trying to work on a mutually split project which was rapidly ending up as him trying to glue down strips of printed paragraphs to photos he didn't feel too sure about connecting on their poster board map of the 9 circles of hell.

Wednesday's idea, of course, for the topic of the project: A Complete History of Life After Death.

And it had been going well in the beginning- the goth attentive and diligent in her studies as she's always known to be, at least until down below Enid and a few friends had come strolling into the library- quietly talking amongst themselves but evidently, Wednesday had a finely tuned ear for all things Enid.

Then, all bets were off. And so were the crafts stationary to the floor as she angles awkwardly to lean over the hand railing, eying the werewolf who decides to sit in an inconvenient enough area that the eldest Addams actually gets up and abandons her friend in totality. And sort of just looms there. Watching.

"Oh my god, Wednesday, take a photo why don't you!"

"Hm?"

And she blinks, a rare picture of humanity when her neck slowly twists to face him. Her eyebrows are creased in the middle, and there's a divet of space between her lips where she inhales shakily.

His eyebrow furrows, reaching out to snap a few times. When he retracts his hand that's still connected to his arm, that's when the worry sets in. "What's up? You're like almost catatonic and it's freaking me out."

Wednesday sucks her teeth, her shoulders rising to her ears and dropping in a silent sigh. "What is a she wolf? And why is it in the closet?" She asks as she moves to sit back down.

Wednesday wasn't a genius. No, as much as everyone liked to think she was- she was just a 16 year old girl who was trying to make it through the throng of hormones and existential dread relatively unscathed the same as anyone else. But she also wasn't a complete idiot, which is why Xavier isn't quite sure if he's meant to laugh or worryingly placate the woeful thing.

"She wolf? Like... the shakira song?

She hums noncommittally, because Wednesday wouldn't comprehend pop culture if the fate of humanity depended on it, instead appraising the mess of a poster board without so much as a snide comment.

So, mildly concerning it was.

He twiddles with the straw of the slurpee he'd smuggled in, knocking their shoulders together in a show of comraderie or support or... something. They both weren't great at friendship.
"Why?"

She exhales long and slow, like she didn't have all the right screws in her head and is trying to knock them into spot. "Enid." She supplies like it would help, her eyebrow twitching inconspicuously like the thrumming of a prominent vein should she have anything warm and living within her catalyst of a body.

He waits for her to go on. She doesn't continue, so he prods her with the capped end of his pen until her skin is turning white before fading back to its rigor-mortis gray.

Relenting. "She has been playing it a lot. She likes to add her own howl in, which I do not find nearly as insufferable as I should. But-" she sighed heavily. "why is the wolf in the closet? Shouldn't a female wolf be empowered? Strong and diligent in her efforts to better their race? I ask Enid, but she does not answer. She turns a pale red and trips over air."

And it's all said in a breath, her only movement the steady rise and fall of her arched brow and a stilted twitch of her shoulders when she needs to inhale.