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English
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Part 2 of tortured artist and torturer
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Published:
2022-12-04
Words:
1,735
Chapters:
1/1
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81
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2,023
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191
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It trembled with the string

Summary:

In which Wednesday realises love's not so bad after all, if you're with the right person that is.

Notes:

This is a continuation of the first fic in this series – feel free to read it alone, it just might not make sense :)
as usual, title is from Romance by Edgar Allen Poe!

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

Xavier stays true to his declaration.

He leaves beheaded flowers in a multitude of places; In her boots when she’s not wearing them, her bag when she’s not looking, and one memorable time: her plaits.

Enid says it’s getting out of hand when they both come back to find hundreds strewn across Wednesday’s side of the room. Wednesday agrees, but she’s always enjoyed escalation. It becomes a game to see if Wednesday can identify the flowers by stem alone. She does, but it’s not so hard once she realises all of them share a meaning: love.

He leaves her messages, handwritten because he knows she still has a distaste for technology. Not only in Latin, but a mix of dead languages: Old Norse, Sanskrit - she almost swoons when she gets one in Gothic – so much so that even Enid remarks she looks unusually alive. Some are quotes centred around love, but her most treasured are those he’s written himself. The grammar is usually abysmal, but the sentiment remains.

Es multo mortiforum quam Belladonnam ad me, he leaves one day.

*mortiferior quam Solanaceae mihi es, she replies – tucked into his blazer pocket.

He paints her: in black and white and various shades of grey. She allows red occasionally, only to see him smile. It’s a deadly smile, crooked and teasing. Her heart, black though it be, beats a wicked melody every time he sends one her way.

Wednesday hasn’t necessarily changed her mind about what she said to her mother so long ago; she’s certainly never going to be a housewife. But love, It’s not so bad when it’s with Xavier.

She thinks, if she had to pick one, on pain of rainbows and sunshine, her favourite colour would be green. The colour of sickness, disgust, and Xavier’s eyes. They’re lovely eyes, with a hint of brown in them. Part of her wants to keep them in a jar, but the other part realises what makes them so desirable is that they’re Xavier’s, and they wouldn’t be half as charming with the rest of him unattached. It means a lot to Wednesday when she figures this out; she usually prefers her eyeballs separate.

Wednesday understands aesthetics; Xavier is considered attractive by most people’s standards - certainly the population of Nevermore – though there’s something unsettling about his beauty. His jaw is just a tad too sharp, eyes a touch too green. He’s hauntingly beautiful. It upsets Wednesday, does something funny to her heart whenever she’s in his presence. She’s learning that this is attraction; a terrible affliction that appears to be chronic.

Wednesday is precise in her movements, she controls her body like a finely tuned instrument, a weapon; there is much to be read in the twitch of an eyebrow and flick of the hand. Yet she always feels unprepared when faced with Xavier, turned into an impulsive babbling loon.

She wonders if this is how the general population go about life; it’s no wonder they make such fools of themselves.

Wednesday’s never been good at reading people - she’s getting better with Enid’s help - but she thinks she can read Xavier’s love for her: through his art, and his gifts and the way he looks at her, all soft and weak. Part of her wants to crush it out of him, because that sort of look shouldn’t be directed at someone like her: a harbinger of misfortune and ruin. If the rest of her were less selfish, she’d force him to stay away. But he crept up on her, seeped into her cracks, and now to remove him would be to remove a part of herself; one she treasures immensely.

It scares her sometimes, his devotion to her. But she’s always been partial to a good scare, and this one appears more lasting than any other.

She notices after a while, he doesn’t touch her; everyone tries, but he doesn’t.

Her limited knowledge of romance tells her this is a problem. Her parents love each other, and they are practically inseparable, so stuck together they’re almost one person with the way they intertwine.

She’s unsure of how to raise this subject - Enid hasn’t gotten on to how to appropriately time questions - so they’re in Xavier’s studio, with Wednesday sitting as a model (though Xavier hardly needs it with how much time he spends looking at her; he’s surely memorised her freckles by now) when she says, apropos of nothing, “We started courting thirty-three days, thirteen hours and,” she checks the time, “three minutes ago.”

Xavier pauses, charcoal suspended mid-air, as he registers the sentence.

After his own glance at a clock, “I make it nineteen days, thirteen hours and five minutes,” He sends an amused look her way, eyes crinkling, “You can’t count the two weeks I spent thinking I was about to get disembowelled every time I left my room.” He jibes.

She raises an eyebrow, “I would never kill you via disembowelment,” The pigtailed girl scolds, “Your organs are far too precious for such a fate.” She averts her eyes as she ends her sentence; it’s practically a love confession - one Xavier will inexplicably pick up on.

He smiles at her, one of his crooked ones, and Wednesday realises she’s been derailed – he has a tendency to do so to her - so she attempts to get back on track.

“You haven’t…” Again, his presence is affecting her cognitive functions; Wednesday is not the type to trail off mid-sentence, she prides herself on being as brusque as possible. She furrows her brow and sets her jaw, forcing the words out, “Am I not desirable?”

“What?” He splutters, and it would be humorous if she wasn’t so one edge, awaiting his answer with bated breath. It shouldn’t be important to her, but it is, and it’s inexplicable and insufferable but Wednesday is suddenly struck with the knowledge that if Xavier says no to this question, she will be crushed - and not in a good way.

He’s frowning, concern etched on his face. She hates when he does that; Wednesday does not need such useless emotions sent her way. When he speaks, it’s a hesitant, “Where’s this coming from?”

She regards him clinically, she’s sure her question needed no explanation, “You do not touch me, you do not attempt to embrace me, or… or osculate.” A tinge of pink attempts to make itself present on her cheeks, Wednesday beats it back with will alone, maintaining her usual pallor. Her fingers are not so subservient; they move without her permission, fidgeting nervously on her lap. She glares down at their insubordination.  

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him untense; his previously poised body softens, and he places the long-forgotten charcoal to the side.

“Wednesday,” He starts carefully, “Contrary to your best attempts, I know you. You don’t enjoy being touched, you only allow it when you’re the one who initiates it.”

This is… accurate. If she's an instrument; her body is over-tuned. Every well-intentioned touch turns into a horrible and overwhelming refrain in her mind: embraces become cages, taps become blows. She has a theory all the sensitivity that was meant to go towards her emotions went to her skin instead. It's even worse now she has visions; always anticipating the electroshock feeling that comes with learning those around her's fate. Every-time she sees the smile slide off Enid's face as she flinches back, a piece of her shrivels inside; it's getting to be quite the collection.

At her lack of outward response, Xavier continues, “I don’t want to force you into anything you don’t want. It doesn’t matter to me, I’m not here for that; I’m here for you. Your wit, and your dry humour, and the way you make me feel seen for the first time in my life.” His tone turns rueful as he finishes, and he suddenly seems very small to Wednesday, before his eyes flick back to her and he straightens up. 

“I’ll take whatever you can give me, even if it’s just your company.” She meets his eye as he says this, and reads the fervour in his face. 

Wednesday's never thought of it that way: that physicality wasn't something expected that she would always fail to deliver, but that it was something to be gifted - bestowed - if she felt able. For all she speaks of love, it seems there is still much she has to learn. She's always been prone to morbidity and thinking the worst; it never would have crossed her mind Xavier was being... considerate. That for all his displays of love he might actually love her, not what he could get from her, but what she could give him.

"Although,” He adds, humour creeping into his tone, “You should know you’re very desirable.” He smiles at her, still slightly hesitant, but honest and sincere.

Wednesday is frozen on her stool, still reeling from her epiphany, when his words reach her; they snap her awake and she suddenly feels like the world's axis has tilted and she's seeing everything from a whole new angle.  

“I see.” She says, feeling everything tumultuous inside her settle into a deadly calm.

Her gaze sharpens and, without ceremony, she jolts forward and kisses him. He remains frozen for a millisecond, eyes wide and surprised at her sudden assault, before he melts. And all at once they’re kissing, and his touch feels like a live wire; electrifying her insides and frying her brain and Wednesday, who has perpetually felt like a living corpse, has never felt so alive. Something swells within her, and her organs start a symphony with Xavier as the maestro; plucking at every one of her heartstrings and creating such a lovely dirge, she can't help but clutch him closer, clawing onto him like a drowning man would a lifeboat. 

When they're forced to draw back for breath, their foreheads remain connected, and Wednesday finally feels grounded by touch - instead of trapped.

He stares at her, slightly dazed, with questioning eyes.

"Torture," She says, "The good kind."

And Wednesday still has a long way to go, but she’s beginning to learn there’s no correct way a relationship should look, no shape it must conform to; that their metaphorical puzzle pieces don’t have to slot together perfectly, they can lie crooked, overlap at times or leave gaps. They’re still making a picture, and Wednesday rather likes how it’s turning out.

Notes:

This is very much written for all those who left kudos on (or even just read) the previous fic. You guys are awesome and I hope this lives up to expectations!
Also for those of you wondering, Xavier's note reads ‘you are deadlier than nightshade to me’ in which he makes multiple errors; the one Wednesday sends back is a more grammatically correct iteration of the same sentence.

come talk to me/vibe on tumblr

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