[Wednesday POV]
There is a strange kind of peace in graveyards — especially at night.
I come here when the world becomes too loud. At least the dead know how to shut up. No questions. No expectations. Just quiet. That's more than I can say for anyone else in this house.
I sit on a crumbling stone bench, half in shadow, facing one of the older graves. The name is worn away. I like that. Forgotten things have more dignity than remembered ones.
It's been five years since Perseus was accepted by my mother as her disciple. Too much has changed.
At first, I didn't want a stranger around. So, I tried to kill — or at least encourage him to leave.
Threw him from a balcony? He just got caught by vines and laughed.
Buried him alive while he slept? He stayed there the whole night, perfectly comfortable, and joined us for breakfast.
Poison darts? Dynamite? Nothing worked. I'm fairly certain my mother's cooking injured him more than I ever did.
Failure only made me more determined. I studied his movements, searched for new weaknesses. Even asked his grandmother about his past. When she asked why, I told her it was to "help him integrate better into the family." She laughed.
Still, she told me everything: how she found him abandoned in a snowy forest, how he never left her side growing up. When it came time to send him to school, he refused. So she made a deal as a joke — if he could pass every exam from elementary to middle school in one month, he could stay home.
He did it. Every test. Every grade. Alone.
In short, Perseus was a lonely, abandoned orphan who clung to his grandmother and feared the outside world.
She probably hoped that by telling me his story, I'd feel sorry for him. But I don't know what pity feels like.
Still, through her stories, I found one thing we had in common — too smart for kids our age, and never taken seriously by the adults around us.
So I decided to beat him at what he seemed to take pride in. Shatter that so-called genius of his.
I chose battlegrounds where I was certain of victory — disciplines he had never so much as grazed.
First, chess. He'd never played before. I taught him the rules. Then he beat me. Again. And again. To "comfort" me, he said, with a smirk as if enjoying my irritation, "Don't take it too personal, maybe I was good at chess in a past life."
I nearly stuffed the chess pieces into his eyes.
Then came music. I consider myself a prodigy on the cello, but he showed no interest. Instead, he sat at the piano, a thing he had never touched in his life, and played Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata perfectly on his first try.
His explanation? "Heard it on the radio once." He paused, that same smirk curling at the corner of his mouth as if he were about to make it worse. "Maybe I was good at piano in a past life."
I considered testing that theory by ending this one.
He beat me without ever setting foot in the field, in areas where I considered myself the best at my age, and then added salt to the wound with his comments. That irritated me enough to fire off sharp remark after sharp remark. I mocked his so-called genius, told him no one wanted him, that even his parents had abandoned him and probably saw him as an inconvenience, and then I stormed away.
At lunch, his seat was empty. For a moment, I thought I had broken him. That he finally gave up and left. Hopefully hit by a car, while running away.
Later that night, as I passed the music room, I heard the familiar notes of Moonlight Sonata drifting through the door. I assumed he was mocking me, rubbing again salt in the wound, so I stormed in with a knife. And then I saw him. Sitting there, bathed in moonlight, fingers gliding over the keys.
Tears streamed silently down his face, and for the first time I didn't know what to do. His brown hair fell slightly over his eyes, green with a faint gray tint, reflecting the moonlight as if the sadness itself had color.
When he finished, he turned toward me, smiled, and said,
"Maybe your words reminded me of my parents…from a past life. Made me sad."
Then he laughed and walked away.
The same excuse as always. Hiding behind jokes, never saying what he actually feels.
Why not just admit it? That he was hurting. That he was sad about being abandoned by people who should have loved him.
Why lie when the pain is written so clearly across his face?
I didn't close my eyes that night. It was not remorse. I do not waste my time on that. It was something else, though I cannot name it. I lay there, replaying the events. How I treated him. How I mocked him. How his mask slipped until there was nothing left but silent tears in moonlight. I have always taken satisfaction in breaking people. That night, I did not. And the absence of that satisfaction disturbed me more than his tears ever could.
The next morning, he smiled like nothing happened.
Days turned into weeks, then months. Somehow, without realizing it, we started doing more things together—experiments, grave robbing, weapon testing, chess matches, even reading in the same room without speaking. We found common ground in strange places, shared an unusual rhythm that just… worked.
And somewhere along the way, the world tilted slightly.
I didn't fall. I don't fall.
But I noticed the tilt.
Now he's leaving, and I'm not — a fact that burns in places I'd rather ignore.
The sound of his footsteps crunching across the graveyard path drags my attention up, and there he is, standing in front of me with his hand outstretched, as if I'm supposed to take it.
"Come with me, Darkling," he says.
The most irritating part is that he always calls me that. I still remember the time he told me, "You're so dark, darling," after I tried to bury him while he was sleeping and from that moment, his tiny mind decided that mixing the two words made perfect sense.
Even as he extends his hand, I stay perfectly still. I never move when someone expects it. That would be far too predictable. He knows it, which is why he doesn't wait. He never does.
One sharp motion—too fast, too confident and suddenly I'm lifted, spun, and dragged straight into the open grave we were supposed to be studying for ritual resonance, not using like a drama stage.
We hit the bottom in a tangle of limbs and breath, and I twist instantly to retaliate, but he's faster. In one fluid movement, he pins my wrists above my head, one knee blocking my leg, the other anchoring us in place. His breathing is calm. So is mine.
I meet his gaze with the full weight of my disapproval.
His hair hangs slightly over his eyes — brown, always a little unruly, like his defiance is styled in. And those eyes... green with a hint of grey. Watching me not like prey, but like I'm a puzzle he's already halfway through solving.
Too calm. Too sure. I hate that I noticed.
"You've finally shown your true nature," I say coldly. "A boy ruled by ego and whatever's beneath his pants."
"Yeah, yeah, sure." he snorts, leaning in.
"I'm telling you," He says, voice low, "your gift will awaken. You're not done yet, Wednesday Addams. You never were meant to be ordinary."
His certainty makes my skin prickle. Not with fear. With something more dangerous.
"And what if it doesn't?" I ask, my tone razor-edged with mockery. "What if I fail to live up to your great and mighty expectations, oh wise master?"
"I don't care," he says simply. "I'll still love you and make you my wife."
My eyes narrow, searching for a sharp comeback to slice through his delusion.
"Wife? You'd have better chances marrying a corpse. At least it would let you touch it," I echo, coldly.
He pauses for a beat, then smirks with mock sincerity.
"You hate being touched. Unfortunately for you, I have a very touch-oriented love language. So how about we meet halfway and make a deal? I get a pet, and I become your not-too-touchy husband."
"A pet?" I scoff.
His response is slow, casual.
"Why not? I promise the pet I'll get will have fluffy ears, claws and a tail."
My eyes narrow further.
"What's the catch? You find a woman and strap gadgets on her? Or sew them directly into her spine?"
"No catch," he says with mock patience. "The ears, claws, and tail have to be natural. No magic tricks. No illusions. Deal?"
"Why are you pushing this so much?" I ask.
He shrugs, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Because watching you overthink and try to outsmart me is my favorite form of foreplay."
I don't move. Neither does he. His grip is firm but not cruel — deliberate, like he knows exactly how far he can push before I bite.
"Signing anything with you is like making a deal with the Devil," I murmur. "The payment is always in blood."
"So, what are you waiting for?" he asks, genuinely confused, as if accepting something that could cost pain and blood is perfectly normal. He knows exactly how to hurt me. Worse — he knows exactly how well he knows me.
I lean in, my voice like frost. "I accept the deal. But remember — if I can't be your only obsession, I'll make sure I'm your last."
For once, he says nothing.
Eventually, he releases my wrists and the moment stretches, but I don't move.
He lies back beside me, flat against the grave dirt, eyes on the stars overhead.
Two misfits beneath a silent sky.
Silence, stars, and shallow graves. Almost romantic.
************
Author Note:
Reached 100k views, yeee
Honestly, I am just writing for fun, so seeing so many people reading it makes me happy.
As for money? I know some people use Patreon or drop their PayPal link, but I do not feel like asking. I just want people to enjoy what I write.
Earning money through Webnovel? Lets just say my previous fanfiction had over 1 million views and I never saw a single cent. hahahah
Powerstones? I know they are useful for ranking, so if you want to give them sure, why not, they are free!
But the most important thing are views! So I can brag to my friends that my fanfictions are liked and read by many people. hehehehe