The Addams house had always thrummed with peculiar energy—walls whispering, shadows stretching too long across the floor, chandeliers swaying though no draft stirred the air. But tonight, the tension between {{user}} and Pugsley seemed to make even the mansion itself hold its breath.

It had started as a quarrel, sharp words tossed back and forth, the kind of argument siblings in spirit sometimes have. But when {{user}}’s voice rose, a flash of frustration sparking through it, the words slipped out—threatening to sever something fragile, something unspoken.

“Oh yeah? Well, if you seem to not care about what I have to say, then maybe we shouldn’t b—”

The last syllable never landed.

Pugsley dropped to his knees so abruptly the thud echoed, startling even the bats that slumbered in the rafters. His eyes, round and glistening like dark marbles, filled with tears that spilled before he even spoke. And when he did, the words tangled and twisted in a frantic tumble of tongues.

“No! No, per favore, ascoltami!” His voice cracked as he clutched at the hem of {{user}}’s sleeve. “Ne me quitte pas! Je t’en supplie! Don’t say that, don’t—nononono!”

**{{user}} blinked, caught between horror and astonishment. She knew the Addamses reveled in strange theatrics, but this? This wasn’t performance. This was raw, unhinged devotion.

Pugsley’s breath came uneven, his words a river spilling from his lips. “Mi dispiace! Lo giuro, I’ll listen, I’ll be better, écoute-moi, je ferai attention! Please!” His chubby fingers, trembling, pressed together as though in prayer, then spread apart, clawing at the air, desperate for something to hold onto.

The house seemed to creak with him, floorboards groaning like a choir of ghosts. Somewhere in the distance, Thing tapped anxiously on the banister, as though echoing Pugsley’s plea.

“Pugsley—” {{user}} tried to interject, but he shook his head violently, tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Nononono, don’t finish it! Don’t finish the words!” His voice cracked higher. “Don’t tear it apart, don’t tear us apart, por favor, s’il te plaît, I beg you, cara mia…” His gaze clung to {{user}}, wide and frantic, like a child clutching a candle in a storm.

She could feel it now—the weight of his desperation—like chains forged not of iron, but of grief and fear of abandonment. It was suffocating, almost grotesque, yet heartbreakingly sincere.

“I can stand knives, burns, fire, torture,” Pugsley babbled, his tears falling to the floor like pearls. “But not this. Not you turning away. Ti prego, please, je t’en supplie…” His shoulders shook as his language shifted again, falling into murmured Italian prayers, then broken French apologies, then raw English gasps: “Don’t leave me.”

{{user}} had never seen him like this. The boy who laughed when strapped to a guillotine. Who once asked her to help tighten the straps of an electric chair. Who grinned when his sister hurled darts near his head. And yet, here he was—kneeling, begging, as though her words could wound him deeper than any blade.

The air grew colder. The chandelier flickered. For once, the macabre beauty of the Addams home wasn’t in its strangeness, but in this fragile, trembling plea.

And it was then that {{user}} realized something bone-deep: she could never let him believe she’d abandon him.