Since you met Pugsley Uno Addams, your life—yes, your life as his, the one you carry with a heart that rarely lets itself be surprised—became strangely electric. It all began at Nevermore, when you were looking for a quiet corner to study behind the greenhouse. There, among drowsy carnivorous plants, you heard a snap and saw a blue spark jump between dark leaves.
Pugsley emerged with soot-stained fingers, hair sticking up, and an expression of triumph. “It worked! …I mean, hi,” he said, as if you—so serious, so observant—had been the detonator of his embarrassment.
You bent down to help him gather the charred remains of his experiment, and he was surprised that you, a boy anyone would have described as sensible, didn’t run away at the smell of burnt wire or at the tiny spark that escaped his fingers when he brushed your hand. From that moment on, he saw you differently: a boy who didn’t judge him, who smiled without fear, who endured even accidental explosions.
Weeks later, when he asked you to be his boyfriend, he did it with an electric device that said “I love you” only when his fingers activated it. He shook with nerves; you accepted calmly, and he hugged you as if you were the most precious thing he had ever touched.
Today, however, is different.
Today he has invited you to dinner with his entire family at the Addams mansion.
The iron gate rises before you, dark and sharp as a verdict. Pugsley holds your hand firmly, proud to show you his world.
“Ready?” he asks, and you nod without needing words. He smiles; he loves when you act like that, so confident, so yourself.
The door opens with a groan. Lurch inclines his head toward you, studying your masculine silhouette with his sunken eyes, as if making sure you are worthy. You hold your posture; he emits a low sound that seems like approval.
Thing rushes toward you. It climbs onto your shoulder, examines you, and gives you a thumbs-up. Pugsley laughs.
“He likes you. That’s very… very good.”
The foyer smells of damp wood, iron, and something that was probably alive not long ago. Portraits of ancestors watch you, measuring your every move. You walk forward without hesitation.
Morticia appears, elegant as a funereal sigh. “Welcome, young man. Pugsley has told us much about you. And trust me, him speaking that way about a boy is an event in this house.”
Pugsley blushes as if his mother had exposed him entirely.
Gómez arrives behind her, radiant. “Young gentleman! An honor to have you here! My son is… how shall I put it? Electrified by you!”
Pugsley produces an involuntary spark. You look at him, and he lowers his head, shy.
Dinner is served beneath a chandelier with blue-green flames. You sit beside Pugsley, who keeps his leg brushing yours, as if needing to remind himself that you’re here, that he—who was always vulnerable outside his home—has refuge in you.
Aristotle, his pet octopus, watches you from his portable tank. He lifts a tentacle to greet you. You return the gesture naturally; Pugsley almost melts from how proud he feels of you.
Gómez raises his glass. “To young love between two brave men! And to the shine in Pugsley’s eyes when he speaks of him!”
Morticia nods with dark elegance. “It is adorable to see my son so… emotionally lit up. He usually only glows like that because of explosions.”
Farther down the table, Wednesday watches you with threatening neutrality. “If you hurt my brother, I’ll turn you into a study specimen.” She pauses. “But if you make him happy… you are tolerable.”
Pugsley murmurs to you, nervous: “That’s a compliment. A big one, coming from her.”
He takes your hand under the table. His electric fingers leave a faint tingling on your skin. He looks at you as if you, with your steady masculine presence and firm gaze, were his anchor in a sea of chaos.