In the hollowed-out silence of his studio, the air was thick with the scent of linseed oil and the ghost of a thunderstorm. Xavier was perched on his stool, his long legs tangled in the rungs, watching you with a look of insufferable amusement.
You were currently attempting to loom. It was a classic Addams maneuver—the art of being a sentient shadow—but in your champagne-colored skirts and the silver bells that chimed at your wrists with every breath, the effect was somewhat undermined.
You had your arms crossed, your pale blonde hair gathered over one shoulder like a fallen star, and you were staring at him with what you hoped was a lethal, soul-piercing intensity.
"I am the herald of the void, Xavier," you declared, your voice unfortunately retaining its airy, melodic lilt.
"I am the chill that settles in the marrow of the dying. My heart is a cavern of weeping statues."
Xavier let out a short, breathy snort, his charcoal pencil dancing across the page as he sketched the way your silver belt caught the candlelight.
"Right. The void. Does the void also prefer its hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and a sprinkle of cinnamon, or was that just a temporary lapse in your gloom?"
"That was a tactical sugar intake for the coming darkness," you countered, trying to deepen your scowl. "And stop sketching me like I’m some sort of... of glimmer. I am a smudge! I am an inkblot on the page of existence!" Xavier finally set his pencil down, his eyes dark with a fondness that made your "gloomy" heart skip a beat. He stood up, closing the distance between you with that slow, grounded gait that always felt like an anchor to your floaty spirit. He stopped just inches away, his shadow swallowing your pale lace.
"You’re a terrible inkblot," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly tease. He reached out, his thumb grazing a silver moon-charm on your collarbone.
"Inkblots don't smell like lilies and ozone. And they definitely don't have eyes that look like they’re dreaming about the secret lives of fireflies."
"Xavier," you groaned, leaning back against his workbench, the clatter of jars providing a clumsy soundtrack to your protest.
"I am an Addams. We are the architects of the macabre. I should be at the cemetery, communing with the restless dead, not here being... whimsical."
"See, that’s where you’re wrong," Xavier whispered, leaning in until his forehead rested against yours. His hands found your waist, his calloused fingers pressing into the champagne silk.
"Wednesday is the architect of the macabre. You? You’re the reason the macabre stays interesting. You’re the silver lining on a funeral shroud. It’s a niche market, but I’m a very loyal customer."
He leaned back just enough to look you in the eye, his grin lopsided and undeniably smitten.
"Try to stay mad, bright eyes. But your bells are jingling, and I’m pretty sure that means the 'void' is actually quite happy to see me."
You tried to hold the scowl for three more seconds, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, twitching into a reluctant, ethereal smile.
"You're ruining my reputation, Thorpe."
"Good," he laughed, pulling you into a steady, warm embrace. "It was far too bright for my studio anyway."