#so we just have peony intervention instead for now

[thedemoninme141]

Are Flowers Even Real?

Pairings: Wednesday x Female reader. Wordcount: 8K-ish.

Summary: A florist’s voice brings color to Wednesday's world—until all that remains are flowers, silence, and a question that won’t stop echoing in her mind.

Theme: Angst, Heavy Angst! Loss. Blood.

Warnings: Some might already guess the plot with the pic above, the theme's a bit vague here too but it will be all clear at the end kinda like my Restless dreams or lost valentine's.

She used to hate this.

People who couldn’t help themselves—who spilled every thought like it mattered, who narrated their lives in real-time like the world was desperate to listen. Enid had done that every day of their shared dorm years. “Oh my God, you won’t believe what Ajax said,” and “I saw the cutest squirrel near the quad!” and “Wednesday, are you even listening to me?” She wasn’t, mostly. Not really.

Back then, she counted words like falling leaves in autumn—an inevitable mess. She hated the noise, the color, the feeling. Enid had been loud and bubbly and relentlessly present.

But you?

You made noise feel like quiet. Like it mattered.

Now she held the phone to her ear like it was lifeblood. Like it was you.

And your voice was soft today. Soft, but fast—your usual pace when you were excited or tired, or both. The hum of your flower shop drifted into the background.

“Okay, so—today was chaos. And I know I say that every time, but I mean it, this time? Pure chaos.”

Your voice was light, and she didn’t interrupt. She doesn’t roll her eyes. She closes them. Leans back against the cold bark of the tree behind her, the night wind slipping through the forest like a hand across skin.

There’s blood somewhere nearby, but she’s not thinking about that yet.

"This bride walks in—and I mean, she had this energy, right? Like she’s never heard the word ‘budget’ in her life. She’s dragging her fiancé behind her like he’s an old suitcase, and she’s listing every flower under the sun. Roses, peonies, baby’s breath, lavender, delphinium, freesia, tulips—I mean, Wednesday, she wanted them all. For one bouquet. Who does that?!"

Your voice had that kind of bright rhythm she’d never admit she looked forward to. The pitch of it changed depending on the flowers you were talking about—soft when you said “lilies,” amused when you said “sunflowers,” reverent when you said “gardenias.” You loved your flowers. You were annoyingly loyal to them, like they were alive, like they had personalities.

“...I told her it wasn’t going to look like a bouquet if we threw in every single bloom from every hemisphere,” you continued, laughing to yourself. “I even suggested doing a seasonal theme instead, but she looked at me like I just asked if she wanted a bouquet of weeds.”

You laughed, breathy and exasperated. Wednesday closed her eyes. Just for a second.

"Have you ever had to calculate fifty-four table arrangements, not including the bridal arch and the aisle runners, in under thirty minutes? Because I have. Today. Today, I did that.”

She could hear the smile in your voice, even through the stress.

“And then, oh—oh, get this—her fiancé shows up with a last-minute request for a boutonniere made of succulents. Succulents! For a winter wedding! Who even—?!” You groaned, a theatrical sigh. “Anyway. I didn’t say no. Of course I didn’t. I just nodded and smiled like a professional while internally praying for divine intervention.”

She doesn’t respond. Her jaw clenches, the silence between your sentence and her reply longer than it should be. But you don’t comment. You never did. You understood her silence was never empty—it was just crowded with too many words.

“I’m gonna be late tonight,” you say after a pause, your voice dropping into a soft kind of tired. “Definitely pushing midnight. I still have to sort out the invoices—do math, ugh—and call the supplier who keeps sending me crushed orchids. I swear I’m gonna fight that man.”

“Do you want me to kill him?” Wednesday asks flatly.

A beat of silence on your end. Then: “Mm… tempting. But I think you should save that kind of rage for someone who deserves it more.”

She opens her eyes. Watches her breath ghost into the cold night air. “I do.”

“Oh, and get this—” you pause suddenly, voice pulling away like you're shouting over your shoulder, “Sorry, we’re closed! Yeah, we stay open from eight a.m. to eight p.m. No exceptions! Thank you! God, I need a sign that actually scares people away.” You came back like you’d never left. “Where was I? Oh right. Hell orders. Seriously, though, this bride is lucky I didn’t charge her a stress fee. I should start doing that. I’ll call it the ‘flower frenzy’ tax. Like, if your expectations are out of control, that’s ten percent extra for emotional damage.”

Wednesday finally spoke, her voice low and dry. “You’d never charge anyone extra for being overwhelmed. You like chaos. You call it ‘natural.’”

“I do not!”

“You do. You said that exact phrase last week.”

You laughed again. “Okay, maybe I did. Once. But I was high on pollen and caffeine. Not a reliable source.”

The call was winding down now. She could feel it. The energy in your voice had started to fade—just a little. Still bright, still you, but… slipping. Like the sun behind curtains.

“Anyway. I should get back to it. I’ve got calculations to do, receipts to cry over, and oh—! I almost forgot—one of the orchids bloomed today. The one I thought was going to die last week. It just needed a bit more light, apparently. Go figure.”

Wednesday stared at the moon. Didn’t blink.

“Oh—and I love you, by the way. Just in case I forget to say it later. You should try it sometime too, you know. I promise your tongue won’t turn black and fall off.”

Another beat. Then a quieter, sheepish: “Okay. Talk later.” The line went dead.

Wednesday doesn’t move for a long moment. She keeps the phone to her ear even after the silence settles.

Then, slowly, she lowers the phone. Pockets it with the careful reverence of an addict putting away the last dose.

Her hand brushes against cold steel. She wraps her fingers around the handle of the knife. Pulls it out.

There’s a sound—scraping, desperate.

The man in front of her, half-covered in dirt, is trying to crawl away. He’s bleeding from the mouth, knees shredded from dragging himself over rocks.

He looks back. Sees her. Freezes.

She doesn’t say a word.

Just steps forward, slow. Controlled.

The knife glints.

Her voice, calm as ever, cuts the silence.

“One finger at a time now.”

She had come to your shop out of habit. Or maybe it was curiosity. Or the way you said, “You should visit sometime,” like it was just a law of nature. You’d said it with your hands buried in soil and a daisy tucked behind your ear, completely unaware of the chaos you caused with every smile.

The bell above your door had jingled, and the moment she stepped inside, she was swallowed whole by a riot of scent and color. Flowers bled from every surface—sunlight dripped through windows onto baskets of wild blooms, and you were already at the counter, fussing with a vase like the world wasn’t quietly tilting on its axis.

She stood in the doorway for too long. You looked up, grinned

“Good evening, Miss Addams. You stalking me again?”

Wednesday stepped forward slowly, arms crossed behind her back. “I was in the area.”

“You were never in the area before we started dating. Anyway come here. I need help deciding which of these flowers gets to be sacrificed for a bouquet.”

She stood beside you, looking down at the spread of colors and chaos. It was an overwhelming mess—vibrant and overstuffed—but in your hands, it was art. She admired that about you, though she’d never say it. Not out loud. Not directly.

You handed her two stems. “These are Ranunculus. One means charm, the other means attraction. Which one looks more ‘mysterious woman who possibly has a knife in her purse’?”

Wednesday arched a brow. “Neither.”

You fake-gasped, putting a dramatic hand to your chest. “You wound me.”

“Not yet,” she replied, and you laughed like she’d told a joke.

She didn’t correct you.

You picked up a small bouquet and began trimming stems. “Did you know bleeding hearts mean undying love?”

Wednesday blinked slowly. Of course she knew. She learned the language of flowers in her second year at Nevermore—before she met you. She could read petals like poetry, dissect colors like motives. She memorized the meanings the way most kids memorized multiplication tables.

But she didn’t say that. Instead, she looked at the flower you held up and said, “They look like they’re crying.”

You beamed. “Exactly. They’re dramatic. Just like you.”

“I’m not dramatic,” she said coolly, stepping aside as you nudged past her to reach a coffee cup. “I’m precise.”

“Sure,” you said. “And this isn’t my third cup of coffee.”

You chuckled. “And what about this one?” You picked up a marigold. “It means grief. Despair. Remembrance.”

Her eyes moved from the marigold to your face. You were smiling again, soft at the edges like you always got when talking about meanings, stories, symbolism. You swore half the fun was in the mystery.

Wednesday knew the meanings already.

Of course she did. She’d studied them in Botany. But she never said a word. Never once interrupted you to say, “Yes, I know.”  Because she preferred to hear you say it. It was different when it came from your mouth—something in your voice, the way you cradled petals like they mattered. Like you were part of their purpose. And she wanted to be a part of that too.

You spent the rest of the afternoon explaining the meanings of delphiniums and hemlock and hydrangeas. You told her about customers who reminded you of daisies and she just stood there. Watching. Drinking it all in. You told her everything. And Wednesday Addams—queen of silence, princess of the macabre—just sat there and listened like it was her religion.

He couldn’t scream anymore. Only pant. Wet, ragged breaths through clenched teeth. His lips were cracked, and his eyes were wide with the knowledge that he was alive and shouldn’t be.

The sound of agony twisted the air again.

Wednesday sat nearby, legs folded beneath her like she was in a garden. Her phone was pressed to her ear again, as if none of this was happening.

You were laughing on the other end.

“You wouldn’t believe how long I argued with that girl. She wanted orange roses. Orange! For a funeral. I mean, who does that? I asked her if she wanted the flowers to say ‘rest in tropical zest.’”

Wednesday let out a slow breath. “What did she say?”

“She said her grandmother loved citrus. Which is sweet, I guess. So I added lemon balm and marigolds. Made it work.”

“You always do.”

A pause. The wind rustled leaves overhead.

“You sound tired,” you said softly.

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

Another pause.

“I just worry about you,” you said. “All those late nights. Chasing monsters. Investigating murders. You know you don’t have to keep carrying everything alone, right?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked up at the stars that just didn’t shine hard enough anymore so she listened to the sound of your voice like it was oxygen and she’d been holding her breath.

“You’re the most stubborn person I know,” you continued. “But you’re not bulletproof. You’re allowed to rest.”

The man groaned again. Gurgled.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to him, but she didn’t move. Not yet. Not while you were still speaking. You talked about your day. The cat who scratched a customer. The kid who wanted to eat the flowers.

You said you loved her. Just like always. And she didn’t say it back.

Just like always.

When the call finally ended, when your voice faded into silence again, she took a slow breath. Looked down at the man whose blood soaked the soil.

He was still alive.

She crouched, pulled a wad of cash from her coat, and threw it beside his mangled hand.

“Fix yourself,” she said, voice flat. “You have until the next bloom.”

Then she pulled her phone again.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Attempted homicide. Coordinates incoming,” she replied coldly. “The suspect is injured. Severely. Unarmed. Unconscious.”

Wednesday texted the GPS location, then cut the call short.

She knelt beside the man, “I’ll remember you. Every bone. Every nerve.”

She paused at the edge of the woods.

“And I will be back again.”

You were humming again.

That same wandering, tuneless hum that always floated into the air when you were deep in concentration. Wednesday stood silently in the corner of the flower shop, arms folded, black coat dusted with pale pollen, watching you balance on your toes to reach a top shelf.

She didn’t speak. Just observed.

There was something ritualistic in the way you worked. Like a priestess. Like a witch. Each flower touched with reverence, as if it breathed back at you.

You looked down at her eventually and grinned, sweeping your hands outward toward the display you were building.

“What do you think?” you asked. “Too much? I always overdo the daffodils. They’re too loud, I think. They talk over the tulips.”

“You believe flowers… speak?”

“I think they understand,” you said without hesitation. “Not in words. Not in the way people mean. But they know things. They feel things.”

“This one’s for resilience,” you said, holding up a chrysanthemum.

“People say they’re funeral flowers, but I think they’re just misunderstood.”

Wednesday raised a brow.

You smiled over your shoulder. “They’re stubborn and hard to keep alive and everyone thinks they’re depressing. Sound like anyone you know?”

Wednesday almost smirked. She moved toward the arrangement. Reached out. Brushed her fingers over the white edge of a daisy. The petals were soft. Barely there. Almost like breath. “This,” she murmured, “feels like you.”

You paused, surprised. A flush of red crept across your cheeks, but you didn’t turn away. “That’s one of the gentlest things you’ve ever said to me.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment. I just said it as an observation.”

You smiled. “That’s why it means more.” You talked as you moved, voice light, melodic, like wind through reeds.

She watched you pick up a sprig of rosemary next. You handed it to her. “Memory,” you said, with something softer in your voice. “This one’s for remembering.”

She took it slowly, fingers brushing yours. It was strange how warm your hands always were. How you held things like they could bruise if you were careless.

Moments like those bled into each other. Quiet exchanges while trimming stems. Her fingers brushing yours when you passed her scissors. Her trying not to stare when you tucked a flower behind your ear.

You started giving her one word every day. One flower. One meaning. Bleeding hearts—undying love. Lavender—devotion. Black tulips—rebirth. Snapdragons—grace under pressure. Rosemary—Remembrance Nightshade—dangerous beauty. She never said she cared. But she remembered every single one.

And then she left. Again. Back to the darkness. Back to blood.

The man was on the ground again.

This time, it was the fingers of his other hand. Gone. Wrapped in bloody gauze that had once been part of his shirt. He was wheezing, tears running down his face as he crawled toward the barn door. He was slower now. Weaker. Still alive.

She crouched beside him again.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, voice mild.

He didn’t respond.

She pulled a knife from her boot and pressed it gently under his chin. He froze.

“I could end it now,” she whispered. “Would that be mercy?

He trembled, said nothing.

She stood. Dropped another thick wad of cash beside him. Then turned and walked away.

She just sat on the hill, watching from the trees as he dragged himself to the road and flagged down a car. She didn’t move. Just watched. Unblinking.

When she finally pulled her phone out, it was almost midnight.

“Where are you?” you asked, and she could hear you yawning.

“Graveyard.”

You laughed. “Only you would take me on a date to hell.”

“Romantic, isn’t it?”

“So much ambiance. Ten out of ten.” There was a long pause. “I miss you,” you said, quieter.

“I know.”

Another pause.

“Do you want to hear something stupid?” you asked.

“Always.”

“I kissed a lily today. Accidentally. I was leaning too close. It kissed me back.”

“Scandalous.”

“I know. We’re basically engaged now.”

She exhaled, something caught in her chest. “Don’t cheat on me with foliage.”

“I’d never.”

Another quiet stretch passed, softer now. You hummed something tuneless.

“Hey,” you said, voice warm, sleepy. “I love you.”

“I—”

She hesitated.

You laughed. “You don’t have to say it. I know.” There was the sound of rustling, you shifting beneath your blankets.

“I’m gonna fall asleep on you,” you mumbled.

“That’s fine.”

“I’ll call you in the morning…”

And you did.

Two days later, the man ran again.

The man had tried to leave town. Made it all the way to the county line.

She found him in the back of a rental truck, bandaged, panicked, clutching a gas can and a stolen phone.

He didn’t even have time to beg.

That night, she called you again. You were tired. She could hear it in your voice.

“Long day,” you murmured.

“I can tell.”

“I had to fill a funeral order. A big one. Lots of lilies.”

She exhaled. “Too many lilies in your life lately.”

I know, right?” You yawned. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sound tired.”

“So do you.”

“…Stay on the line with me?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She listened to you breathe. Counted the beats between your sighs. You fell asleep like that—murmuring something about tulips and your heater being broken.

She kept the phone to her ear until the sun came up.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Only silence answered.

Another day, another call,

“Hey, you. I know, I know—I’m late again. I swear this time it’s the register’s fault. Or maybe the marigolds. They were being a little too dramatic today.” You chuckled to yourself, a soft breath of warmth over static. “I had this old Pedro Pascal looking guy come in. Said he needed something ‘apologetic but not desperate.’ I gave him yellow roses. Told him to deliver them with a smile and a very sincere, ‘I’m an idiot.’ He laughed. Paid in cash. Even gave me a tip.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched. She sat on the edge of a rooftop, the city crawling beneath her. Her knees drawn up, phone pressed to her ear like a lifeline.

You kept talking.

“There was this one moment though—something stupid. I—I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but… there was this rose. Deep red. Looked almost black in the light. It reminded me of my mom. You know, the way she used to wear that lipstick that bled into the corners of her smile?”

You went quiet.

And then the sound—sharp and soft at once.

A breath caught. A sniffle.

“I—I snapped the stem by accident,” you whispered. “It just broke. And I don’t know why, but I started crying. Like full-on, ridiculous, snot-on-my-apron crying.”

Wednesday closed her eyes. She imagined your face—crumpled in sorrow, eyebrows drawn together in that quiet way you had when you were trying to stay strong for something that didn’t deserve it.

“I felt so dumb,” you laughed. But it wasn’t a happy sound. “It’s just a flower, right? Just… a stem. But I think—I think I was just scared. That I’d forget her. That maybe people aren’t made to last. Maybe even the flowers know.”

Another pause.

She could hear you shift the phone, the way your voice grew smaller. Closer to the truth.

“Sometimes I talk to the flowers because I’m scared no one else will ever really listen.”

She whispered into the speaker, “I listen.”

It was early. Too early for customers, but not too early for you to be animated and half-dressed in an apron and already juggling three ideas at once.

You were on the floor, arranging petals like you were solving a crime scene. She watched from the counter, long legs crossed, sipping bitter black coffee you’d insisted she try—“If I’m suffering, you are too.”

“Okay,” you were saying, lifting a pale marigold to the light, “I know you don’t care about table aesthetics, but imagine this for the engagement party centerpiece.”

“I’ve already told you I’m not interested in centerpieces,” she replied dryly.

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

You turned to her with a grin. “You’re lying.”

“I never lie.”

“Okay. Then you’re emotionally repressed.”

“Fair.”

You snorted and tossed the flower back into the pile. “I still think we should do something small. Intimate. You and me, our parents, maybe five friends, your creepy Uncle Fester playing violin in the corner.”

“He doesn’t play the violin.”

“Well. It’s never too late to learn.”

She watched you with a careful expression, one she reserved for delicate autopsies. It wasn’t suspicion. It was wonder. The way your hands moved. The way you lit up just saying the word “engagement.” Like it wasn’t just a party to you. It was something sacred.

You looked up suddenly. “Hey. Are you okay?”

She blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re… doing that thing where you look like you’re somewhere else entirely.”

She tilted her head. “I’m here.”

“Promise?”

She didn’t speak right away.

You stood, brushing petals from your skirt, and stepped close enough for your shadow to fall over her. Your hand brushed her shoulder. “Hey. I need you to say yes. I need you to say you want this too.”

Her eyes flicked to your mouth, your nose, your lashes. “You already know I do.”

“But you haven’t said it.”

“I don’t say things I’m afraid of.”

That caught you of guard. “You’re not afraid of me?”

“No,” she agreed, “I’m afraid of losing you.”

That stopped you.

Your fingers froze on her shoulder, and she felt the tiniest tremble under your skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “Unless you kill me, which I have warned you would be deeply counterproductive to our wedding plans.”

“I’m already planning it then.”

You grinned, eyes gleaming, and for once, Wednesday allowed herself to look. Really look.

At the curve of your lip, at the crease beside your nose when you smiled, at the soft flush of your cheeks. She touched your hand. Pressed her thumb into your palm.

“I’m serious,” you said. “Promise not to kill anyone on the day.”

She smirked. “Not even if they’re rude to the florist?”

“I am the florist.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, full and bright and real.

She breathed it in like oxygen.

And she began to believe that maybe—just maybe—she could be something softer. Just for you.

The guillotine was old. Weather-worn wood, chipped and splintered like the bones of an antique. It had taken Wednesday weeks to restore it—polishing each blade support, sharpening the steel until it gleamed like a smile.

He was gagged at first, slumped and bloodied, missing both hands, one leg bound and stitched just enough to keep him breathing. Wednesday had always been meticulous. Every cut had purpose. Every stitch had meaning.

She stood a few feet away, still as stone, black coat moving slightly in the wind. Her hands were bare. No gloves today. Her fingers curled and uncurled slowly at her sides. She held a phone in her left hand.

The right was twitching.

On the ground near her, a phone picture flickered with signal. She’d sent it minutes ago—his face, barely recognizable, eyes wild and swollen, mouth red with spit and screams. And she gave them the address so they would come to save him.

All they had to do was open the door.

“Who the hell are you?!”

It was hoarse. Desperate.

She didn’t move.

“Why are you doing this?! Who the hell are you?! What did I do to you?!”

The words were shredded by pain, but they still stabbed the air. He writhed beneath the frame, muscles shaking, eyes darting in every direction but hers.

Wednesday stared at him, her face unreadable. Not rage. Not triumph. Just a long, heavy stillness like the moment before glass breaks.

He didn’t even remember what he did.

Of course he didn’t. People like him never did because they weren't even people.

Wednesday opened the phone.

The screen lit up in her palm. Her thumb hovered over a file she’d listened to too many times already. It was cracked at the edges now, her phone screen shattered where she’d dropped it once—twice—when the grief had shaken her bones so hard she couldn’t hold anything.

She tapped play.

Your voice came through the speakers, warm and full of life.

“Sorry, we’re closed! Yeah, we stay open from eight a.m. to eight p.m. No exceptions! Thank you!”

She remembered.

She was sitting at home that night. The lights were dim. Your voice had ended in her ear. She had said something back—something simple, probably something dry and sardonic. You would’ve laughed at it. But you didn’t call again.

An hour passed. Then two. Midnight came and went. She told herself you were just working. You’d warned her. You always warned her.

But then one call.

No answer.

Another. Voicemail.

Another.

Then another.

Wednesday never panicked. That was a rule of hers. Panic was for people who had the luxury of helplessness.

But her heart had gone hollow.

She didn’t change. She didn’t grab a weapon. She didn’t even lock her front door. She just walked. All the way to your flower shop.

It was just before dawn when she got there.

The sky was still dark, but the edges were bleeding gold, creeping like guilt. The bell above the frame jingled when she pushed it open. You never locked it properly. You said it made the place feel more welcoming.

Inside, it was too quiet. Far too quiet. Not even the soft humming you sometimes did when arranging bouquets. Not the sound of your little radio. Just... stillness.

The flowers were wrong.

They were wilted. Slumped. Some had fallen from the shelves. The petals were scattered, torn, like they had tried to escape something that came in behind them.

The scent was wrong too. Sweet. And something else. Something sickening. Metallic.

Her boots clicked against the tiles. She didn’t call out. Not yet.

She walked past the counter. Past the shelf where you kept the lavender because you liked its color. Past the wall where your engagement board still had pictures pinned to it—samples, notes, fabric swatches. One of them had fallen to the ground. Her own handwriting stared back at her from it, a single word she’d let you coax out of her weeks ago: Maybe.

There was a bouquet on the counter.

It was half-finished. Carefully chosen. A mixture of deadly plants—your inside joke. Your love language to her. Monkshood. Nightshade. Hemlock. But there were gentle things in it too—carnations, a single lily, even a tucked-in daisy.

You made that for her.

Then she stepped into the greenhouse.

Glass crunched beneath her foot.

And she saw you.

The greenhouse had always been your favorite place. You’d told her you could breathe there. You’d even said once that if you died, you wanted to be surrounded by the things you loved.

You got your wish.

You were laid out like a sleeping bride, lying beneath the skylight. The glass above was shattered. Pale morning light streamed through, illuminating the tiny cuts all over your arms. Your head was tilted slightly to the side, resting against a bed of marigolds.

You were surrounded by flowers.

Your dress had been torn and smoothed again.

Petals were placed in your hair.

Your hands were folded across your stomach, like a child sleeping in a garden bed.

But you weren’t sleeping.

You weren’t breathing.

Your eyes were still open.

Wide. Glassy. Empty.

On the wall above you, scrawled in deep, thick red, were the words:

“Even the most beautiful flowers rot.”

Wednesday did not scream.

She did not collapse.

She did not shake or sob or wail.

She knelt beside you.

Her knees cracked against the glass, but she didn’t care.

She touched your cheek with her bare fingers, brushing a streak of blood that had dried beneath your ear.

You were cold.

She let her thumb rest on your chin. Her hand on your collarbone. She traced the curve of your jaw the way she’d done a hundred times before.

You didn’t move.

Her eyes didn’t well. Her mouth didn’t tremble.

Her breath stayed steady. Controlled. Slow.

But her hands shook.

Her hands shook so violently she had to clench them into fists just to keep touching you.

She pressed her forehead against yours.

She stayed like that for a long, long time.

And when she finally pulled back—

She made a promise.

Slowly.

She didn’t cry at the funeral.

Not when Enid sobbed shaking and muttering things like, “She was so kind,” and “She made everyone feel safe.” Not even when Weems paused mid-speech, voice cracking as she said your name. Wednesday just stood there, hands clasped tightly in front of her, face like marble.

She didn’t cry during the burial.

Not when the coffin—your coffin—was slowly lowered into the earth, and the sound of the dirt hitting the lid echoed through the tight silence like gunshots.

Not when her father quietly stepped behind her, placing a warm hand on her shoulder with a kind of restraint Wednesday didn’t have the energy to analyze. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. No one really knew what to say to her. No one could fathom what your death meant to her. And if they had tried—she might have killed them too.

The only time she moved was when Enid leaned in to sob against her shoulder, and even then, Wednesday didn’t flinch—just allowed it, like a statue accepting offerings. Her eyes were focused on your name etched into the granite headstone. Clean. Polished. Final. It didn’t feel real.

Later that night, she went back.

The flower shop still bore the yellow caution tape across the doorway. It had become a symbol of everything she devoted her life too... a crime scene. She stepped through the yellow tape without hesitation, her boots crunching on the broken remains of your shop's heart. The place didn’t look like yours anymore. Not the way she remembered it. It had always smelled like fresh earth and life and the odd sweetness the flowers.... of you. But now, the air was heavy with dried blood and rotting blooms.

She imagined you standing there, maybe working on a bouquet, maybe laughing about a weird customer, maybe humming that ridiculous song you always sang when you thought no one was listening. She imagined you glancing up at the sound of the door. Smiling, welcoming. Then confusion. Discomfort.

She saw it all in her mind. You stepping forward, asking if he needed help. Him smiling back, reaching out—not to shake your hand or take a bouquet, but to grab the ceramic pot on the edge of the shelf and slam it into the floor. Shards flying. You stumbling back. That confusion turning into fear. A scream building in your throat—but he moved faster.

She could see it in flashes, like a strobe light of horror. His hands, the knife, your blood against the daffodils. She saw him pose you afterward, like a child setting up a tea party. Flowers in your hair. A performance. An insult. She imagined it all, and still… she didn’t cry.

The crime scene investigators had done their job. They’d taken photos, collected samples, made lists, labeled everything. But they hadn’t found him. And they hadn’t let her help.

“You’re too close to the victim,” they’d said.

“She was my fiancée,” she’d answered.

They still said no.

So she didn’t ask again.

She remembered the moment clearly. The moment she decided. The precise second she rewrote her entire to-do list with a single item: destroy him.

It wasn’t rage. Rage would’ve burned her out. It was something quieter, colder. Like slipping into a second skin. She watched herself from a distance, her own grief turning into focus.

She was going to kill him. But not like the others.

This wasn’t going to be efficient, or quiet, or merciful.

No, this time… she was going to take her time.

She closed her eyes.

The memories came uninvited. You laughing, your eyes crinkling in that way that made her stomach ache. You holding up a bouquet and saying, “Guess what this means?” You pulling her down to your level and tucking a flower behind her ear. You whispering against her mouth, “I love you more than all of them combined.”

Wednesday opened her eyes again. And this time, they burned.

But still, she didn’t cry.

Instead, she turned and walked back through the wreckage, her footsteps slow and deliberate. Every petal on the floor, every dried bloom, every bit of dirt clinging to the walls—she took it all in. She carved it into her memory. The scene of the crime, yes. But also the final place you existed. The last time you were alive in color.

By the time she stepped out into the night, she already knew how it would end.

He was going to suffer. And she was going to watch every moment of it.

Not for justice.

Not for closure.

But because she couldn’t scream, couldn’t cry, couldn’t breathe—not until he understood what it meant to destroy something beautiful.

The days blurred together in an endless cycle of silence and torment, and Wednesday never once allowed herself to break it.

Every moment, every minute she spent hunting him, tracking his every step, felt like something she could not pull herself out of.

The man was just a reflection of everything she despised—someone who had seen beauty and crushed it with no second thought. He didn’t just take a life; he took a piece of everything that could’ve been.

So, she hunted him. She tracked him like prey, never letting him slip from her grasp. She would come to him in the night, shadows in the alley, outside his car, standing just far enough to see the panic rise in his chest when he realized she was there. He would tremble, stare into the coldness of her eyes, but he never knew where the danger truly came from.

She tortured him slowly, steadily, as she listened to the one thing she couldn’t escape—the calls she had recorded, the calls that felt like the last connection she had to you.

Your voice, soft and melodic, filled the empty spaces as Wednesday stood in the dark. It was a constant. A reminder of you. A reminder of how she failed you.

And now, she is standing there, a few feet away from man tied to the guillotine, for her final act.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” she would hear you say. “Yeah, we stay open from eight a.m. to eight p.m. No exceptions! Thank you!”

The man’s eyes widened, his face paling as he connected the dots. He laughed. A low, bitter chuckle that sent a cold shiver through the air. “I remember now...” he said between fits of laughter. “So it is because of that florist!” His laugh echoed through the room, a sound full of self-satisfaction and madness. “That’s what this is all about. Her, right?”

The sound of his amusement made Wednesday’s chest tighten, a slow-burning rage igniting in the pit of her stomach.

"It was all so simple. I had my fun killing her just like I killed so many, and you’re just another one of those people who got caught up in it. And now you think you can kill me, but what’s the point? You’ve already lost, haven’t you?”

The man’s laugh only increased in volume, like the sound of a fire crackling as it devoured everything in its path. Wednesday didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed steady. Calm.

“You can kill me if you want, but you’ll never get the satisfaction. Because I already won, and you lost! . It won’t even matter in the end. It won't even have an effect!"

The laughter grew louder. He seemed to relish in the moment, his mind broken by the realization. And yet, he has no idea... what revenge does to a person...

Without hesitation, Wednesday stuffed the rope into his mouth. She made him bite down on it, securing it between his teeth.

“Do you really think it won’t leave an effect?” she whispered, her voice soft but carrying an edge that was unmistakable. The rope was tied to the front door. If anyone opened it, if anyone walked through that threshold, the rope would snap. And the guillotine would fall. It was simple. But it was enough. It would be enough for him to understand the pain he had put her through.

The sound of footsteps outside.

His face went pale, his eyes widening as the panic began to swallow him whole. He started to struggle, trying to twist against the rope.

He realized the truth then. His family was there. His wife, his children, his father—he could hear them outside, their voices getting louder as they neared. He could feel the panic creeping into his chest, suffocating him as the reality of what was happening hit him.

“No! No!” he screamed, his voice muffled by the rope. “You can’t—don’t—please don’t let them—”

Wednesday didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. His eyes were wide, frantic, as he listened to the footsteps outside, getting closer. He was starting to beg. The fear was raw in his voice, in the way his body trembled. But Wednesday didn’t respond. She stood still, her face unreadable, her heart as cold as the blade hovering above him. The room was silent except for his frantic breathing and the distant voices of his family, unaware of the horror that was about to unfold.

She turned on her heel and left through the back door, the cool night air greeting her like an old friend. The sound of her boots echoed in the stillness as she walked away, each step measured, deliberate. She wasn’t in a hurry. There was no need to rush. The world would keep turning, and she would keep walking.

The sound of the front door opening reached her ears, faint at first. But then, the rope snapped. The guillotine blade fell with a deafening clang.

And then, the scream.

A woman’s scream. High-pitched, raw, full of terror. . It was followed by other screams, other cries of horror.

But Wednesday didn’t turn around. She didn’t look back. She just kept walking.

The sound of their screams faded behind her, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Not anymore.

She just kept walking. Further. Further still. Away from everything. Away from the memories, the pain, the loss. Away from the life she had once known. The night stretched before her, silent, empty. She still didn’t feel anything.

She just walked. And kept walking.

And she knew where she had to go.

The bell above the door no longer chimed.

It was rusted now, stuck in place as if even it had no strength left to announce visitors to a store that no longer served the living.

Every time she’d walked through this door in the past—always reluctantly, always pretending she didn’t care—it would chime, this tiny, inconsequential sound that somehow made her feel like she was walking into a different world. A ridiculous little fairy tale. One of scent and color and... you.

Now it didn’t.

The warmth was gone. The smell, too—no more freshly cut stems, no more lavender oil misting the corners, no more petals underfoot like fallen laughter.

Just rot.

Dust in sunbeams.

And dried flowers that sagged from their hooks like mourning veils.

She stepped in slowly, boots echoing across the cracked hardwood floor. Her coat was heavier now, not from weight, but from silence. From everything she carried in her lungs, her mouth, her heart. Her ribs felt like cages, like graves.

Inside, everything was as she remembered it—and not. Counters still in place. Shelves still lined with empty pots, ribbons limp and curled from moisture.

But the flowers… the flowers were no longer alive. They drooped where they hung, their colors now brittle whispers of what they used to be. Roses that once blushed scarlet were the color of rusted wine. Daisies had curled in on themselves. The baby’s breath looked like bone dust.

The register sat lifeless. Your little stool was still tucked behind the counter, where you'd prop your foot on the lower rung and scribble ideas on sticky notes—"wedding theme: wildflower forest?" "ask Mrs. Delaney if she likes callas again!" "tell Wednesday she's beautiful (deathwish!)"

She walked slowly. Past the counter where you used to perch on your elbows and pester her with questions you already knew the answers to. Past the vase with the crack she refused to fix because “imperfection is character.”

She moved without purpose until she reached it.

The greenhouse. The floor.

The spot where your blood had dried.

It had been cleaned, of course. The investigators, the forensics team. It wasn’t visible now.

She reached into her coat pocket, past the dagger, past the photo she’d taken of him as he screamed, and found her phone.

She didn’t look at it. She just unlocked it by feel. Muscle memory.

The screen flickered for a moment.

Then: RECORDED AUDIO CALL — March 17, 9:47 PM.

“Wednesday?”

Your tone was warm. Light. Sweet in a way that clutched at her ribs and twisted.

“Oh! Okay, you picked up. I thought you were gonna let it ring again just to scare me.”

You giggled. That sound. That sound.

"Oh me? I finished an insane bridal order, one with the thousands of flowers and zero sense of proportion. I swear, that woman thinks flowers grow from credit cards.”

Another breathless laugh. She hadn’t realized she’d leaned closer to the phone until she could hear the faintest buzz of the old recording.

“Anyway, I made you a little something. A bouquet. But not like a romantic one—I mean, yes, obviously romantic, but like... us-romantic, not generic-romantic. It’s black dahlias, white lilacs, and one single daisy. Guess what the daisy’s for. Go on, guess.”

The recording was quiet for a beat.

You chuckled again. “Wrong. It’s for Enid. She dropped in today and told me she misses you. I told her you miss her too and she made that little squeak she does when she gets excited.”

She remembered that squeak. It had annoyed her.

It broke her now.

“I miss you too, you know,” you continued, softer now. “Like… really miss you. Even tho had lunch together only a few hours ago. I know it’s stupid but you make me feel stupid.”

Wednesday’s hand gripped the phone tighter.

“Do you ever think about what it’ll be like when we move in together?” you asked. “Like... actually live together? I mean, I’m messy. You’re... you. We’ll probably fight over drawer space and you’ll threaten to hex my slippers.”

A pause. A breath. You smiled again. She could hear it.

“But I think we’ll figure it out. I really want that, Wednesday. Us. I want to argue about dinner and hold your hand at 3 a.m. because I had a nightmare that you would call "sweat dream." ”

She was shaking now. She didn’t realize when it started.

“God, I sound clingy,” you said, laughing softly. “I swear I’m not! Okay, maybe a little. Okay maybe a lot! But you love that, right? Say you love that. Say you love me.”

Wednesday’s jaw clenched. Her throat ached with something ancient.

The call kept playing.

“Fine! Still worth a try. You know what I realized today?” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s no one I want to call at the end of the day but you. No one I want to share all this with. Even the dumb parts. Especially the dumb parts.”

Her vision was going blurry.

“I love you, Wednesday Addams. I love you so much it’s kind of terrifying.”

She closed her eyes. Her nails dug into her palm. She remembered the way she’d sat there that day, silent, listening to you say those words. And not saying them back.

She hadn’t said them back.

She should've said them back...

“I know you’re not great at feelings,” your voice said gently. “And that’s okay. I’ll carry the feelings for both of us. I’ll carry all of it, if you let me.”

And then—your smile again, alive in your words.

“Okay, that’s enough sappy nonsense. I’m gonna go get some food and then fall asleep surrounded by empty ribbon spools like a tired goblin. Goodnight, my love. Talk to you tomorrow.”

The call ended.

Silence fell again, deafening.

Wednesday stared at the screen. At your name. The last of you, trapped in a speaker, looped in time.

She tried to swallow. Her chest didn’t move.

Her hand fell limply to her lap, phone still in it.

The first sob escaped before she could kill it.

It tore from her throat like it had claws.

She fell on her knees, folding in on herself as if trying to make her body small enough to disappear.

The sound that came from her mouth was not human. It was grief in its rawest form—broken, bloody, bare, clawing its way up from a place deeper than marrow. Her shoulders shook with the weight of it. Her hands trembled as she covered her face. She tried to contain it, tried to trap it behind her teeth like everything else, but it spilled out anyway.

Sobs tore through her.

Violent. Heaving. Shattering.

She cried like she was trying to bring you back. Like if she cried hard enough, the flowers would listen. That the pressed petals on the shelves would breathe again. That your laughter might echo down the hall. That time might open a door and let you walk through it.

She gasped for air between sobs that didn’t stop. Her fists clenched in her lap until her nails carved crescents into her palms. Her face was wet, red, contorted in a way it had never been allowed to be.

And she hated it.

She hated how much it hurt. She hated how empty her vengeance had felt. How no amount of screaming or slicing or orchestrated executions could fill the space you left behind. She had tied your murderer’s fate to his own family. She had set the guillotine. She had delivered death with poetry.

And none of it changed anything.

You were still gone.

She sobbed.

Loud, broken, primal. The kind of sound a person makes when nothing is left. When even memory turns to dust in their throat.

She screamed your name once. It cracked mid-syllable.

Her hands clutched a wilted daisy from the floor. The petals crumbled in her palm.

“You were a flower,” she whispered, her voice foreign and cracked and barely human.

She closed her eyes.

“You were the only thing I ever believed in.”

Her body shook with the weight of it. With the memory of your laugh. Your voice. The way you’d say her name like it meant something good. Like she meant something good.

“So why didn’t they save you?” she whispered. “Why didn’t the flowers save you?”

Silence. Her nails dug into the floor.

No answer came.

Only the sound of her breathing too hard. Of her tears hitting the ground. Of the shop creaking with the wind from outside, where it was still night. Where the world still spun without you in it.

She looked up. At the hanging bundles above her—flowers you once raised, once spoke to, once loved.

They were silent now.

Ashamed.

And then she asked the question.

The question that had no one left to answer.

“Are flowers even real?”

[Author's note: Yeah, this is very much inspired from a movie, guess it in the comments, also let me now how did this angst feel lol.]

Taglist: @rqizzu @sevyscoven @kingoftheracoons @kingofthings2 @masterofpuppets-10 @alexkolax @ognenniyvolk @mally-ka @protozoario @machyishere @freakshow2501 @101rizzlrr @jinxslapdog @just-zy @gray-cheese @hellenheaven @blue-because-no-yellow @thyhooligans

[spiritsncrystals]

New Forging bonds Shitposts

[botanistlester]

The Most Beautiful Forbidden Fruit

Summary: In a world where witches and humans live side-by-side, a war breaks out after the two species procreate, producing bloodthirsty children. As a result, the government puts laws into place: Witches and humans must never fall in love or bear children. It’s a rule that Dan Howell and his family have lived hand-in-hand with, even going so far as to make sure that Dan never has prolonged contact with the other species. When Dan goes to his favourite magic shop one day, he meets the new employee, Phil Lester. A human who he can’t seem to get rid of. Warnings: violence, prejudice/discrimination, burning at the stake, mentions of death, blood, alcohol A/N: Holy fuck. it has been WAY too long since i've attacked this fic. i'm seriously so sorry, guys. I've had a lot going on recently and this semester at uni was absolute hell. I'm hoping to get back to this fic soon as i absolutely love the idea so much and have most of it planned out. Thanks so much for sticking with me anyways! Love you all!

Read it on AO3 Read it on Wattpad

Masterpost

-

Chapter Seven

It’s been weeks since Dan had first met Phil and he was already starting to feel considerably more relaxed around him. He didn’t get as worked up whenever Phil’s skin brushed against his own and he didn’t even panic all that much either. Of course, he still had those moments of anxiety where he wondered how he was even talking to a human, but that quickly passed when Phil’s gentle blue eyes glinted back at him.

Because that was why he was talking to a human. Phil was hands-down one of the nicest people Dan had ever met and he slowly found that he wanted to know more about him. But how could Dan bring up that fact without utterly embarrassing himself? Or making it seem like Dan wanted to go on a date? He didn’t want to go on a date. Not with Phil. Not with anybody. But mainly not with another human when it risked Dan losing his wonderful powers.

“Dude,” Louise said flatly one night as she was closing up the shop. She gave Dan an unimpressed look as he balanced on the edge of the glass display cabinet. “You gotta ask him to hang out sometime. I know you’re still going through your weird anti-human thing, but you live in the same building for god’s sake. You already know you have a lot in common because you gushed about Muse and anime for two hours straight. But even so, every time you see him, you look like you’re going to shit your pants.”

Dan glared at her. “I do n-!”

Louise stood up straight, pulling her wand out of her pocket and slapping it on the wooden wall with a loud thwak! “You do. And I think it’s time for an intervention.” Before Dan could ask what in the hell she meant by that, the tip of her wand was glowing brightly and Dan’s phone was flying out of his hands and into Louise’s own.

“Hey!” Dan screeched, lunging towards her. She stopped him with a simple flick of her wand and he was suspended in air, stuck, watching as she easily unlocked his phone and visibly typed out a message. “Can you at least let me know what you’re saying?” Dan whined, pouting his lip out and feeling fear flash through him so strong that he wondered how he hadn’t been flung backwards with the force of it.

Louise rolled her eyes. There was the distinctive noise of the sent message tone going off on Dan’s phone and he blanched. “I just asked him if he wanted to go to a human-friendly witch bar with you tonight.”

“A bar? Tonight?!”

“A bar,” Louise said slowly, as if Dan was stupid. He wasn’t stupid, just nervous. “Tonight.” Dan was about to curse at her, already planning which spell he was going to cast on her for revenge that night, when his phone let out a shrill whine. He got a text. Louise’s eyes immediately lit up and she pumped her fists in the air. Dan’s heart sank and his body lowered to the floor with it, finally in control of his limbs again.

He snatched the phone out of Louise’s hands, heart pounding in his chest.

Phil Lester That sounds great! I’ll be at yours around nine?

Dan looked at the clock. It was eight. He cursed under his breath. “Mother fucking bitch,” Dan hissed, scrabbling around for the rest of his supplies that he’d bought. He was considerably low on dragon’s breath and poison ivy so he’d run by the Witch’s Cauldron for some and ended up staying until close just chatting up with his best friend. But now it seemed as if his actions were being payed for and he didn’t know whether to be pissed or anxious. “I hate you so much, you know that?” Dan growled, stalking towards the door.

Louise’s laugh followed him out as the door swung shut behind me. “You’ll be thanking me later!” She called. Dan doubted it.

Don’t get him wrong, Phil was a nice guy. That much was obvious. But he was a human. Dan and humans didn’t get along. He didn’t mind them, of course. He just got so nervous and became a bumbling fool around them, not really knowing what to do or how he should act. Should he talk about the new bottle of fish eyes he had to get for one of his potions? Should he talk about how his cat kept throwing up after Dan accidentally burnt a shitton of sage?

Dan wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know because he’d never had to deal with this sort of thing before.

He paused outside of his apartment for a bit too long, trying to calm himself down. He couldn’t be worked up when Phil got here because it would make him more of a bumbling fool in the first place. So he just breathed for a moment, closing his eyes and trying to pretend like Phil was just another witch.

Except he wasn’t. And Dan was screwed.

Chamomile pounced on him as soon as the door opened, making him cough as cat hair flung into his mouth. “Dan! I smell anxiety and teenage hormones!”

“What the fuck do you mean by teenage hormones?” Dan grumbled, detaching his cat from his face and setting her on his shoulder instead. He made his way to the bathroom, making sure that his hair was presentable and he didn’t look like a complete funeral. He was wearing all black, as per usual, but he decided not to change anyways.

“You smell like angst and worries. What’s going on?”

Dan sighed and sorted his hair out, splashing cold water over his cheeks to try and calm himself down. “I’m going to a witch bar with Phil.”

Chamomile gaped at him. “But- that’s awesome! You can finally get to know him better!”

Dan didn’t think she understands. But then again, she is a cat so what could he expect really? “He’s just-”

“A human, I know. But who cares? I thought you were over that.”

“I just get nervous,” Dan mumbled.

Chamomile sighed and laid down on his shoulders so she was literally a giant fluffy scarf around his neck. It was comforting, especially with the way her purrs felt like a little massage on his skin. “Just be yourself. There’s nothing to be worried about. You and Phil have been getting along great and he’s a really nice guy. I’m sure there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door and Dan visibly paled. “It’s Phil,” he said dumbly.

“So open the door,” Chamomile replied gently.

Dan did. Even though he knew who it was, he was still surprised to see Phil’s face staring straight back at him. His eyes were shining and his cheeks were tinted a nice peony colour. “Dan!” He exclaimed, and Dan had a moment where he could have sworn Phil was going to hug him.

He didn’t, and Dan didn’t know why he was a bit disappointed by that. “Hey, Phil. You want to come in or should we just go to the bar now?”

Phil shrugged, grinning. “Up to you. I’m fine with leaving now if you’re ready though.”

Dan agreed. What else could he do now, anyways? He’d already had his daily dose of anxiety, and now it was just time to act on it. Without any further contemplation, Dan grabbed his jacket and followed Phil into the cool air of the night. He’d decided to go to a fairly close human-friendly bar called The Brew, which he’d only been to once. From what he remembered, it was a very nice place with decent alcohol. To humans, it’d probably be about ten thousand times better than just regular bars, but to Dan it wasn’t anything unusual.

So when they walked in, Dan couldn’t help his initial first reaction at being surprised when Phil let out an amazed gasp. “What?” Dan asked, eyebrows raised with amusement.

Phil was gaping, his mouth dropped in awe. His eyes were shining, glittering in the dancing lights, and he looked even more pale in the darkness. “This is… this is bloody amazing!”

The remark made Dan try to look at it from a human’s perspective when he took another glance around. There was fog that crept over the floor without the usage of any fog machines. Lanterns floated in the air, flashing different colours, and there was the faint smell of lavender and vanilla in the air despite the sweaty and alcohol-ridden bodies. Artwork hung from the walls and the portraits moved, seemed to be dancing with the throng of people. As they walked further inside, they were each handed a crystal necklace that glowed in the dark. Phil’s crystal was blue and Dan’s was pink, just like his wand.

Dan smiled a bit, finally understanding why Phil was in such shock about this. Compared to a normal human bar, this one was like a fantasy come to life. But to Dan? This was normal. It was fucking amazing.

“Well are you going to keep standing there?” Dan teased, grabbing Phil’s wrist and tugging him over to where he saw the bartender balancing six shot glasses on each arm, a bottle of vodka magically pouring itself into them. “Or are we going to have some fun?”

Needless to say, Dan didn’t have to ask Phil twice before he was ordering six shots of whiskey. The only problem that Dan’s ever found with a witch bar is that the alcohol was way too strong. Compared to a human bar, Dan got blackout drunk far quicker than he’d ever anticipated so he always tried not to go over three shots of whatever the hell he was drinking. He tried to tell Phil but before he could get the words out, Phil was on his fifth shot and was giggling over the stupidest things that he could think of. Dan couldn’t say much because he was giggly as well, just a little bit less so than his human friend.

“There’s a freaking goose on the dance floor!” Phil cackled.

Dan looked. There was a fucking goose on the dance floor. He snorted, accidentally inhaling some of his drink through his nose and coughing violently. “Why- why’s there a goose in here?” Dan snickered, wiping off his nose and putting his hands on his cheeks to try to cool himself down. It was getting hot in here.

“You’re the witch, you tell me!” Phil shot back. He was laughing so hard that he leaned against Dan, the bare skin of their arms touching and sending a weird buzzing feeling through Dan’s entire body. He tried not to pay too much attention to it. Instead, he continued to stare at the goose, trying to figure out why there was a fucking goose in there.

Eventually they downed the rest of their beverages and got up to join the goose on the dance floor. They danced and laughed and spun around until Dan could have sworn he was going to be sick, and he had to wipe his eyes when the goose suddenly turned into a person. He almost had forgotten that witches were a thing at that point, but realised all too late that a witch had probably turned the human into a goose for some odd reason.

He didn’t care. He was too drunk to think about it that hard. And Phil was too, by the looks of it.

“This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” Phil yelled over the booming music. He was doing a weird dance move that made him look like a white dad at a barbeque, but Dan wasn’t judging him because he probably looked the same.

Dan grinned back at him, watching as the floating lanterns made Phil’s eyes shine in the darkness. “Me too, I haven’t felt this relaxed in ages.” He threw his head back and laughed, almost stumbling over, but Phil was right there to catch him, to steady him and make sure he didn’t fall. Instead, Dan was collapsing into Phil, his head on his shoulder and a stupid grin on his face that wouldn’t go away. His voice was breathy when he said, “I guess humans aren’t so bad, are they?”

Phil giggled and his lips were right by Dan’s ear so he could hear him. “That’s what everyone’s been trying to tell you, you idiot.”

When they stumbled to Dan’s flat at one o’clock in the morning, Dan didn’t have to think twice before inviting Phil to stay. Even though they were both pretty trashed, it was entirely too innocent as Dan fell onto his bed, watching through half lidded eyes as Phil stumbled onto the other side of the bed. He didn’t have the heart to tell Phil to get off of his bed, not when he seemed so tired that he looked as if he was going to pass out right then and there.

So Dan just let him stay. He’d had a great time that night anyways and he figured it was only normal for friends to sleep in the same bed together. Because that’s what friends did, and Phil was Dan’s friend.

Friends. The word lifted a huge weight off of Dan’s shoulders and suddenly he wondered why he was so afraid of humans in the first place.

And if Chamomile was so quiet as Dan drifted to bed, he didn’t even notice. He was too tired, too drunk, to care at all.