“Jealous jealous jealous boy”Part 2
Summery: Where Pugsley is jealous of Eugene because he spends time with you, and he secretly has a crush on you.
“Hey, Pugsley,” a cold voice suddenly said behind him.
He turned sharply. This time it wasn’t Wednesday.
You were standing there, a curious look on your face and a notebook clutched to your chest.
“I’ve been looking for you.” You tilted your head. “Eugene said you were somewhere around the greenhouse… Are you okay? You left so suddenly.”
Pugsley’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment he was sure his heart had stopped altogether.
“I… yeah,” he muttered, staring at the ground. “Just needed some air.”
You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “You look upset.”
The last rays of sunlight tangled in your hair, and for the first time in his life Pugsley Addams forgot what he was going to say.
“I’m not,” he whispered, then cleared his throat. “I mean— I’m fine. Really.”
You didn’t look convinced. A soft frown appeared between your brows. “If it’s about what happened in alchemy class… I didn’t tell anyone. I swear.”
A bitter smile tugged at his lips. So that’s what you thought – that he was embarrassed. But embarrassment would have been easy. This was something else. Something much worse.
“It’s not that,” he said — more firmly this time. Then in the same breath, terrified that he’d lose his nerve if he hesitated, he blurted out: “Do you… want to hang out tomorrow? Just you and me.”
You blinked. The surprise in your eyes made his pulse skyrocket.
“Me and you?” You repeated softly.
He nodded, staring straight at you this time. “Yeah. Maybe we could go to the lake. Or… I could show you the wolf traps I made.” He winced. Wrong example — very Addams. “I mean— unless that’s too weird—”
You laughed. A genuine, warm, beautiful laugh.
“Pugsley,” you smiled, and his name had never sounded so gentle before. “I’d like that. A lot.”
He froze. Then slowly, like the first spark of fire catching dry wood, a small smile appeared on his face.
“Tomorrow then,” he said quietly.
“Tomorrow,” you echoed, beginning to walk back toward the dorms. After a few steps, you turned back to him. “And Pugsley?”
“I smile for you too.” With that, you disappeared down the path, leaving him rooted on the spot.
For a few seconds, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe — then he threw his head back and exhaled, a shaky laugh slipping out.
The next day arrived far too slowly for Pugsley’s liking. Every second of class felt like an eternity, and even Wednesday’s thinly veiled sarcastic remarks couldn’t distract him. He checked the clock at least twenty times, convinced that time itself had turned against him.
When the final bell rang, he was already heading toward the courtyard, hands stuffed deep in his pockets to hide how badly they were trembling.
You were waiting for him.
You weren’t talking to Eugene. You weren’t laughing with anyone else. You were standing by the stone fountain, hugging your backpack, looking around – looking for him.
The second your eyes met his, you smiled.
He swallowed and nodded stiffly. “Yeah.”
You walked side by side, heading out toward the forest path that led to the lake. It was quiet – the kind of quiet that might have been awkward with anyone else, but somehow with you it felt… right.
“I brought these,” you said suddenly, digging into your bag and pulling out two small paper bags.
Pugsley blinked. “What’s that?”
“Snacks.” You gave a little shrug. “In case we get hungry. Also—” You hesitated, then added shyly, “I was thinking… maybe after the lake, we could watch a movie? I ‘borrowed’ the projector from the literature club.”
“A movie?” he repeated, as if the word were foreign.
You nodded, nervously biting your lip. “Only if you want to.”
He would burn down the whole school for the chance to spend another hour with you.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, but with more confidence than he’d ever had. “I’d really like that.”
The lake trip passed in a blur of laughter and shy glances. You listened to him talk about his traps and experiments, and instead of teasing him like most people did—you asked questions. Real questions.
By the time you both headed back toward Nevermore, the sky had already turned a deep purple.
You helped him set up the projector in an empty classroom. You dragged a few chairs together and tossed a blanket over them like a fort. It was ridiculous and childish and perfect.
“What should we watch?” you asked, flipping through a stack of dusty old DVDs.
Pugsley hesitated. “Uh… maybe something scary?”
You glanced at him over your shoulder, a mischievous twinkle in your eyes. “Scary? I didn’t think you were the type to comfort someone if they got scared.”
He opened his mouth—and then realized what you were doing.
“Oh,” he mumbled, cheeks heating up. “Right.”
You laughed softly and held up The Lost Souls of Chernobog Forest.
He nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
A few minutes later, the classroom was lit only by the flickering light of the projector. You sat beside him, knees brushing, the shared blanket draped over both your shoulders.
Every time something terrifying happened on screen, Pugsley glanced sideways—not at the monster—but at you. You weren’t screaming. You weren’t hiding your face.
But every now and then, your hand inched just a little bit closer to his.
And then, halfway through the film, when the tension in the air was thicker than the fog on screen, your fingers finally slipped into his.
Pugsley forgot the movie. He forgot his name. All he knew was the warmth of your hand and the thunder in his chest.
Maybe tomorrow he would say it out loud.
But for now, this was enough.
“Hey, I was just—” Eugene froze.
In the doorway, holding a tray of honey cakes and looking utterly stunned, was Eugene.
His eyes widened as he took in the scene: the two of you curled up together, your head on Pugsley’s shoulder, his fingers still gently laced with yours.
For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then, lips quirking into a tiny smile of surprise (and maybe a bit of understanding), he took a quiet step back and carefully pulled the door closed again.
From the other side of the door, he whispered to himself:
