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Pugsley Addams was many things, but dense wasn't one of them. He wasn't stupid, far from it, he was just so desperately naive for some sort of human connection beyond his father that he'd purposefully blinded himself even if he knew there was danger involved. It was one thing to be too weird to normies, but at Nevermore? It had him speculating that maybe his only relationships would be those that were forced-like family, but even then Wednesday could hardly be bothered to pay him any mind, and not in her love language way, not in her 'I'm pretending to dislike you but I don't really think so lowly of you.' way, but rather in a way where she'd rather forget he even existed-like the absence of his presence was somehow freeing to her, and Pugsley couldn't exactly say that he blamed her. He was a lousy excuse of a brother, son, a person in general. (He'd of added friend, but considering he was currently tied and gagged by the only one who'd ever reciprocated? He couldn't say that was a word he'd use to describe himself anymore.)
Had he just hung around the wrong people? Or was he just that unlikeable? That crazy yet dull that even when kidnapped he could sense hurtful things being said about him-other than Slurp Isaac, who seemed hellbent on verbally abusing Pugsley every second he wasn't obsessing over his sister, which Pugsley didn't fully understand-yes, he'd treated him like a pet, but essentially wasn't he one at that time? Who'd resuscitated him? Who'd fed him? He didn't have to do that-he could've turned him in or left him there to fully regenerate on his own-but he'd helped, and that's what hurt-what made the torture, kidnapping, gagging, chains, and verbal disputes scare him-because he'd trusted him, and now he was tied up in a random house. The metal cuff around his neck was a bit too big for him, but every time Slurp Isaac tugged on the chain connected to it, he could feel his skin starting to rub off and become raw and his vocal cords scrape along the inside of his neck-making him choke on the gag or his own tongue every single time, making him look and feel more pathetic than he already was.
Cold skin touched his own, temperatures matching, forcing him to reopen his sore, stinging eyes and make eye contact with his first, and possibly last ever friend, meeting the same cruel yet amused look he'd gotten since he turned up to the graveyard. Through the cuffs and mitts, he anxiously dug at the palms of his hands and twitched his fingers against each other, wincing slightly at the unclipped dirtied fingernails digging into his plush cheeks-not enough to hurt, just to sting, a constant reminder that he wasn't even worth properly torturing, threatening, or killing-this was all for Wednesday-for his parents-but when had it not been? His own kidnapping couldn't even be about him-how fucked up was that? If he was going to be forced to sacrifice his powers-and inevitably his life-from a mass murderer, kidnapper, and former zombie, he'd prefer for it to be personal with him, not his family.
"I can't believe you ever thought I could like you, that you could ever be liked by anyone, you may look and have the title of an Addams, but we both know you're not. As airheaded and infuriating as your father was at times, he was still useful and entertaining enough to be a friend, my best friend, you're just you, just a poorer, sloppier, dumber version of him, it's no wonder it was easy to abduct you-who'd ever notice your absence?" Pugsley forced himself to stare at the ground-despite Slurp Isaac trying to forcefully maintain eye contact-for whatever reason. "You're like a dog, you know that? Once a too kicked around puppy turned into a desperate for love dumb dog, a pathetic mutt looking for something-anything to sink your teeth into, so much so that when your own kind rejected you from the pack, you came for an entirely new species, one that no one could've known was even an actual thing, yet your pure naivety created it-this is your own fault, really, I almost feel bad for you, pup." He'd tuned him out-mostly. The dog talk wasn't really working(it was), he wasn't a werewolf and he sure as hell wasn't a dumb dog, a kicked puppy? Yeah, he'd known that for awhile, but that's all he was-that's all he'd let himself think he was-because if a literal zombie was right about who he was? It wasn't a good look-or mentality for himself.
For once he was glad that he'd been gagged, because he didn't want to say anything, he didn't have anything to say anyway, this was more for his captor than it was for him-something that was becoming increasingly clear-he had some sort of power play complex, now Pugsley missed the days where he couldn't talk. He'd rather be friends with a braindead, rotted skin sack, incoherent zombie if it meant that he still felt somewhat liked, missed, or important. His somewhat acquaintance with Eugene was fine, he could bear it, but that didn't mean that it didn't leave a hole in his chest that he'd dug out himself in expectance for some sort of friendship. Did he even want to be saved? Go back to the fake facade of his empty life and continue to only be missed if it felt necessary? No. Maybe. Kind of. There wasn't really a solid answer for that one, or any of the questions he'd been asking himself. What would come of being saved? A day or two of small affections and ingenuine 'I was so worried about you!'s? No thanks-scratch that actually, that would feel nice enough to keep him afloat for the next year.
So, sure, his wrists may be numb, his neck may be raw, the room may be cold and uncomfortable in an unpleasant way, but the promise of atleast two concerned glances shot his way? That made it all worth it.