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"*Wosh u boat."
"*Tra la la. The water is very dusty today." You didn't even bother to turn around while addressing the walking washtub that was most definitely scowling with disgust at the murky dampness. After a moment, he stepped on board. Again. Just like he did the last three times.
The streets were always disaster zone of dust and filth, but they must have been even worse than usual that day if Woshua wasn't even bothering to argue further.
He spent the ride from Hotland to Waterfall attempting to rinse away the assorted sins of who knows how many monsters, occasionally scrabbling his claws against a stubborn stain. You hummed a tune that you thought might be familiar, but you couldn't remember where from.
Maybe the surface. It might have been something you heard as a child.
Maybe a past that was undone. There might've been a lot of those.
You wouldn't know.
Not about the big ones, anyway.
A few hours here, a week or so there. It could get disorienting, but you could at least remember those.
But Flowey said he sometimes went back years at a time. That sometimes he scrapped the whole thing and went back as far as he could. That he'd try everything just to see what would happen.
Change who allied with whom. What information got overheard. Who lived and who died.
He'd definitely seen your death. He told you how to avoid it so many times.
He might've even killed you.
But you didn't remember, so why worry about it?
Woshua had barely set foot on the Waterfall dock when you again arrived in Hotland to the same dour-faced germaphobe scowling at the sight of dusty water.
"*Wosh u boat."
"*Tra la la. The water is very dusty today."
This was the first time—that you could remember, of course—that Flowey's had to go back so often in a single day. Let alone a single hour.
It shouldn't have been surprising.
Just a few days ago you two split a bag of cinnamon bunnies to celebrate how much time had really, actually passed since the last time he'd gone all the way back. More time than ever before, according to him. It wasn't quite a birthday, but it seemed like a nice gesture anyway.
Growing just a little older seemed like a lot, under the circumstances.
But that meant he didn't know what would happen next.
The scorching air of Hotland had barely made way to Waterfall's mugginess when you pulled up to the Hotland dock and a grumpy Woshua. Again.
"*Wosh u boat."
The hell is Flowey even doing?
This was the fifth morning in a row, now. Five mornings and it never reaches noon.
Flowey had never experienced that day, which meant there was no telling whether or not anything that happened was important for the long term. Did that mean he was dying?
It wouldn't have been the first time.
Dying—no, being killed—was not unusual there.
It felt weird to think of a sentient flower with dominion over time itself being murdered so efficiently that it can't prevent it by the third try, but wow nothing in that sentence didn't seem weird in hindsight.
Nevermind.
At least you finally made it to Waterfall.
Nobody was waiting at the dock, so after a moment's wait, you continued to Snowdin. You wanted to be hopeful as the chill seeped into your robes.
Perhaps he only kept you alive because you remembered more than most. Because you didn't need to try and kill him just to "prove" that it wouldn't get rid of him. Because you couldn't interact with monsters closely enough to drag him into another conflict, ask him to go back and change things that meant absolutely nothing to him and his welfare. Because you could remember what you've talked about and what questions you've asked and whether or not he's having a bad day (worse than most, at least).
But he knew what you were, and in a way that made him the only friend you had.
Or something close to a friend.
After five mornings in a row, you finally made your way back to your small hut for lunch.
Flowey wasn't there, so you left his sandwich on a plate by the busted floorboard he broke through two real, actual months ago.
You didn't know if he actually got any nutrients from eating with that face of his instead of his roots, but he liked the flavor of fried cavefish. Not as much as snails, but those could get expensive and fishing was easy enough to make time for.
The trick was knowing where to avoid accidentally catching any aquatic monsters that were just trying to find a little peace and quiet (or just to get away from prying eyes while doing or planning whatever it was you weren't supposed to see).
You got up to put your own plate away and get back to work when suddenly you were in front of the stove with two freshly-made fried fish sandwiches again.
Your stomach was empty again, so you sat down and ate again after putting the second plate by the busted floorboard. Again.
Maybe Flowey managed to annoy someone.
If he was just in the way or something earlier, why would anyone bother with trying to kill him now?
This time you almost made it to the door before finding yourself in front of the stove with two fried fish sandwiches again.
That's starting to stop sounding like a word.
After you had your third lunch after your fifth morning of that one real, actual day, you finally, finally got back to the river.
The first stop, going that direction, was Snowdin. You stopped at the barren dock and waited a moment or two to see if anyone was approaching.
One of the trees rustled.
It might've been a bird.
It might've been an ambush.
It might've been someone hiding for their life.
Apparently it was that last one, as a very familiar face surrounded by golden petals finally peeked from behind the trunk.
You could've sworn Flowey was tearing up (you didn't know he could do that) as he turned to whisper something to the tree trunk.
Oh.
Not the trunk.
A kid.
A human kid.
Dirty and tired-looking and so very, very young.
How did they manage to...
As they hesitantly stepped out from behind the tree you finally saw Flowey resting in a boot the kid was holding and giving you a broken, hopeful smile.
Oh.