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The Dream SMP Fic-a-Day-for-a-Year Project Masterpost

Chapter Text

Everywhere Tommy goes, there are flowers.

They follow in his wake, as if appearing in his footsteps - as if his wandering, jumping, rambunctious path leaves just the divots that fresh seeds need to gather water and light.

He lives among the grass and the green. It sticks to his shoes, and as he treads on, it spreads around him, fueling the ecosystem as much as any other animal that spreads seeds and pollen.

The cobblestone he builds with has cracks in it, that small roots can thread through. Soon, his towers are threaded with life, as much as if they were placed in intention. Flowering mosses creep up the side of them, and it is a sign of life, not abandonment.

His voice is loud, and the vibrations help the flowers to grow. They do not care that Tommy is swearing, or that he is shouting - only that it is loud, and it is constant, and it is accompanied by him sprinkling them with water as if he does not care.

Everywhere Tommy goes, there are flowers.

In the wake behind him, they grow small, watered by the gently falling drops from above. It is not raining, but Tommy is alone, and so he does not cover his eyes when they glisten. The flowers do not judge him for crying.

The remains of Logstedshire are barren, scorched down to the rock, the very grass gone. And yet, come the thick-shelled seeds into the crater, cracking open amongst the ash. The ground is littered with the first signs of new life - lodgepole pines and fire poppies. Grown from the resolve shown them by the man himself, even in the darkest moments.

The prison is cold. The prison is sterile. The prison is a place of stagnation. And yet, when Sam checks the chest of storage, of the things he could not give back to Tommy, looking for an answer, he finds something on the sealing block. A single red chrysanthemum, roots curled for dear life into the wood of the chest. It is potted, and remains inside near the front console, as a reminder.

Tommy’s house is littered with flowers. Placed there by shaking hands, by steady hands. Placed with words of forgiveness, placed with words of apology. The hillside is steeped in color, in life, as if from the very plants he tended they could bring him back.

Everywhere Tommy goes, there are flowers.