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Back in college, Flowery sat in the windowsill, overlooking the grounds outside. The sunlight was warm, in contrast to the cool water Asgore would give him. “Another beautiful day, isn’t it?” Asgore would say, almost every day, as if seeing the beauty in everything. Somewhere along the line, that had changed. He’d still say it, sometimes, but it would be a sort of forced optimism, strained and tired.
They’d all been there, for the wedding. They’d seen Rudy, back when he was healthy, give Asgore a pat on the back. Everyone laughing at some joke Toriel had made. Then, things were peaceful in the Dreemurr’s house. Asriel, and later Kris, had bloomed into sweet kids. Tenna started up his show, or let them play their little games. Asgore started a flower shop, and he brought Flowery and the others there, but not to sell. Never to sell.
The glass cases weren’t intended as prisons, just meant for display. They were prized, important. The sight still wasn’t quite as pretty as the windowsill, Flowery thought, especially as the shop became a house. Still, with the mattress right by their displays, they could watch over each-other. Watching everything from behind glass wasn’t new to him. Being cared for wasn’t new to him. He still wished he could care for Asgore in return, reach out of the soil and hold his hand, if nothing else.
——
Orange would listen to Asgore talk about strength. About bravery. About being Chief of Police, and how even in a small town, disaster struck unexpectedly. She would imagine him punching away anything that would hurt his family, or his town. He certainly had the arm strength for it.
She always envied that. Her leaves got brown spots at one point, and Asgore frowned as he cared for her, and she thought about how frail and helpless flowers were. She didn’t like what she was. It wasn’t fair, how a stem could snap or petals could tear. She wanted to be brave, like he was.
Her family weren’t fighters in the same way she was. They didn’t need to be, it seemed. Their petals stayed vibrant and unblemished while she fought to stay upright sometimes. She was the last to bloom, and she felt like she’d be the first to wither. But she held on, and on, and on, and wondered if it was a fight she could ever really win. Flowers would all wither someday, wouldn’t they?
When the brown spots cleared away, he talked about her like she was brave, like him. “I knew you could pull through,” he said with a proud smile. He made it sound like some big achievement. It was strange, she thought, that he could admire her for something so insignificant, when he’d done such greater things.
She wondered why everything had gone wrong for him. Why he hadn’t been able to fight through everything and get back to the way things were before. He was still fighting, in the way he’d pin notes and string to the corkboard. She couldn’t track who the enemy was, though- no idea what exactly he was fighting against.
She wanted to be strong. She wanted to fight. She couldn’t do much of anything, as she was.
——
Asgore would still put on the cowboy show sometimes, on the old CRT in the corner of the flower shop. He’d watch it, and he’d bounce his leg as if someone was still sitting on it, and he’d get halfway through an episode before stopping. Yellow didn’t think it was fair.
Being Chief of Police meant Asgore was supposed to be able to fight injustice, to stop the criminells. But that job title had been ripped away from him right when he needed it most. Maybe a cowboy could enact justice without a fancy title or badge, if only a cowboy were around.
Yellow always admired them, from what he was able to watch. The bittersweet nostalgia Asgore held for them only made Yellow want to emulate it more. It felt like family, and home, and justice. If being a cowboy meant being Asgore’s family, Asgore’s home, Asgore’s justice- of course he ached to do it.
Unfortunately, flowers didn’t make great cowboys. He didn’t even have a hat.
——
Asgore put another free jar of pickles in the fridge. Green remembered the fully stocked fridge at the old house, and how Toriel would expertly cook and bake dishes that felt like comfort and safety and kindness. If they could, they’d toss the pickles out the window, if only because Asgore seemed so tired of them.
Asgore had tried making pie himself, once or twice. It never worked out well. Even if he followed all the right steps, he’d always end up deciding it wasn’t good enough. Green could guess something important was missing from it. The attempts stopped when he ran out of money to spend on food he wouldn’t even eat.
Green remembered family dinners, how everyone would gather together to eat at the table. They remembered how the family grew, two people becoming three, three becoming four. Then the numbers fell back down, and suddenly there was only one, and no table. Just pickles and a flower shop.
They wished they could bring Asgore back home, have him seated at a table and put a home-cooked meal in front of him. Something he would actually enjoy, something he would smile about.
Flowers weren’t known for their cooking ability. Still, they’d watch him make tea and wish that someday they could do the same.
——
Aqua, as her family insisted on calling her, didn’t understand a lot of things. She understood that Asgore was sad, but didn’t really understand why. It was easy enough to find something fun to do, she thought- he even had a TV, and comics! He’d talk about family game nights, and old games of tag in the yard, and Aqua wondered why the games stopped.
She thought maybe games were just something that humans did. Asgore, apparently, wasn’t human, but Kris was. She didn’t know Kris well, since there weren’t many games a kid could play with flowers, but she knew they had little horns and messy hands. She knew they’d play games with Asriel, and knew sometimes Toriel or Asgore would get upset when they came back inside messy or hurt from playing too hard. Was it possible to play too hard? Aqua wouldn’t know, she’d never played anything.
Aqua would love to play messy games, would love to get hurt playing too hard. Being a flower in a glass case was boring. Asgore seemed to miss the games too, he looked bored and tired most days. She wondered, if she had hands, if he’d let her swing on one of his horns. If that would feel like flying.
If she were human, she’d play games with him. He didn’t seem like he could do it on his own, and no one else was around. She’d wait, until then, for her chance. She could be patient, if it meant she’d have neverending fun later.
——
Asgore held a lot of love in his heart. For Toriel, for his children, for the Holidays, for the town, for his flowers. When the weather was nice, sometimes butterflies would flutter by the plants sat outside, and Asgore would smile and gasp and say how he loved butterflies.
He’d loved music. Not necessarily in that he’d seek it out, though he’d collect the odd country CD here and there, but moreso in that music was something his family did, and he loved anything to do with his family. Kris would play piano, December would play guitar, Asriel and Noelle would sing, the house would be filled to the brim with melodies of all kinds.
It was quieter, in the new place. Blue found it sort of eerie. Back in the old house, he’d sit by an open window and sway in the wind in a dance. Now, he sat still in a silent room with no rhythm to follow. It was disorienting. It was sad.
Asgore had never been a particularly quiet person. Loud, booming voice and big, clumsy movements- he was a statement in any room he entered, a voice to be heard. People had to go out of their way not to hear him. And they did, they put in that effort, as if his words did not interest them. Blue held on to his words as the only noise left to follow.
Asgore held love in his heart, and he sought the truth, and he had the corkboard to prove both. Blue admired these ideals, though some may say he was too set on them. Blue didn’t think it was possible to be too set on love and integrity. An overabundance was better than a drought, surely. Blue would drink every drop of water like he was dying of thirst, because every bit of love was important to him.
He wished he could give that love back, somehow. Asgore gave and gave and gave but never received.
——
Seth liked to think they were smart. At the very least, they must be smart for a flower- flowers weren’t known for their abundance of knowledge. They listened attentively when Asgore read them books. He’d go through them fast because “I can’t afford a fine if I’m late returning them!” so they’d have to pay close attention, since they couldn’t reread them later. If flowers could write, they’d note every word from every page down on their own paper just to pore over them again.
Toriel was a teacher. She’d always cared a lot about making sure her kids did well in school. Asgore would follow her lead, in this and many other things, and while he wasn’t a teacher, he still taught what lessons he could. Seth took care to remember each lesson, to go through them in their head as if cramming for a test.
They had a lot of time to think. They couldn’t do much else, rooted in place as they were, so they’d think and they’d learn and they’d know. One thing they knew for sure was that there was nothing they could do. It itched at them until it became an aching scab, the knowledge that they would only ever be a flower, the knowledge that Asgore’s lessons were being taught in vain.
Sometimes they wished to be pressed. Crushed between a book’s pages. They wondered if it would feel like a hug, being enveloped by the stories they loved.
Seth would write their own stories, if they could. Put their knowledge to use somehow. Show Asgore that they were a good student, that they held onto every word they could carry. “Flowers are good listeners,” he’d say, but if a student didn’t participate in class they’d get a failing grade.
——
“Do you really want to help Asgore?” Yellow had asked Flowery once, when they got a moment alone. Flowery tensed at the question, the words prickling like a thorny brush.
“Of course I do!” He’d responded with a smile. Asgore was all he cared about anymore, he’d done nothing but try to comfort and care for him for the entire length of the dark world’s existence.
“But he wants t’learn ‘bout the Fountain, yeah?” Yellow doubted, brow furrowed. “He’s tryin’ to get justice on the Knight.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s asking for,” Flowery said. “He’ll figure it out eventually. That he can be happier with us instead.”
——
“You haven’t been doing what Flowery wants,” Orange accused, as Green set up shop in the Castle. “He said to fight.”
It wasn’t common for Orange to argue with Green. Green was stability, to her. When she needed someone to support her, Green was the one she would turn to.
But Orange would do anything for Asgore, and Flowery wanted them all to fight to protect him, and Orange couldn’t grasp why Green kept on giving the chibbis healing items. It felt almost like betrayal.
Green shook their head. They passed over a note, reading “I want to help everyone.”
“So… what does Flowery want?” Orange asked, stuck.
Green shrugged.
——
“Asgore never wants to play,” Aqua pouted, hanging upside down off a giant flower.
“Did you expect him to?” Seth asked, nose buried in their notebook. “He’s busy with his work. There’s more important things than games.”
“It doesn’t make sense!” Aqua whined. She kicked her feet, kicking up pollen in an ugly trail. “His work doesn’t make him happy! I thought he was just waiting for a playmate, but we’re here, and nothing’s changed!”
“He can play after,” Seth said, finally looking up at her. “He just needs to finish this first. Just do what Flowery says for now, and then you can play all the games you want.”
Aqua frowned. She was good at waiting, she’d waited all her life, but it was getting so boring. “Flowery’s stealing him,” she said. “Asgore spends all his time with him and we never get turns.”
Seth sighed. “Just a little longer, Aqua.”
——
“I’m startin’ to think Flowery might be a criminell,” Yellow said. Blue turned to look at him, trying to read his face under the shadow of his hat.
“I don’t think so,” Blue said, “not more than you or I. We all do silly things sometimes in the name of love.”
“I’m not too smart,” Yellow admitted, chin resting in his hand. “I know that. But if Kris an’ the rest of ‘em are good kids, then fightin’ ‘em seems… unjust. I dunno, Blue, it just don’t feel right.”
“They are good kids,” Blue agreed, “but even good kids trample flowers.”
——
“So… was it what you imagined it’d be?” Ralsei asked. Flowery let out a huff of a laugh beneath him.
“What, being a darkner?” He said. “I imagine you think… being a darkner is… miserable, ha…” His hands shook, his eyes were teary, his façade was crumbling.
“This isn’t about me.” Ralsei frowned, holding one shaking hand in one shaky paw. “Was being with Asgore what you hoped it’d be?”
Flowery smiled. “Of course,” he said, “he’s himself, and I love him… There’s nothing more I could’ve asked for, from him.”