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Flowers need light to survive.
Of course, some flowers are much more delicate than others. One must consider things such as water intake, as well. Humidity, where they are placed within a home, the direction of sunlight. Flowers, however, can be hardy little things. Like any creature on earth they simply want to live. It is coded into their DNA to live. They are forever rooted in one place, however, unless they are given residence in a tiny little pot in a cozy little home. Flowers don't have legs. They don't have eyes in which to see, hands in which to reach out and touch, or mouths in which to speak.
Or scream.
Or beg.
I love you I want to help you let me help you you are so lonely you are so sad I won't abandon you none of us will abandon you please look at us thank you for taking care of us I want to take care of you too please let me help you let me help you let me help you let me
When he opens his eyes, it's dark. Water pools around his shined shoes and he can see himself: not with petals, or a thin stem and a few little leaves, or a bundle of stamen and pistils. No, with a fitting vest, a finely-tailored shirt, and sleek slacks over long legs. With two bright eyes and swooping hair the color of daffodils, his skin glowing like a cherub's. Ears. A pointed nose. A mouth.
A mouth in which to speak.
And, oh, speak is what he will do.
—
But eyes and mouth and perfectly-styled hair and stats that reach higher than the castle itself mean nothing without light and without care. In time, all of them will wither into nothing without a gentle green thumb to tend to them.
That's the tragedy of it: he knows this, they all do. Perhaps it is naivety to cling onto this world that was never meant to exist. None of them were ever supposed to be given form beyond fragile things sprouting from the soil. He was never meant to be so powerful. All his knowledge was meant to die with him one day, unspoken, unknown. He wasn't ever meant to know so much, never meant to see the things he has, destined to live no more than a day.
It is this man that showed him that fate was a load of bullshit, simply by allowing he and his friends to live. Longer than a day. A week. A month. A year. It's been decades. Two, at least. Two decades longer than they were supposed to.
If that's possible, isn't anything?
If someone can make weak little flowers thrive even when they were never supposed to, then why should anyone believe in any sort of predetermined path? Why not carve your own?
He has to fight for this world, even if it will be short-lived. It is symbolic of their impossible survival.
But not even flowers live forever, even with ample care.
One way or another, this would come to an end.
—
"Are you happy?"
Asgore isn't looking at him. He was always a large, imposing creature, so at odds with the gentleness of his touch. The armor and cape make him strike an even more intimidating silhouette. Flowery is small and slight beside him, but there is little that the king could really do to harm him in this world.
So he lounges against him with easy familiarity. An elbow against his side as he leans in, peering over his arm at the mess of documents held in a giant hand. Thin brows quirking, Flowery reaches over to pluck them right out of Asgore's grasp.
"Ah," Asgore gasps. His voice is deep, and he speaks quietly, "Sorry. I didn't… hear you. What was that?"
"Are you happy?" Flowery repeats, slower this time. Something itches beneath his skin. Frustration, maybe, but he's not entirely sure. "Here, with us."
Asgore hesitates. His eyes dart aside. The smile on his face is wobbly. When he speaks, he hardly sounds confident, "Yes. I'm very happy."
His own gaze askance but his smile still in place, Flowery just chirps cheerfully, "Whew! That sure is a releaf to hear, oldbuddy! I don't want you feeling down!"
"Right." Asgore reaches over for the papers in Flowery's hands. "Can I—"
The flower whistles, pivots, and creates a large gap between them in a single bound. Rainbow light flickers in his periphery. He lands across the room, light on his feet, still beaming.
"Nooo can do! Oh, look at the time. I told Green I'd help them with the dinner rush. Come by for a meal sometime! We miss you!"
With a two-fingered salute, Flowery disappears.
He doesn't go to the diner immediately. The garden is so dark. There is the sound of water dripping and insects chirping. Flowery stands at the edge of the dewy grass and peers out across the pond, then extends his arm and drops the papers into its dark depths. The words are nonsensical like this, but some do stand out: December. Glass. Shelter. Gone.
How long? He thinks despairingly. How long can I shield you from this?
Then, with more determination, he thinks, As long as I have to.
—
One step is taken through the front door of the diner and he tilts his head to the side; a knife whizzes past him, missing him by a hair's breadth. Flowery looks over his shoulder, swivels at the waist to wrap his hand around the grip of the blade that's lodged itself into the door frame. He pulls. It's stuck in there pretty good. Huh.
"Uuu! Flowery dodged! Again! No fun! You're supposed to catch!"
"Aqua! Stop standing on the tables, how many times do I have to tell you—!" Seth reaches out to grab Aqua by the arm, frantically tugging her down from where she's bouncing in place atop one of the booth tables. They glance at Flowery nervously before directing their attention to the tiny, bouncy flower that's refusing to budge.
Tug. Tug. Wow, she's got a real good throwing arm if even Flowery can't get this out on the first try! Tug. Tug. Yank! And there it goes, wood splintering as the blade slips out and then promptly disappears into a puff of golden pollen. The damage in the doorway doesn't last long, either: the wood cracks audibly, then slowly stretches out like bark over a tree to mend itself. It only takes a few moments for it to look good as new.
"Where's Asgore?" Aqua asks, hopping off the table to instead stand on the back of one of the benches. She moves easily, not losing her balance for a moment. "Waaa… did he not want to come?!"
"He's a real busy guy," Flowery replies. "Hey, and sometimes you just don't wanna talk to anyone! I let him know he's always more than welcome here."
He might have normally bodily dragged Asgore with him to the diner, but something had told him that wouldn't have ended well this time around. Tension is already running high with the little gaggle of princesses picking their way through this dark world, and Flowery figures he ought to check in on their progress soon. They might be getting close. Dangerously, dangerously close.
It'd be easier for them if they just left, but he knows that they won't.
"Flowery is sad," Aqua states matter-of-factly. "Why? Uuuu… Flowery's never sad! Did Asgore make you sad?!"
Seth mutters, "Did you get rejected?"
Flowery, confused, because he still has that ever-present smile on his face and thinks his tone of voice was perfectly chipper, says, "Me? Sad? Rejected? No, no, no. I've never been better! You know, there is this thing called coming on too strong! Say, where's Green? I'm here to help th—"
Aqua leaps at him suddenly, arms outstretched, and Flowery really has no choice but to catch her so she doesn't end up colliding face-first with the floor. He grabs her under the arms and spins her around a few times, making her shriek with laughter before she flails around in an attempt to wriggle closer, one red shoe colliding solidly with his gut and her arms going around his neck.
"You don't have to be sad, Flowery," she says, sweet as can be. "Look! We're real humans! And! We have each other!"
One arm slides underneath her backside to keep her from dangling off of him, his other hand settling between her shoulders. She's very small, and very fragile. The knives she wields are the only things between her and harm, if someone wished to caused her harm. What a dreadful thought that is.
"We'll have each other forever…!" Aqua insists. "Forever, and ever, and ever!"
He wonders how much she really knows and understands. Seth pointedly does not look at him, and Flowery thinks that they've already begun to piece it together, canny as they are. Eventually those seven suns will set on this world. Their dream was never meant to last forever. He knows this. He has no plan for the end, and surely that's okay.
All he can do is make this last as long as he can. For them. For Asgore.
"That's right," he says, patting her gently. "So, I'm not sad, because I have all of you! So what's there to be sad about, huh?"
Green pops up from behind the counter. They wave at him with a lazy smile. Flowery bends over to place Aqua down and she goes running back to the booth with Seth, sliding in next to them and practically knocking them over when she slams up into their side.
The denizens of this dark world are beginning to trickle in now. Soon they'll be here in droves. Flowery hops the counter to stand beside Green, who glances up at him curiously, their hands moving to ask him, What's wrong?
Flowery chooses to ignore the question. "Let's get to work, shall we?"
—
When the rush dies down and the children have taken their leave, Green makes him one of those fruity cocktails with a little umbrella. By cocktail, that means what is essentially sugar water with a little bit of red food coloring, because alcohol really is no good for flowers. They don't tell him this, but he knows anyway. Maybe he'll still get some placebo effect off of it regardless.
Blue has several hours until his performance, so he's stopped by the diner to pick up something for Yellow and have his own little pick-me-up. His hair is untied, locs spilling over his shoulders, eyes bright. Instead of his leotard and tutu he's wearing a lovely, soft shirt with flowing sleeves, and a frilled skirt that goes down to his ankles.
"Drinking?" Blue says with a little gasp as he sits across from Flowery, a cup of green tea cradled in his hands. "Oh, you haven't put those days behind you? You aren't in college anymore."
"Oh, just something to help cut loose, ha ha!"
The other flower raises his pale brow at him. "Is something troubling you?"
Flowery uses the umbrella to stir his drink around mindlessly. Smile still on his face, but an edge of irritation in his voice, he asks, "Why does everyone seem to think something's got me upset?"
Blue gazes at him sympathetically. He brings his cup to his lips, sipping slowly, evidently taking time to ponder on his response. It's something Flowery admires about him: he considers his words well before he speaks, does not easily jump to conclusions, and remains level-headed in almost any situation. It's a stark contrast to his gangly, nervous partner.
"We all watched Asgore lose himself to a seemingly insurmountable grief for years," Blue finally says. "When he smiled, we knew that it was insincere. There was great pain in his eyes. …Flowery, do you not think that, after so much time, we could learn to spot that in anyone?"
"Pain?" Flowery laughs a little. "There isn't anything to be pained about, is there? Look at me. Look at us."
The other's lips turn into a frown. Sympathy melts into pity.
"I have been," Blue begins slowly, "so blessed to be loved, and know love. Love different than Asgore gave us. Blessed. Like a man coming across an oasis in the vast desert. It is a euphoria in which I can hardly describe, as no words will ever do it justice. You feel that love, too."
The cup is placed onto the saucer with a soft clink.
"For him. I hope, greatly, that he feels that love for you, as well." Blue's eyes soften. "For your sake."
"For my—"
"Ah… the time! Yellow might be wondering where I am, and he sulks so terribly if I am gone from his side for too long… Flowery, I do hope you think about what it is you truly want, while we still live to think."
Blue polishes off his tea and rises from the booth. A drink in a paper cup is handed to him by Green. The other flower smiles at him, gives a half-curtsy.
"Good luck. Break a leg," Flowery says cheerfully, like they didn't just have that conversation. "And give Yellow my best, will ya?"
"Thank you. I certainly will."
—
It is troublesome, really. He's alone now. The sky is painted a soft violet. Trees stretch on for eons far below him. The words of his companions ring in his head. Their worry, their sympathy. He thinks that he's done quite well, really, to hide the brewing conflict within him. Because that conflict does not matter. Any self-doubt does not matter.
The only thing that matters is their dream, their happiness, and Asgore's happiness. All he wants is to make him laugh. If he makes him laugh, he'll be fulfilled. To have that smile shining on him would make everything worth it. It would make the inevitable darkness worth it. It would make him withering up and dying in the end worth it.
Blue and Yellow have one another, entwined like vines and endearingly saccharine. Ralsei watches Kris with some mixture of admiration and affection, clearly uncertain where her own feelings lie. Kris keeps sneaking glances at Susie while Susie's mind is on someone who is not here, but the thought of this person gives her a hop in her step and makes her chatter uncontrollably to him when he gets her alone. A girl with golden curls and big eyes and cute little antlers.
Oh, to be in love.
Flowery tries to wear many different hats. Anything to make Asgore happy. He will be whatever Asgore wants, whatever he needs, but there is no denying just what Flowery himself wants from this. Something that he knows would not work, would never work, no matter how desperately he desires it, because he is only a flower.
That's just it, isn't it?
Flowers were not meant to fall in love with monsters.
A monster could never love a flower the way that flower loved him. He could give him everything he wanted and more but it still wouldn't be enough. This form is one he only exhibits in this world. In the light, he is so, so fragile. One wrong move and those claws could shred his petals, those strong fingers could snap his stem, a large palm could knock his container to the floor and shatter it to pieces, leaving him limp and helpless with his roots reaching for nothing.
It is a horrifying thought, one that would send sickening dread spreading through anyone's guts; his guts, however, churn uncomfortably at the thought, accompanied by a bloom of heat through his ribcage. What that says about him he's not entirely sure, but he thinks he would not mind being broken in two by those large, careful hands. If he could choose how he died, he supposes that would be the most preferable way.
Held and loved until the end.
The environment around him changes, and Flowery finds himself inside. Asgore is there, back to him. Back always to him. He reaches out, his hand running over the dark fabric of his cape. Asgore turns his head.
"Oh, hello," he murmurs. "Are you okay? You look sad."
"Eh…?" That catches him off-guard, a miraculous feat in itself. Flowery realizes then that he was frowning, which he's quick to rectify, a smile spreading across his face, making the skin around his eyes crinkle. "Not sad at all, Gorey! I've never been better! Especially with you here!"
His king looks away and Flowery wants to ask him to keep looking at him like he always did, when he was just a little flower in his asylum of glass. "Ah… of course. Um, you know, I was thinking…"
"You were thinking?" Flowery perks up, interested.
"I found some tea, and a kettle, and I think I could go for a cup. Will you join me? It's… been a long time since I've shared with anyone."
Ah, the rush of elation that brings him…! Flowery is beaming from ear-to-ear, his eyes shining, practically sparkling. He should, perhaps, ease up a little, return to that charming, sociable man who could sweep his king off his feet rather than the perfect picture of a lovesick boy, but he finds that he can't. It's the first time that Asgore's asked to do anything with him first. Of course he's overjoyed!
"Absolutely!" Flowery replies, and does he sound too eager? He isn't sure. Asgore doesn't seem put-off by his energy, at least. "How about you let me make—"
"No, no, I can do it. You've done quite enough," Asgore replies gently. Then, quietly, he adds, "More than I could ask for, really."
"It's really nothing," Flowery replies, but he still takes a seat on one of the pillows at the kotatsu in the middle of the room. "Compared to everything you've done for us."
Asgore doesn't say anything.
The tea he makes is lovely. Sweet, tangy. It warms his roots, that warmth spreading from his core, outward. While they drink, Flowery fills the silence with his voice, chattering away. Old memories, college days, how things used to be and how things could be, should be, will be. Asgore seems content to let him babble, and to his credit he is an active listener even if he does not add much to the conversation himself. He's always been rather quiet. That's his Asgore.
Eventually, Asgore is giving him an inscrutable look. There is some odd emotion in his eyes that Flowery can't place. He wants to ask, he wants to pry, but how much will Asgore really tell him? How much does Asgore even want to tell him? They're best friends, they can tell each other anything. Flowery could even tell him how much he loves—
There is a mouth on his, and he's not sure how they got in this position. His human lips make it hard to kiss Asgore proper, with that snout of his, but they make it work. Clumsily, but it works. Both hands slide into that thick beard, reverent in their touch. He feels a large hand settle on the back of his head, almost dwarfing his skull, and feels the hint of claws brushing over his scalp.
"I'm sorry," Asgore says weakly, pitifully, miserably. "I should have asked first." And yet he's still kissing him like he'll die if he doesn't.
Flowery presses into his body to make it clear that there is no problem, that he wants this. He straddles one thick thigh, leans into his broad chest, desirous and hungry for it. Those big hands on him draw him closer.
Fangs prick into his bottom lip and he flinches. Asgore draws his head back immediately, his hand sliding around to use his thumb to brush over the little injury. It does not bleed. It oozes a pale green substance instead. Flowery's tongue swipes out to lick it up and the contact stings, but he barely registers it. His mouth finds the thumb close to his lips and brings it onto his tongue. The claw scrapes over his palate.
When they fuck, it's hurried and messy. Asgore is attentive and gentle, enveloping him with his entire body, sliding so deep that Flowery thinks he really will split in half. It feels good, he thinks. He's wet and sticky in a way that lets Asgore fuck him with ease and he pants hard and heavy with each slide into him, his eyes rolled back and face flushed.
You're thinking of someone else, Flowery thinks distantly. That's okay. Whatever makes you happy.
He comes with a shudder and Asgore leaves a mess on his lower back. It didn't last very long. Asgore apologizes over and over if he hurt him, or if it wasn't good, and for making such a mess. Flowery can't quite string together a proper sentence yet to respond, to insist that it's no problem at all, and actually, could they go again?
By the time he bounces back, Asgore's already cleaned them both up. And he's alone. His best friend had fetched a blanket and draped it over him at some point.
But he didn't even stay to hold him. He didn't say goodbye.
Flowery closes his eyes, inhales. Blue's words echo in his mind. What is it that you truly want? While you still live to think…
Love and laughter.
He wants to see that beaming, fanged smile shining upon him every day. He wants to be sung to sleep, to be embraced. He wants to tell jokes that elicit a deep, rumbling laugh, one that's genuine and not simply given to be polite.
He wants to live and dream, he wants to spend every day with his friends. Flowery wants to feel the sunshine on his face, he wants to taste rain, he wants to feel the air right before a thunderstorm. He wants to see a rainbow cut through the clouds. He wants to watch new flowers sprout up from the forest floor, or through the cracks in concrete. Flowers were hardy, stubborn little things, after all.
Ah, if only… he knows that in the end it's simply a fantasy, for many reasons. One being, well…
Flowery is going to die soon.
The flower does not like to speak in inevitabilities and absolutes, but he knows this to be true. He rolls over, kicking the blanket off of him, and pushes himself up to begin picking his clothing off of the floor.
Death comes for everyone. Even flowers. How will he die, he wonders? Oh, who's to say. Isn't it exciting, that uncertainty? It will be a surprise for everyone, including him.
Fixing his collar, he casts a glance through the wide windows, to one of the seven setting suns. The smile on his face is wistful. It's all coming to an end now, everything he's fought for, everything he will continue to fight for.
There is no time to waste.
The castle has guests.