Archive of Our Own

Steve’s limbs feel exceptionally heavy as the first rays of sunshine blanket over his body. They bring around a carefree melody, a pleasant hum; they bring around an invitation, persistent yet kind.

Sway with us, the sunrays whisper, we know you want to.

You’re right, I do want to, Steve thinks. 

There’s stiffness to his body, an overwhelming heaviness that weighs down his limbs, but he refuses to succumb to its pressure, to give in to the alluring promise of sleep; he wants to move, his soul burns to feel more warmth, more light, more sunshine—

It’s almost like thirst, like hunger, Steve realises, like he’s been parched dry for weeks, like he’s been starved empty for months on end. 

He curls and stretches, the caress of early morning sunlight seeping into his skin, overfilling him with this ebbing energy, one cell of his body at a time. Gods, he’d be content with this moment lasting forever; to stay here, like this, basking in sunshine, would be a dream, the sweetest version of reality—

“Steve?” 5up’s voice cuts through the golden fog of warmth that’s settled over Steve’s thoughts, and Steve hates him for it, despises him for interrupting his bliss.

He waves a dismissive arm in the general direction of 5up, growling lowly to emphasise his point. “Leave me alone.” 

“What the— Steve…” 5up says, or attempts to say, but his sentence gets cut and broken up by shocked gasps. “Oh no, no, no—” 

“5up, stop panicking man, it’s too early for that,” Steve sighs. If 5up wants to join him in the tiny corner of paradise Steve carved for himself, he is more than welcome to; but otherwise, Steve would really prefer if he was just allowed to enjoy this moment of peace undisturbed for a while longer.

“Stop– Stop panicking? Steve, Steven, I– You– How are you not panicking?” 5up asks, drowning Steve in an onslaught of half-finished, high-pitched, questions that Steve doesn’t really feel like trying to understand right now. 

So, he just shrugs nonchalantly, relishing in the way the sunlight tingles his body with every move. “Dunno, I feel goooood,” he drags out.

“You feel— oh my god, I gotta get Apollo. He’ll know what to do, he’ll certainly know what to do. You stay here– not like you can not, but ugh… Yeah, don’t move.”

“Sure thing, honey,” Steve mumbles, his thoughts already half shrouded by warm fog again. The pull of it is too alluring, too tempting to resist, and Steve lets it drag him under and under and under without any fight; he’s never felt this light, and yet, this… grounded.

It’s like he’s flying while still staying firmly rooted to the ground; it’s like he’s up high, amongst the clouds and stars, while still feeling the roughness of dirt below the soles of his feet; it’s like—

Apollo’s surprised laughter cuts through Steve’s thoughts, dissolving them into nothingness. A frown makes its way onto Steve’s face.

“What’s wrong with both of you today, why are you so set on ruining my perfect little morning paradise,” Steve huffs, but his complaints are barely audible over Apollo’s howling.

“Steve–” Apollo chokes out, “you idiot, open your eyes.”

A part of Steve wants to disobey, just for the pure satisfaction of not giving 5up and Apollo what they want, since both of them have been ignoring his pleas for some peace and quiet; but another part, the one that is unfortunately much stronger, refuses to not give them everything they ask for. Steve is sure his heart would burst into flames and chest collapse onto itself had he tried to deny either of his boyfriends anything; the love he has for them would suffocate him had he attempted to keep it inside, to keep it buried.

With an exhausted sigh, he peels his eyes open.

Apollo and 5up are towering above him, both of them uncharacteristically tall (which, okay, isn’t weird in Apollo’s case, but is definitely a cause for concern in 5up’s), wearing amused and worried expressions, respectively. Steve tries his best to scan them meticulously, to find the answer hidden amongst the scrunch of 5up’s nose and the wrinkles of concern; he searches for it in Apollo’s wide grin and gleaming eyes. 

In the end, neither of them ends up holding an explanation— Steve is pointed to it by Apollo’s nod, his chin angling towards a place below Steve’s head.

His eyes follow the path, until he’s looking at his body— except he isn’t. Instead of seeing his torso and a pair of dangly legs, he is staring at a green stem and leaves, sprouting from a pot of soil.

The speed with which Steve’s head shoots up makes his entire world shift off its axis.

“5up, what the fuck did you do?”

Steve’s question gets answered by a sputtering mess of apologies and half-nonsensical explanations that tumble off 5up’s lips, intertwined with yet another round of Apollo’s barking laughter.

Steve doesn’t consider himself particularly strict when setting ground rules. Dirty socks piling up at the foot of their bed rarely bother him, and at this point, the arrays of colourful novelty mugs that seem to reside on just about every flat surface of their apartment no longer baffle him— Steve would argue, with burning passion, that he is, in fact, a perfect roommate.

Though there is one rule he refuses to back down from and that is: for all Gods’ sake, label your magic shit properly.

Don’t get Steve wrong, he is very much in support of magic, you know, pro-supernatural stuff and all that jazz— despite being as powerlessly vanilla as they come, he does hold immense respect and tremendous awe towards everyone who can do as little as the most banal telekinesis. So no, the rule doesn’t stem from his distaste towards magic, or anything like that; it simply stems from the fact that both his boyfriends are forgetful idiots, and Steve has suffered the consequences of their actions one too many times.

Steve would like to avoid sweetening his morning coffee with 5up’s newest fertiliser, which he decided to leave on the kitchen table, in the exact same jar they normally keep sugar in, because apparently, it was the only available one within reach. Furthermore, Steve would also rather not try to quench his munchies with Dumbdog’s dog snacks, which he has decided to store in the same tupperware 5up usually uses for storing his baked goods. Or—

Or, Steve would really love it if they hadn’t decided to use his favourite mug to hold the prototype of the potion 5up has been working on with Apollo’s help over the past few weeks. 

A potion, which combines Apollo’s knowledge of transformation and 5up’s plant magic, to be able to, yes, you guessed it, transform objects into plants.

Steve would really, really have appreciated it if they hadn’t done that.

They place him in the centre of their dining room table. 

And Steve hates it— or at very least, he makes sure to make a huge fuss about every part of it. 

Apollo carrying him? Steve huffs. 5up placing an assortment of food he’s prepared for breakfast all around him? Steve complains and rolls his eyes— oh god, can he even do that? Somebody get him a mirror, stat—

“I hate this,” Steve pouts. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s easily reversible,” Apollo mumbles through a full mouth. 

Steve hopes, he prays, there is enough expression in his features to convey just how little he believes Apollo’s reassurances; that folding his leafy arms over the stem of his body and letting his flower head shake in disbelief is somehow equivalent to a frown and a roll of eyes. 

He turns towards 5up, the disapproval still evident throughout his posture. “Is it?”

“I don’t know, I’m not the transformation expert here,” 5up shrugs. His gaze flickers towards Apollo pointedly.

“Well, I’m not the plant expert here,” Apollo defends himself without hesitation. “If I want to change, I just… do it. But I kind of doubt that just wanting will be enough in this scenario.”

“He can still try it!” 5up says. He picks up a piece of bacon with his fork, before waving a hand in the general direction of Steve. God, he could go for some bacon… and some eggs… a cup of coffee, perhaps… just some nice food–  “Maybe it’ll work, who knows.”

“Yeah, like magic,” Steve scoffs. His comment pulls out a chuckle from Apollo and a tired sigh from 5up; and while Steve likes teasing his boyfriends with dumb little jokes about everything magic-related as often as possible, he also trusts them unconditionally, and if they suggest something, well…

Steve thinks about changing back– he focuses on his body, and on how nice it would be able to move by himself again; he thinks about his face and how, out of all things, somehow what he misses the most right now is the familiar weight of his glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose; he longs for his stomach to rumble and mouth to water, and for the desire to eat a meal prepared with love to be actually quenchable.

He tries and thinks and then…

He fails, of course. Pretty miserably.

“Any other ideas, boys?” Steve mumbles.

5up hums as he chews, washing down his food with a sip of coffee before looking in Steve’s direction again. “Well, you drank a potion, so I’m going to make an educated guess that it’s going to take a potion to change you back,” he suggests. “Not sure what potion yet, but… it should work.”

“Great, so I’m supposed to rely on the powers of my meek will and a potion that might work. Really stellar odds, thanks,” Steve says. “And on top of all that, I’m supposed to deal with this without even having my morning coffee, I– ugh.”

“Steve, honey, if you want some coffee, all you gotta do is ask, it’s as simple as that,” 5up says, his voice slipping into a teasing tone Steve knows all too well.

Oh no. “5up, don’t even think about it–”

“But I just want to give you everything you ask for, my dearest,” 5up coos.

“Steve, how can you say no to an offer like that?” Apollo asks, his disapproving tone ringing through the air, and Steve’s got to give it to him– it’s almost convincing enough to hide the mischievous wisps of laughter that try to escape right along with his words. Almost.

“Not you too–”

“Thank you, Apollo.” 5up smiles blindingly at the man seated across the table from him, before shifting his attention back to Steve. A cup of coffee floats in his hand. “Don’t worry, a little caffeine is actually beneficial to plants. It’s high nitrogen content helps with growth stimulation.”

“Gods, you’re such a fucking nerd,” Steve huffs.

5up doesn’t retort– he only tips his coffee cup over the edge of Steve’s plant pot, pouring about a third of it into the soil.

And Steve wants to hate him for it, but 5up’s cheeks are red from biting back his chuckles and Apollo’s head is thrown back in howling laughter; and Steve wants to be mad about the absurdity of this situation a lot more, but there’s warm sunlight at the nape of his stem and the smell of delicious food floats through the air; and Steve wants to be exhausted at the prospect of needing to deal with this mess, but he can feel the coffee seeping into the ground, into his roots, into his soul– 

It’s going to be alright, is all Steve can think as a ghost of laughter breaks through his lips.

“This is ridiculous,” Steve groans.

“No, it’s necessary,” 5up argues. He adjusts the scarf tied around Steve’s pot, tightening the knot. “Apollo, what are we thinking?”

Apollo’s head shoots up from where it’s been buried behind his laptop. His glasses sit low on his nose, and so when his eyes land on Steve, it’s over the upper frame. Apollo blinks a couple of times, in what Steve firstly assumes to be an attempt to focus, only to later realise it is more like confusion, which quickly transforms into amusement.

“Oh, screw you both,” Steve huffs. “I’m not a baby, I do not need to be wrapped in some ridiculously large scarf just to be able to leave home.”

“Well, I’m carrying you, so it’s my rules,” 5up says as he puts on his coat. “Plus, frostbite is a little bitch, and we don’t want your little leafy fingers freezing off, do we now?”

Steve frowns— first, at 5up, who answers him with an air kiss; second, at Apollo, who answers him with a snicker. “Man, I’m not gonna argue with 5up here, he makes one hell of a point.”

“Ugh, fine, whatever,” Steve gives in with a groan. “But, just to be very clear, I will complain the whole way.”

“Okay baby,” 5up coos, picking up Steve’s pot. He holds him against his side with one arm as he collects his phone, wallet and keys, and slips out of the apartment to the sound of Apollo’s fading-out have fun! .

Steve holds up his promise. 

As 5up walks to the nearest bus stop, Steve huddles as close to his body as possible, burying his petals amongst the soft threads of the scarf that hangs around 5up’s neck, murmuring an annoyed a hat would have been more useful into the comforting fabrics. When 5up finds a seat on the bus and places Steve into his lap, Steve grabs onto the edges of his pot and refuses to let go off them— every bump on the road, every sharp curve or harsh brake tears a dramatic gasp from his mouth, promptly followed by some variation of: I am going to die here, 5up, please, this can’t be how I go, this is so embarrassing. After they finally reach the grocery store, 5up promises him he only needs a few ingredients for the transformation potion, but he still heads for proper trolleys instead of just small hand baskets, Steve can hear his protests tumble out of his mouth before the thoughts even connect in his brain — I’m not a child, I refuse to be put in a baby seat, why are you doing this to me, man—

5up’s affectionate laughter rings through the empty aisle, bouncing off the shelves of canned vegetables and oil bottles, and well…

Maybe it’s not all too bad as long as he gets to listen to that sound. 

The centrepiece of their living room is this scruffy vintage coffee table 5up insisted they had to get after spotting it at some random garage sale downtown. So, on what was arguably the hottest day of that particular summer, he and 5up carried this stupidly heavy piece of furniture all the way to the shitty apartment they were renting at the time. 

Apollo laughed at them when they showed up at the door, with their faces flushed bright red and hair glued to their forehead with sweat, but the moment they dropped the coffee table off in their living room, two glasses of ice cold water appeared on top of it. They can still find a faint memory of the condensation rings they left behind if they look hard enough, if they have the patience to weed through the layers of marks and scratches the tabletop accumulated over the years.

Steve isn’t ashamed to admit the coffee table belongs amongst his favourite objects they own— it contains a multitude of good memories, etched right into its surface. The three of them have spent countless nights hunched over it playing board games until the pieces scratched its wooden surface; oils from their hangover fast-food breakfasts and greasy pizza dinners seeped deep into its structure, leaving behind stains no amount of scrubbing would ever remove. The feet have been marked by Dumbdog’s claws, his paws gnawing at the table whenever he felt uneasy, and on the left side rests an imprint of his teeth, from when he bit down on it from anxiety. It is the perfect height to allow them to put their feet up without them obscuring the view of the TV; it is the perfect size to fit all of their feet at once, and still leave enough space for snacks and drinks. The table—

Well, that doesn’t really matter.

The point Steve wanted to make is that once again, he finds himself incredibly grateful for this silly piece of furniture when 5up leaves him perched atop it before going out to deal with some work stuff. 

Its entire surface is flooded in late afternoon sunlight, and Steve melts underneath its kind rays.

The act of photosynthesis is so weird, he thinks as the light dances on his leaves, tingling his skin, it makes him both energised and drowsy, excited and sleepy. If someone asked him to explain it, he’d probably try to compare it to being high, only to immediately backtrack on his statement and say it’s actually nothing like it. He’d probably then proceed to backtrack again , and say that it actually is a lot like being high, which would just make 5up laugh, before offering him some highly professional description of what he’s experiencing.

Steve is drifting in and out of consciousness, a hazy fog of gold settling over his floating mind, when he hears the familiar tapping of paws against the floorboards. Soft joy blooms in his soul as his face morphs into a smile.

(He begged them to get him in front of a mirror immediately after they finished breakfast on that first morning, desperate to see if any of the expressions he’s been making have been translating into his new face in some way, shape, or form— and thank all the Gods, dozens deep red petals sagged with relief upon Steve catching sight of his reflection.

“Dianthus caryophyllus,” 5up told him, “commonly referred to as clove pink or carnation.”

“I’m not pink though,” Steve murmured, observing with unhidden curiosity just how seamlessly the petals shifted around into something resembling a frown when he thought about furrowing his brows.

“No,” 5up agreed, running his fingers gently against the fluffed up petals. Subconsciously, Steve leaned into his touch. “Red has always been more of your colour anyways.”)

The tapping of paws coming to a stop drags Steve out of the memory— he blinks out of the haze that has settled over his vision, only for his eyes to be immediately met with a sparkling black pair staring back at him. Dumbdog’s head rests on the coffee table, his nose glimmering in the sunshine.

Steve’s smile grows wider. “Someone’s feeling themselves tonight, are we?” Steve coos. He realises his voice has slipped into the puppy tone Apollo likes teasing him for, but he can’t help himself– his heart is full of soft joy, of golden love, and so what if it shows in his voice, so what if it overtakes his expression? 

Dumbdog whimpers, the sound soaked with content and ease as his head sags against the surface of the table even further, cheeks all wobbly and melty. An overwhelming desire to pet him hits Steve like a tidal wave– he misses petting Dumbdog, scratching him behind his ears and rubbing his belly; he misses feeling the warmth of his body and the softness of his fur beneath his fingertips; he misses his favourite dog, and well…  

Something about Dumbdog’s expression tells Steve that his chest might be coloured the exact same shade of blue too.

“I know, bud, I miss it too,” Steve sighs, and then, knowing that Dumbdog won’t contribute to the conversation with more than an occasional whimper or a huff, Steve lets his thoughts take the reins and spill through the spaces between his petals freely. 

“I miss doing human stuff with you too. Like don’t get me wrong, transformation is cool as fuck and I now believe you more than ever when you say there are no words to describe how any of this feels– but being stuck like this kinda sucks ass, not gonna lie to you.”

Dumbdog hums, a high-pitched growl that matches the intonation of Steve’s echoing out sentence. The sound makes Steve chuckle, and he does his best to convey an eyeroll.

“Yeah, my ass,” he repeats, shaking his head when Dumbdog’s tail wiggles with excitement at Steve understanding what he was getting at. “Very funny.”

A short bark, one that Steve classifies as laughter, resonates through the living room. Steve lets its carefree happiness vibrate through his body too, basking in its easy joy for a couple of moments before returning back to his thoughts.

“The point is, that I just wanna do normal stuff again, ya know? I want to solve our silly little crosswords, and I want to play my guitar while you go crazy over your piano, and I want to help 5up cook whatever new recipe he’s just discovered, and I want to force your lazy asses to start going hiking with me again — yes, you too Dumbdog, no complaining about your paws hurting this time — and I want to, you know, just do stuff—“

Dumbdog snickers, the sneezing chuckle interrupting Steve’s monologue.

“Oh, what’s so funny? The idea of me wanting to do stuff? So hilarious, especially coming from somebody who just loooooves to lounge around as a dog for days, doing nothing but receive rubs and pats.”

This time, Dumbdog growls at him.

“C’mon, you know I’m joking. I absolutely adore it when I get to just chill out with you for hours, and you know that. I just—” Steve sighs, his eyes searching the room for the simplest of comparisons, the plainest of examples. A shift of the light catches his attention; the way the tree outside sways under the onslaught of the wind, covering Steve in deeper shadows. “Like, I can’t even move into the sunlight by myself, I can’t even do something as minuscule as—“

The pot beneath Steve moves, causing a breath to hitch in his throat. Magic, he thinks instantly, his mind quick to spin with supernatural theories and insane explanations.

Of course, that’s the furthest thing from the truth, because when Steve looks down, he gets to see that it isn’t magic that’s pushing him across the table towards sunlight, but something much more mundane– something much more special. 

The tip of Dumbdog’s nose is pressed against the pot, and in his eyes, Steve sees a universe worth of devotion. 

Every single petal on Steve’s head quivers with adoration. The emotion is heavy on his shoulders, and under its weight, Steve finds it natural to bend forward, to lower himself all the way until he can touch the centre of Dumbdog’s forehead, marking the spot with a flowery kiss.

Dumbdog’s whimper is once again satisfied, and Steve feels the sound reverberate through every cell of his body. 

It reminds him of sunlight.

Unexpected pressure on Steve’s leaves drags him out of his sleepy haze. His petals curl into a frown and before his eyes can flutter open, a confused question is already tumbling out of his mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing,” he mumbles.

5up chuckles lightly instead of answering, and Steve squirms, levelling a poignant glare at him. It barely has time to settle over 5up before something distracts Steve— in the late afternoon sunlight that reaches the dining table through the window on the opposite side of the kitchen, something in 5up’s hand glistens. This shift in the light grabs Steve’s attention instantly, his eyes flicking to the ornament hanging from his fingers.

Steve chokes on the realisation. “You— 5up, please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing, man— please,” Steve pleads, moving his leaves in front of himself to a prayer-like position almost instinctively. 

Much to his demise, the action is accompanied by all-too-telling cheerful jingling of ornaments together. An exhausted sigh drips out of Steve, from what feels like the bottom of his soul.

“What? You love dressing up in Christmas sweaters, and this is the best I can do for you right now,” 5up defends himself. He pokes one of Steve’s arms, his finger guiding the leaf back to its outstretched position. 

Steve lets him, but makes sure to do it with another pointed sigh. “There’s a difference between wearing a Christmas sweater and being turned into a Christmas tree,” Steve murmurs, and Gods, does he feel ridiculous saying that, oh man—

“I know,” 5up agrees, hanging a tiny golden star on Steve’s arm. “You still look cute, don’t worry baby.”

Steve wants to blow him off with a when do I not? or, perhaps, with a you’re just saying that so that I stop complaining; he wants to, but there’s this sense of honesty coating 5up’s voice, all honey and tenderness, and it renders Steve speechless, flowers sprouting in his mind and love blooming in his heart. 

He dips his head down, deeming the examination of the ornaments that already hang from his arms much more important than letting 5up see the melted smile that his petals just formed. Tiny Christmas baubles jingle with each of Steve’s movements, their reds and golds shifting in the fading sunlight; amongst them, an occasional golden star or a porcelain santa hat gleam with a gentle glow. 

“Why are you not decorating a real tree right now?” Steve asks and while his attention is glued to the way light reflects off the twinkling ornaments and casts funky patterns over the surface of the table, the way 5up hesitates does not escape him.

“I—” 5up starts, but the sentence doesn’t lead anywhere further, fading out after a single word. “You’re going to hate me.”

The statement makes Steve pause, makes him forget all about the colourful disco party happening below him and the rhythmic jingling of the ornaments, makes him ignore anything and everything but 5up— but 5up, who is wearing a tired expression, his eyes glistening with something that definitely isn’t the joyous spirit of Christmas.

“I could never.”

“But—”

“I could never.”

Steve leans forwards, his grabby hands reaching until a pair of leaves comes to rest around 5up’s little finger. He squeezes it, hopefully reassuringly, hopefully lovingly, before searching for 5up’s eyes. “Honey, c’mon.”

5up sighs and Steve takes the sound as a sign to start drafting a long-winded monologue, to begin going down the never-ending list of reasons why he’d never hate him; but before he can open his mouth and start defending his first point, 5up begins talking on his own.

“I’ve just ruined everything about this Christmas, alright? I turned you into a stupid plant and you hate every moment of it, I have been so busy with work and trying to figure out how to reverse the spell that I barely got to spend any time with you or Apollo— and, and, on top of all of that, I didn’t even manage to get us a stupid tree,” 5up says, his voice quivering with despair and anger.  “I’ve ruined everything there was to ruin,” he repeats, but this time, his tone is just defeated.

It breaks Steve’s heart.

“Honey…” he coos. His leaves wrap around 5up’s finger, and despite knowing that it’s far from a reassuring squeeze, Steve devotes all his strength and effort into the action anyway. “5up, look at me. C’mon, don’t make me go over there and force you to, cause, you know, I can’t, but I’ll figure out a way to—”

A chuckle interrupts Steve’s loving threat, and although it sounds a bit too wet for his liking, he counts it as a win. When 5up’s eyes flick towards him, Steve makes sure that he meets him with his warmest smile.

“You aren’t a Grinch, 5up, stop that. You haven’t ruined anything, okay? So what, if we don’t have a proper tree this year? Isn’t it better for nature that way anyways, huh, mister herbalist?” Steve asks him.

“It is, but I know how much you and Apollo enjoy—“

“It’s not important,” Steve shakes his head. “A fucking tree doesn’t matter. What matters is your– our happiness, okay? So, can we please, focus on that?”

“But you– you aren’t happy. Everything sucks, all of it, every single thing, and it’s my fault—”

“Hey, hey, hey— stop-a-that. 5up, c’mon, you know I’m not mad at you. Shit like this happens, I knew what I was signing up for when I fell in love with Apollo, with you; magic sometimes simply goes haywire. But it doesn’t matter, I don’t care, cause nothing could ever make me care for you any less. Nothing.”

5up sniffs. “You’re just— you’re just saying that.”

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes— Gods, his boyfriend can be so annoyingly dense sometimes. Another argument starts forming on the tip of his tongue, but before the thought can materialise itself fully, the front door of their apartment unlocks with a click, and Apollo shuffles inside. A new idea crosses Steve’s mind.

“Apollo?” he calls out.

“Huh?”

“Can you grab the Christmas lights on your way to the kitchen?”

More sounds of movement follow, before a question reaches them, now coming from the general direction of Steve’s home office. “What are we doing?”

Steve squeezes 5up’s finger once more before sending him a reassuring wink.

“We’re decorating a Christmas tree,” he answers, and on all Gods, the smile that tentatively breaks through 5up’s lips renders every single twinkle of the ornaments dull, makes every single colour seem washed out. 

And Steve, he smiles too; and then, he beams with happiness, when Apollo enters the kitchen and erupts into joyous laughter, a sound that begins to echo from 5up’s chest too.

Steve’s favourite mug is a novelty one from the Starbucks he used to frequent after first moving into his own place. Its insides are scratched and the text on it no longer reads Los Angeles, but rather just os Angies, but he still loves it all the same.

Couple of days ago, it held a potion that turned him into a plant, and apparently 5up has some sense of humour, cause now, the mug is sitting in front of Steve once again, filled with a fresh batch of swirling lime-green liquid. It smells of burnt sugar and lavender, a pair of scents he’d never associate with this particular shade of green, and yet somehow, it makes perfect sense.

Steve flicks his eyes between the potion and his boyfriends expectantly.

“Is this it?” he asks, and when 5up nods, he adds another question. “So, do I just drink it?”

“In theory, yes,” 5up agrees.

Steve waits for the but—

“But in practice,” Apollo continues, “we probably just pour it all over you.”

—and there it is.

He sighs, sagging in his pot. “Fine, whatever, let’s get it over with.”

5up reaches for the mug, his lips spreading into a grin that shows off his teeth. “Any last words, Dianthus caryophyllus?”

“Actually, yeah,” Steve says. “I’m so glad that I didn’t turn into like a pine tree or a fucking mistletoe, Gods, can you imagine just how annoying—“ 

Having a potion poured over his head is definitely a way to get Steve to shut up, he must agree, though it is definitely not his preferred one.

No, that would probably be the chest-crushing hug Apollo and 5up pull him into, one that squeezes every last bit of air from Steve’s lungs, rendering him speechless. 

It fills him with love though, so really, who is he to complain?