Chapter Text
Warm summer wind brushes lazily past flowers that reach towards the sun, petals blooming and leaves swaying with the breeze as the day steadily progresses. Crickets chirp from within hidden thickets, insects crawl underneath leaf litter and burrow into dead foliage, lizards bask upon warm stones, and birds sing from the trees nearby, their chanting voices a waking lullaby for those who have decided to walk among the wilds today.
One such soul is a wanderer, a teen whose mischievous deeds often drive him to trouble, despite the fact that he’s an absolute Big Man™️ and can handle himself perfectly well, thank you very much. His hair is pale blond, an almost golden hue with the way the sun’s light shines upon it, and his skin is as pale as the moon itself, yet still filled with life that shows as warm pinks and reds blossoming like rose petals upon his cheeks. An off-tune hum, somehow still sung through a thick accent while lacking the words, follows his every step, a song that’s familiar yet strange to the boy as he sings it.
Summer, he’s decided, is pretty pog.
It’s the only time of the year that he finds himself able to truly explore the wild area outside of the farm, following the creek that winds around the forest, clambering up the looming pine trees, and occasionally chasing butterflies, grinning at their colorful wings before he lets them go, watching them flutter off into the sky with freedom and confusion causing them to move with an added speed. He’s always admired seeing the way that the sun flows through their fluorescent wings, illuminating the delicate, intricate patterns. Though he’ll never admit it, he fucking loves colorful things— pretty shit, like flowers, have captured his attention for as long as he can remember. Because of this, he often finds himself lured back to the great meadow, baskets in hand as he plucks blooming petals and berries, adding them to his collection so that he can press them into books later, or just save the plants as decorations.
He’s considered planting a garden before, but each time he’s decided against it with a heavy heart, realizing that he’s too lacking in experience to try his hand at causing life to blossom from seeds sown into the earth. Maybe one day he can find someone to help him, or he could just figure it out himself on his own, but for now, he’s only able to explore this vast meadow, taking what he can and returning it back to his home whenever he gets the chance.
So, seeing as he can’t have a plot of plants to call his own just yet, he’s wandering through the beaten paths yet again, weaving around tall stalks of grass and avoiding prickly berry bushes as he moves. He walks with a kind of practiced grace, for this is a routine to him at this point— it’s something that’s as woven into his being as taking care of the farm animals, a pattern that’s been threaded in him ever since he first set foot in this farm. He knows each step of the way, knows each plant and its history, what came before it, and what could possibly come after it. His eyes barely have to leave his basket as he moves, leaves crunching under his feet while he avoids yet another thorn bush. There’s many of them, and he’s been pricked a fucking ton of times, but he’s gotten better at it over the years.
Someone should start removing the dead thorns from the paths, because they serve a severe threat to the Tommy Innit community, but seeing as he’s busy gathering flower petals, he’ll leave it to someone else. Maybe some of the kids who come here for summer camp could do it as an activity, or one of the counselors can do it.
All Tommy knows is that he’s not clearing the trails right now. He’s far too busy doing important things, such as bundling up another batch of lavender into his basket and watching a cotton moth drift by lazily, its white wings barely having to shift with the added movement that the wind provides. There’s something calming about hanging out in the meadow, something that’s led it to becoming Tommy’s favorite place on the farm. Sure, there are other areas that could prove more interesting, such as the lake and the rivers, along with the massive lawns that stretch until they reach the edges of the forests, but there’s nothing that compares to just merely vibing in the sunlight among insects and birds, having no worries as he trots across the tall grass.
Well, there are some worries, but they’re fears that have roots lying within old folk tales that he was told as a kid. Legends older than Tommy is, stories about the creatures that lurk within the meadow, stealing away children and disappearing into the night, never to be seen again. They’re like those old books that some parents read to their kids to scare them away from going places they’re not supposed to, or like spooky shit that teenagers say just to freak their friends out. Honestly, all of the stories are foggy at best, and the details never stay consistent, so Tommy finds that he doesn’t give much of a shit. Sure, there’s a little bit of fear that gnaws at him like a rather angry kitten whenever he stays in the meadow for too long or wanders too close to the edge of the forest, but it’s nothing to be worried about.
Stories are stories. Monsters that dwell in the darkest corners of the wilderness don’t exist, and even if they did, Tommy has full confidence that he could beat the shit out of anything that would try to kill him. Or he’d just annoy them to death, which he is equally good at, but his point still stands. He’s pretty fucking safe, regardless of how many ghost tales poke and prod at him.
He’s just out here to collect flowers, and that’s what he’s going to do.
A couple of honeysuckle tumble into his basket, courtesy of his careful fingers plucking them off the bush and leading them in, and he smiles to himself, proud of how well his new batch is coming along. He’s going to be the absolute king of flowers at this point. The fucking best flower collector to ever walk the planet. A gigachad of plants.
He continues about his work, plucking any plants and berries that look interesting to him, tossing some of the edible ones into his mouth so that he can chew them while he walks, and brushing some extra vines and thorns to the side so that he doesn’t end up with any more spiky things in his legs. Having to pick out an entire branch covered in thorns from his thigh isn’t exactly the best pastime, and the amount of blood that had run down Tommy’s leg was enough to give him a fucking massive scolding from the counselors back at the farm. So, he remains cautious, glowering at a couple of prickly tendrils that reach out onto the path a bit too closely for comfort, and does his best to avoid ending up back at the first aid station.
The sun’s still climbing high up into the sky, ducking behind clouds and beaming down upon the meadow as shadows are casted by the taller plants and trees that surround the area. Robins and jays call out their thanks to the light, and Tommy can even hear a couple of crows laughing from somewhere in the distance, along with the cicadas that haven’t stopped screaming since the day that summer started. The noise may be a lot, and it can be frustrating, but at the same time it makes Tommy feel at home, a gentle reminder of where he is and where he came from. It’s as though nature itself is placing memories into his palms, illuminating various events and scenarios from his life with a warmth that could never be replicated by anything physical. Not even the nicest fireplace could compare to how Tommy can recall getting his entire arm stuck in a rabbit’s burrow when he was nine, or when he fell waist-deep into quickmud while trying to prove that he was immune to it. His friend Tubbo had laughed at him a lot that day, and while he had been pretty pissed, he can’t deny that he had chuckled a bit as well.
A smile tilts the corners of his lips, warm pinks blossoming across his cheeks as the calls of childhood tug gently at his sleeves like a puppy begging for food. Chasing fireflies in the night, fighting a wild deer simply because it looked at him funny, running from a rooster with anger issues— they’re all chaotic, yet fond. Things that could never be forgotten. Then there’s the fact that he’s shared almost all of them with friends, whether it be Tubbo, the boy who’s lived in the farm for just as long as Tommy has, or Ranboo, the nervous guy who has to quite literally look down at people in order to talk to them. Tall bastard.
All of it causes a content, happy feeling to bubble up in Tommy’s chest, and despite the fact that he is the most massive gigachad to ever walk the Earth, he finds that collecting flowers, hanging out in the farm and just enjoying life in general is quite poggers. Even Big Men™️ like himself can chill with the blooming rose petals and honeysuckle that bring color to the meadow.
Sometimes he wishes that summer could stay forever.
He sighs, the humid breeze sweeping past his face as he takes in a breath. It’ll change soon enough, and then he’ll be back inside, waiting for the day that the sun rises from behind the clouds once more, its rays illuminating lively green hues and shining upon dewdrops that slip off of leaves. Winter will come, and he’ll just have to be patient.
After all, it’s only a few months, right? Then summer will come back, and he’ll be free again.
Pushing away these thoughts in favor of returning to his pastime of picking flowers, Tommy can almost feel scarlet eyes burning into the back of his head. It’s an odd feeling, but it’s most likely just because of the sorrow that’s crept into his mind in favor of the coming winter.
Monsters aren’t real, so Tommy’s not being watched.
…right?