Chapter Text
Tommy scowls sourly at the sight before his dirty, beaten, bare feet.
The young boy was just turning into the familiar alley that has recently become a temporary shelter, when he was stopped in his tracks. At the alley’s entrance sit two pink roses on thornless vines, sprung from a crack in the cobblestone and clinging together like sappy lovers.
It’s a simple thing, and perhaps to most, entirely insignificant. Tommy digs his stinging fingers into the ratty material of his far-too-worn shirt and struggles to keep his emotions at bay.
No one understands the magic of this world enough to explain how the vines and flowers grow, when they started, or why they are so connected to people and their emotions. But a few things are now understood about them.
Blossoms mean you love and are loved.
Tommy stomps through the roses, wincing as he’s pricked by undoubtedly his own thorns, and storms down the rest of the alley.
There are many kinds of flowers, of every colour unique to the wearer, all supposedly carrying deep recognizable meaning. They spring from the ground and sprout from people’s bodies in relation, apparently, to the love springing up inside.
All over town, people walk around with crowns and corsages of blossoms, displaying openly the riches of love they possess in their daily lives. Many others cover themselves with hats, scarves, large sleeves - whatever they can to protect a certain privacy for their emotions.
Tommy wears no such coverings. He has neither the shame nor the funds to hide his barren head. He barely has enough to keep himself decent, privacy is hardly a street kid’s priority. But he wears no blossoms either. Honestly, he’s not so sure anymore if he can even grow them. When he sees the flowers so many people adorn, each with their own unique and precious meaning, it all means the same to him - something he’s never had.
Tommy drops down into his make-shift shelter with a disgruntled huff. Who needs them anyway? He muses bitterly. There’s no practical use for flowers - except maybe eating them.
His hand pushes into the aching rumble in his stomach, and he glances towards the entrance of the alley. Perhaps filling his stomach with rose petals is a more productive use of his spite than stomping them into the street. But there’s nothing left but rot and Tommy’s own tangled red bramble. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut and falling back onto his ‘bedroll’. More of a pile of trash than anything else.
Tommy had managed to snag a bite to eat, but there was no trace of that bite any longer and his stomach likes to gaslight him and act like it was never present. And that bite had nearly earned him a beating, so Tommy didn’t think it was a good idea to return to the market square for a while. Maybe he could go searching for more flowers? Prime knows there’s plenty of those all over everywhere. People leave them in the cracks of the streets as they walk, and they constantly flood the park.
Tommy doesn’t know if they’d be filling at all, but now he can’t get the thought out of his head.
With a long-suffering sigh, Tommy pushes himself to a sit, actually considering this. He’ll still have to be careful, people get really pissy about the 'sanctity' and 'blessedness' of flowers and would probably give him an ass-whooping if he just stuffed their precious symbols in his mouth.
He really doesn’t know the meanings and symbols or what every different flower represents. He barely knows what his own vines mean, or why sometimes they rot. Obviously it’s all related to his feelings, but for Tommy it’s all very difficult to track.
There are two things he knows well - anger and fear.
Anger is fiery red thorns wrapping his knuckles and sprouting from the earth, tripping up and tearing up the ankles of his adversaries. He is very familiar with those thorns. They have been his weapon, his protection, but mostly his doom. He also knows his… other thorns. The ones that press at his scalp and fingers when he tears at his hair in regret. Though it gets hard to distinguish the sickly white thorns of self-hatred from the crimson rage against the world and other bastards once the thorns are coated in his own blood.
He knows fear almost as well. The white vines are tight around his throat, and the red vines desperate in their (typically futile) attempts to hold down the object of his terror. It’s incredibly rare for Tommy to ever grow fear alone, because anger is a familiar and protective friend.
But there were times. Tommy still wakes up in the dead of night, practically suffocating in the web of vines that cocoons him just from the memory.
Tommy swallows hard, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.
He remembers.
The way the thorns turned in on themselves, vanishing with a painful squeeze digging into his palms as he saw the look in those eyes. The tug so desperate around his ankles, screaming at every frozen nerve of his body to run.
He can’t forget it, however hard he tries. But that’s about the extent of Tommy’s intricate emotional awareness. He never grew enough blossoms to learn which meant what. In fact, he could count on one hand how many times he’s seen his flowers, and they were in less than ideal circumstances - he never got a good look at them.
He always seemed to hate Tommy’s blossoms, for some reason, and the only thing that man ever grew were those black and green, snake-like vines. They’d most often been painful and suffocating, but he had told Tommy they were his love, and so Tommy couldn’t help but cherish the squeeze of them - even as he fought for breath in their embrace.
Tommy shudders, feeling sick. When he opens his eyes, the tattered covering of his shelter is warping and blurring as his vision spins. Fuck. Breathe, just breathe.
Tommy’s eyes close again, and he draws in cold gasps of air like he’s just been drowning. One hand clutches at the trash pile beneath him and the other digs into his neck, trying desperately to stop the spinning.
You’re not there. He’s gone, he can’t hurt you. He repeats this over and over in his head, fervently ignoring the slick, white vines curling around his hands and throat. The darkness behind his eyelids becomes unbearable so he forces them open and rapidly blinks in the late afternoon sun. Red vines curl around his feet, searching restlessly for the monster making Tommy’s heart race.
But they find nothing. Because he’s not here. You’re free. His stomach growls indignantly and Tommy almost laughs despite himself. Free and fucking starving, but free nonetheless.
Slowly his breathing starts to calm and he rips off the clingy vines. Then Tommy pauses, clutching the tattered remains, and he inspects them incredulously. Would these be edible? They certainly don’t look appealing - hanging limp, the colour reminding Tommy of supremely aged milk. His stomach turns despite his ravenous hunger, and he decides against it; discarding the dead, gross plants with a grimace. Flowers are a much better idea. With a shaky breath, he scrambles to his feet, stomping pointedly all over the red vines sprouted there. It feels cathartic in a strange, small way.
Fuck Dream. Another breath, more even now, and Tommy makes his way towards the park, ignoring the weakness in his legs and the intensifying light-headedness. And fuck flowers. He adds to himself, finding something self-assuring in the rebellion as he ponders his plan to stuff everyone’s blessed symbols of love into his starving face.
After all, didn’t he deserve to feel blessed for once?
—
“Phil.”
Phil stirs, not yet opening his eyes to the sweet sound of his wife’s voice. He only nuzzles closer with an incoherent murmur.
Kristin’s giggle reaches his sleepy ears next. “Open your eyes, love.”
Phil does, and he’s greeted with the impossibly wonderful sight of his wife’s dark eyes and loving smile. A moment later, he’s greeted with the gentle smack of a bushel of white and violet roses. Kristin lets out a peal of laughter as Phil very abruptly attempts to gain his bearings - only to find himself restrained.
“Good morning, babe.” Kristin says teasingly, shifting in her own restraints.
Finally, Phil fully takes in the scene. His and Kristin’s bedroom is absolutely covered in vines of white, green, purple and black roses. He and his wife are completely cocooned together in these vines and unable to move.
Phil lets out a fond chuckle. “Good morning. Sleep well?”
Waking to this kind of situation might be unusual or alarming to some, but ever since he and Kristin at last moved in together, it had practically become their morning routine. This volume was a little out of ordinary, and a touch inconvenient, but Phil could hardly complain.
“Apparently I slept great! I trust yours was the same?” Kristin replies, gently beginning the long-practiced maneuvers to wrestle free from their confines.
Phil chuckles again, leaning in and kissing his wife before assisting her in attaining freedom. It’s truly a workout now getting out every morning, but Phil wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Before the two of them found a home, Kristin’s duties with her family took her away for several months. He remembers all too well waking alone, wrapped achingly tight with vines of white roses and watching so many of them rot away in the agony of missing her.
Phil would rather crawl through a labyrinth of thorns every morning than ever wake up without her again.
Eventually, they climb free of the vines and stare helplessly at the tangled mess left behind. As long as they don’t plant any of the vines or blossoms they’ll vanish by nightfall, but it still makes for a unique challenge getting changed. They now store a small amount of clothes outside of the bedroom for this purpose.
Once dressed, Phil makes his way past his sons’ bedrooms towards the kitchen.
He greets a very sleepy Wilbur at his door, pulling him into a hug. “Morning son.”
Wilbur grunts in response, pulling away after a few seconds already snagging on Phil’s vine wrapping him with white morning glories and daffodils. Wil mutters sheepishly as he retreats to the bathroom tugging at his beanie, ineffectively attempting to hide the bright yellow sunflowers spilling from his hair. Phil smiles after him fondly.
In the kitchen he greets Techno by ruffling morning glories into his hair, holding back tears as he watches a large pink sunflower subtly bloom in the mess of Phil’s blossoms and Techno’s slowly emerging red daffodils.
Phil turns and focuses on the kettle, hoping Techno won’t notice him noticing. Techno barely moves in his seat at the table. He doesn’t seem to have consciously registered being awake yet, nibbling numbly on a chocolate muffin. He needs a coffee, but he won’t have one until Wilbur takes him to class.
Phil stifles a laugh, stealing another glance at the sunflower. He’s certain his son dyed his hair pink in the hopes that his blossoms would blend in. It does nothing to hide the red ones, but Techno is far less willing to admit he loves his family than he is to admit he feels loved by them.
Of course, it doesn’t really hide any of them, but Phil is more than willing to let his children believe they have him fooled. Not everyone loves as shamelessly as Phil after all.
“Mhmm, pour me some tea, won’t you darling?”
Before Phil can make the move to do so, his vines wrap all the way down his arm and white rose petals tumble over the counter and into the mugs. Kristin snickers.
He turns to her bashfully, holding in laughter. “Of course, just… just a moment, love.”
A violet rose blooms at Kristin’s ear as she snickers again, taking a seat next to Techno, who rolls his eyes deeply. “We get it, Phil. You love mom.” He deadpans.
Phil and Kristin burst into cackling laughter as Phil dumps petals out of the mugs and begins pouring the tea.
Kristin pipes up. “Yeeah, Phil, come on! Get a grip!”
Phil hums fondly, glancing back to see Kristin none-too-subtly threading roses out of her hair and tossing them under the kitchen table. He turns back to the tea and sighs deeply. There are petals floating in the mugs.
“Are we telling Dad to get it together in here? I want in. You’re a mess, Phil.”
Phil shakes his head, ignoring Wilbur’s entrance as he struggles to pick the petals from the tea without dropping more in. “Thank you, son.”
“Anytime, Dad. Is that tea?”
Phil gives up once the mugs have only one petal each and turns around with them. “Pour it yourself, mate. Unless you want my love in it.” He adds teasingly, handing one of the mugs to Kristin and sitting down.
Kristin giggles and sips her tea while Will sneers, making his way to the tea. Techno rolls his eyes again.
Phil takes a sip and sighs contentedly. Wil and Techno soon take their leave for school and he watches them leave fondly, hand in Kristin’s rose-wrapped hand.
Could anyone be more blessed?