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Player felt… neutral about the color green.
Everywhere he went, it was there. The bright green of the zombie costume guy who always seemed to hang around outside his apartment supposedly also going to the VIP convention.
The soft, fresh green of grass in meadows, swaying lazily in the breeze. The leafy, almost overwhelming dark green of Turitopulis, where the rainforest seemed determined to remind everyone that plants and insects ruled the place.
Of course, not all shades were pleasant. There was the sour, rotting green of zombies in Telamon’s manor, the kind that made you wrinkle your nose, and the dull, drooping green of plants at the dunes that had clearly given up on life.
—
After his so-called “rest day”—which had ended in the chaos of accidentally summoning Griefer—Player gave up on the idea of shaking him off as both of them have no idea on how to get the man back.
Instead, he let the him tag along and crash at his apartment for the night.
It wasn’t like Player didn’t have options.
Sure, he could’ve fast traveled at his apartment home in a blink, skipped the whole walk back, avoided the sidelong glances, the running commentary, the way Griefer’s footsteps always seemed to match his no matter how many times he sped up.
Or fast travel to Griefer's crib and dump him back there.
(Throwback when Player had recently just found out he's able to fast travel with other people if he has their callcard.)
But for some reason, the thought of mentioning the fact made something in him.. Sadden(?) ever so slightly.
He can feel the way the words hovered at the back of his throat uncomfortably for the entire trip, the offer to fast travel to Griefer's crib, or either the fast travel to his apartment. An easy escape ready to go.
Yet when he opened his mouth, he wasn’t able to say what he wanted to say.
The words he meant to let out — something casual, something safe — got caught in his throat, tangled up with the weight of his thoughts. And instead, what slipped free was something else entirely.
Something… softer.
“You know,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the vines curling lazily up Griefer’s arm, the blossoms glowing faintly in the dim light of the streetlamp, “your flowers are really pretty.”
'It’s okay, Player,' his brain rushed to justify, tripping over itself.
(Griefer tried his damned hardest to stop Player from seeing the way a few bud or two bloomed after those words left his mouth)
'You can play it off as teasing. Or mocking. Whatever Griefer buys, just roll with it.'
Except.
When his mind replayed the words again — the tone, the weight, the way it had tumbled out before he could catch it — even he couldn’t defend how it sounded.
It wasn’t sharp like his usual banter.
It wasn’t mocking.
It wasn’t even remotely playful.
It was… out of the blue. Unsteady. Almost reverent.
And that softness, that undercurrent of something he’d rather not name, clung to the syllables like dew to petals.
Griefer blinked.
Then again.
His head tilted, a vine shifting with the motion, petals brushing faintly against his cheek as though the flowers themselves were reacting. His mouth opened, closed, then finally —
“WH4T?”
It came out more startled than angry. More disbelieving than smug.
Player’s heart skipped. His ears burned. Panic clawed up his chest.
“…Nothing, dude,” he forced out, scrambling for cover. “The voices are getting to you again or something."
But his attempt of a banter/excuse landed weak, flimsy, like paper trying to pass for steel. And judging by the way Griefer’s eyes narrowed — bright, sharp, almost suspiciously amused — the other man could too.
Griefer didn’t buy it.
He never bought excuses that thin.
The silence stretched, and when it finally broke, it wasn’t with laughter or a jab. It was with a low hum, a thoughtful noise that sent a shiver down Player’s spine.
“…HUH,” Griefer muttered, red eyes glinting as they studied him — not with mischief this time, but with a weight Player wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of, followed by a statement. Not a question, but a statement.
“Y0U’R3 N0T J0K1NG."
Player stiffened, and then scoffed, still trying to play it off. Praying to whatever being from up above or down below could hear him would be merciful enough to grant him this one slide from his slip up.
"The hell makes you say that?”
But the rest caught in his throat the same way he'd tried suppressing whatever he was feeling for so long.
Because Griefer was still looking at him. Not smirking. Not laughing. Just looking— like the words had sunk deeper than Player had intended. Like he wasn’t planning to let him wriggle out of it.
Griefer leaned in, just slightly, enough for the faint glow of his flowers to brush against Player’s shoulder. His voice dropped somehow even softer, though the grin never fully left.
“Y0U D0N’T H4V3 T0 PR3T3ND, Y0U KN0W.”
Player’s breath caught. His mouth opened, closed, but nothing came out.
And Griefer, of course, noticed.
The grin returned, sharp as ever — but this time, it carried something else beneath it. Something almost… careful.
And Player knew he was doomed. By fate. By spawn. By Telamon. By the fucking narrative itself.
How was he supposed to move on from this?
—
So then, by the time they reached his place, Player—determined to salvage at least a shred of dignity—decided he’d cook dinner. Anything to get his mind off of whatever that was that happened earlier. Maybe even a snack, too, since he actually had groceries now.
It couldn’t be that hard,
right?
Wrong. Predictably, disastrously wrong.
He grabbed the brand-new salt and sugar shakers he’d bought earlier, both sleek, unlabeled twins sitting innocently on the counter. In his defense, they looked identical—perfectly polished little traps waiting to ruin his evening. Without thinking twice, he tossed a generous sprinkle into the pan, feeling oddly proud of himself. Competent, even.
That illusion lasted all of three seconds.
One taste test later, and his face twisted up like he’d just bitten into pure betrayal. Sweet. Sickly, cloyingly sweet.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Player muttered, glaring at the supposed snack as if it had personally chosen violence against him. His stomach sank. Of course he’d mix them up. He didn’t cook—everybody knew that. So why was he surprised?
From behind him came the unmistakable sound of choking—no, laughing. Loud, wheezing laughter that echoed off his apartment walls like it owned the place.
“H4H4H4! Y0U C4N’T B3 S3R10US, PUNK!”
Griefer practically doubled over, pointing at the doomed fries like it was the greatest comedy routine he’d ever witnessed. His shoulders shook, vines curling like they were laughing too.
“SUG4R?! 1NSTE4D 0F S4LT?! H0W D0 Y0U 3V3N—” He cut himself off mid-sentence, wheezing, before collapsing into another round of uncontrollable laughter, nearly sliding off the counter.
Player groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Glad to know my humiliation’s your new favorite show.”
“1T’S 4 M4ST3RPI3C3,” Griefer gasped out between snickers, grabbing one of the sugar-crusted fries and holding it up like fine art. “TRULY. Y0U’V3 R31NV3NT3D D1NN3R. P4STRY FR13S!”
Once the fit of laughter died down, the infuriatingly beautiful half-plant man just scooted over to where the fries sat, plucking one up with long fingers and popping it into his mouth. He chewed once—then promptly burst into laughter all over again, nearly choking as he bent double against the counter.
Player pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”
“TH1S T4ST3S L1K3 CR1SPY SW33T P0T4T03S.” Griefer leaned against the counter dramatically, hand pressed to his chest as if the fry had personally betrayed him. “H0W B4D 4R3 Y0U 4T C00K1NG T0 M3SS UP M4K1NG FR13S??”
Player groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “They’re fries, Griefer. Just fries. Normal, perfectly fine—”
“—SW33T, CRUNCH1NG, SUG4R DR0WN3D FR13S, SUR3.” Griefer cut in before he could finish, pointing the half-eaten fry at him like it was Exhibit A. His tone was equal parts scandalized and smug, as though this culinary crime deserved its own trial.
“They’re edible!” Player snapped back, though the way his ears were burning under Griefer’s grin didn’t exactly help his defense. “People eat sweet potatoes all the time—”
“Oh, SW33T P0T4T03S? SUR3.” Griefer nodded with exaggerated seriousness, crunching another fry obnoxiously loud, clearly savoring the way Player twitched with each bite. “BUT W3 W3R3 SUPP0S3D T0 B3 M4K1NG FR13S. R34L ON3S. N0T WH4T3V3R TH1S… EXP3R1M3NT 1S.”
His eyes narrowed, mischief flickering in them like sparks. “S0, PUNK— 1S TH1S Y0UR S3CR3T W34P0N? Y0U K33P TH3S3 AB0M1N4T10NS 1N Y0UR B4CKP4CK T0 F0RC3 F33D Y0UR 3N3M13S 1N B4TTL3? TH3Y’D SUR3LY SURREND3R.”
Player’s jaw dropped. “They’re not that bad! You're just my number 1 hater!"
“Y0U’R3 R1GHT, 1 4M," Griefer said 'solemnly', holding another fry up to the light like some rare specimen. Then, grinning ear to ear, he popped it into his mouth. “ 4ND TH3S3? TH3S3 4R3 W0RS3.”
Player snatched the plate away before Griefer could grab another, glaring daggers. But Griefer only laughed harder, doubling over and clutching his stomach like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.
Player wanted to argue. He really did. But the more Griefer grinned, the more words refused to form, and all he could manage was an incoherent grumble as he stabbed at the air with a fork.
“Okay, you know what? Next time, you’re cooking.”
Griefer’s grin widened, sharp and shameless. “0H, N0W Y0U'R3 B31NG 4 B4D H0ST. SUMM0N M3 1N 4 GR0C3RY ST0R3, DR4G M3 1NT0 Y0UR 4P4RTM3NT, 4ND N0W—” he paused, gesturing grandly with the mangled fry still in his hand, “—N0W Y0U'R3 F0RC1NG M3 T0 C00K F0R Y0U?”
Player crossed his arms, scowl only half-convincing. Trying to keep up with their usual banter. “Sure am. Go on, cook for me. And don’t half-ass it either—make it five-star Michelin worthy or you're fired."
Griefer barked out a laugh that carried just enough mockery to sting. “WH4T3V3R. Y0U JUST G0TT4 S1T ST1LL 4ND L00K PR3TTY, PR1NC3SS.”
Player nearly choked on his own spit.
But his protests were drowned out by the sound of drawers sliding open and the clatter of utensils as Griefer made himself far too comfortable in the kitchen. With casual, practiced movements, he rooted through the cabinets like he owned the place, every action dripping with infuriating confidence.
And then, as if fate was personally conspiring to bury Player six feet under in humiliation, Griefer pulled out a pink apron. Not just any apron—bright bubblegum pink, with the bold text Kiss the Cook stitched across the front in loopy cursive complete with hearts and glitters.
Player’s jaw dropped. “I— what— how the hell is that in my apartment?!”
Griefer slipped it on with no hesitation, tying it around his waist with a flourish. The contrast between his current 'cool' and badass attire and the ridiculous apron should’ve been comical, but somehow, impossibly, he managed to wear it like it belonged on him.
He shot Player a look over his shoulder, eyes glinting with mischief. “D0N’T W0RRY, PUNK,” he drawled, lips curling into a grin sharp enough to cut. “CH3F GR13F3R’S 0N TH3 H0US3.”
And as he adjusted the apron strings with one hand and gave Player a wink.
Oh, lord.
Player groaned, throwing a dish towel in his direction. “You’re going to burn my kitchen down.”
“B3TT3R TH4N Y0U P0ISON1NG 1T W1TH SUG4R,” Griefer shot back without missing a beat, catching the towel in one hand like it was all part of the act.
The kitchen filled with their usual rhythm: Player’s exasperated mutters, Griefer’s relentless teasing, the sizzling from the pan competing with laughter that lingered far longer than either would admit. It was loud, ridiculous, comfortable—so familiar it almost felt like ritual.
But rituals don’t last forever. And he meant that in the best way possible. Because by the time the night slowed, the kitchen chaos had dulled into quiet clinks of plates being put away, into lazy yawns Player swore he could fight off, into the faint hum of the city bleeding through thin apartment walls.
And somewhere between sitting down on the couch “just for a second” and half-heartedly arguing about whose cooking had actually been worse, Player’s eyes had fluttered shut.
When he stirred again, it wasn’t to the kitchen, but to warmth.
The neon green of Griefer’s jacket, sharp even under the dim apartment light. On his bed— presumably where Griefer had carried him safely to.
His arms, steady, wrapped around Player.
The green of sprouting vines curling and winding, tangled with the hero's limbs as though the plant itself refused to let go. Leaves scattered in lazy arcs around them, brushing against the floor.
And somewhere in the mess of it all, Player realized—
He’d changed his mind about the color green.
“Y0U’R3 ST4R1NG, PUNK."
Griefer’s voice cut through the quiet, smug and lilting, like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His grin was all teeth and mischief, his tone dancing on that razor-thin edge between taunt and invitation.
The vines coiled lazily around Player’s wrists and waist tightened just enough, not in threat, but in reminder—gentle pressure that said, you’re caught, and I know it.
Player didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look away. Instead, he let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth, smooth as he shot back, “Sure am.”
His tone was casual, but his eyes gleamed with challenge. Voice a bit groggy from his nap. “I love staring at my talking, walking plant buddy. It’s like free entertainment, right in my apartment because someone didn't know how to go back to his own crib.”
“0H PL34S3,” Griefer drawled, his grin wide and infuriating, “1T W4SNT MY F4ULT Y0U US3D MY C4LLC4RD B3C4US3 Y0U M1SS3D M3. TH3N W3 W3NT 0N TH3 M0ST R0M4NT1C GR0C3RY D4T3 3V3R."
Player groaned, dragging a hand down his face, looking back at him afterwards.
“That is not what happened.”
But Griefer only tilted his head in mock thought, neon green jacket catching the light in a way that made his smirk even more obnoxious. His eyes narrowed, like a predator locking onto prey, like he’d just struck gold.
“Oh, SUR3,” he crooned, leaning in just enough for the vines around Player’s arm to tighten playfully. “K33P L00K1N' 4T M3 L1K3 TH4T, PUNK. R34LLY M4K3S M3 W0ND3R—” his voice dipped lower, teasing, deliberate, each syllable drawn out, “—1F Y0U W4NN4 K33P M3 4S 4 P3RM4N3NT H0US3PL4NT 0R S0M3TH1NG.”
The hero huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes, but his smirk didn’t falter. “You’d die in a week. I can barely keep a basil alive. And besides—”
His gaze flicked over Griefer. The hero smirks.
“You take up way too much space to be a houseplant.”
For a moment, silence. And then—
Griefer let out a loud 'HUH?!', and Player half-expected him to sprout a fainting couch alongside his vines. His hand flew to jab at the hero's chest, as though accusing a random woman in a witch trial. “4RE Y0U C4LL1NG M3 F4T?!”
Player shrugged nonchalantly. Not at all denying his accusation, humming 'innocently', looking at his nails like it was the most interesting thing ever. “Hmmm I dunno…You literally sprawl across my entire couch every time you come over.”
“TH4T’S C4LL3D C0MF0RT, PUNK!” Griefer barked back, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. His vines flexed around Player’s waist again, tugging him just slightly closer, as if to punctuate his words. “Y0U’D M1SS 1T 1F 1 STOPP3D.”
"I'd rather for you to stop so I can actually sit down in my own couch." He pointed out, going on with their banter, then giving Griefer a smack to the face due to being too close.
"You know, sitting like a normal robloxian doesn't hurt anyone, stop manspreading your legs everywhere."
“1M 4 SP3C14L K1ND 0F R0BL0X14N,” Griefer shot back instantly, grinning wide enough to show teeth. “Y0U’D S1T R1GHT B3S1D3 M3 ANYW4Y.”
Before Player could retort, the vines gave another playful squeeze, sudden enough to throw off the hero's composure, letting out a small yelp, and the smug bastard didn’t waste a second seeing that it was now his chance to turn their banter to his control.
“4ND N0W Y0U'R3 BLUSH1NG 4G41N,” Griefer purred, the words sharp but smooth, each syllable dripping with mockery. He tilted his head just slightly, as though to savor the sight, his grin curling wider.
Player’s throat worked, willing his smirk to stay, though his ears betrayed him by burning red— alongside his face heating up, forcing a scoff out. “Blushing? Dude. All your stupid vines are blocking the airflow.”
Griefer barked a laugh, leaning closer, the neon edge of his jacket brushing against Player’s arm before the vines also curled around him. “1TS A S1GN TH4T Y0U SH0ULD 1NV3ST 1N 4N 41R C0ND1T10N3R... BUT H3Y, M4YB3 Y0U JUST C4N’T H4NDL3 M3.”
“Oh, I can handle you just fine,” Player shot back before he could stop himself. The words slipped out too easily, too sharp, and his smirk faltered the second Griefer’s grin widened like he’d just been handed the best gift in the world.
“0H? D1D Y0U H34R TH4T, V1N3S?” Griefer said, gesturing at the greenery sprouted from himself, coiled around them, his tone dripping with mockery. “L0C4L PUNK S4YS H3 C4N H4NDL3 M3.”
The vines shifted again, brushing against Player’s wrists until his own hands entangled with his own. at the same time, the vines snaked to Player's waist, curling tighter like a mischievous cat refusing to be ignored.
“Obviously," Player muttered, rolling his eyes slightly, though his voice betrayed him by catching on the edges. His vheeks dusted with pink now that he's practically cuddling with Griefer alongside his vines binding him down.
"You’re just being annoying, that's for sure.”
“4NN0Y1NG, HUH?” Griefer leaned in closer, his jacket brushing against Player’s arm. The neon green seemed almost to glow now, like it was laughing at him too. “FUNNY CUZ Y0U’R3 N0T PULL1NG 4W4Y.”
Player’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Because Griefer was right. He wasn’t. And he didn’t think he ever would.
“Not like I can pull away, genius!” he shot back, though his voice lacked the usual bite, the words landing softer than intended.
Griefer’s smirk deepened at the edges, but he didn’t push further this time. Instead, the vines slackened slightly, curling more lazily around Player’s arms, not binding so much as resting.
Comfortable. Familiar.
And for the first time, maybe ever, the color green didn’t just remind him of the world he had to fight through. It wasn’t just a color anymore. Not just grass on a meadow or moss on forgotten stones.
Not the sickly hue of some monster he had to fight or the dull shade of dying weeds. No—this green was alive. Warm. A shade that pressed against his skin, steady and grounding, like it belonged there.
It reminded him of this—this ridiculous, smug, impossible man who made his chest feel like it was about to burst and his thoughts tie themselves into knots.
“PUNK.” Griefer called out after a while.
Silence.
He waited, but nothing came back. No sharp retort, no muttered complaint, not even a lazy shove of protest.
Of course. The hero was already asleep right after taking a damn nap. Every time they hung out, Player would always end up like this—burnt out, stubborn enough to deny it until his body decided otherwise.
Griefer let out a low breath through his nose, half amusement, half something gentler. His vines shifted on instinct, adjusting to cradle the other man closer. And though he’d never admit it out loud, not even under threat—he didn’t mind at all.
Griefer leaned back against the cushion of the bed, his grin softening into something less teasing to something more soft. He didn’t mind. Not one bit. Because when the hero fell asleep like this, tucked into his vines like they belonged there, Griefer could finally watch.
He noticed everything. The way Player’s shoulders eased, no longer weighed down by whatever battles he’d been fighting in silence.
The faint crease in his brow that only smoothed when sleep claimed him. Even the steady rise and fall of his chest—it was the only proof Griefer needed that Player trusted him. Trusted him enough to let go.
Hell, Griefer knew the guy barely got enough rest as it was. He pushed himself too hard, carried too much, kept moving like if he stopped, the whole world would collapse. So seeing him sleep so soundly here, of all places—in his hold, surrounded by his vines—felt like a victory Griefer would never admit out loud.
His vines shifted unconsciously, curling closer, adjusting their grip with a tenderness that betrayed every mocking word he usually threw. He needed to prune soon; all the buds had bloomed, petal after petal unfurling without restraint, bright against the hero’s dark clothes.
It figured, didn’t it? That his body would betray him like this. Blooming whenever Player complimented him. Blooming whenever Player's near. Blooming whenever he simply thinks about the hero.
And damn it, he was happy.
The white-haired menace tilted his head, watching the way a leaf brushed against Player’s cheek like it couldn’t help itself. His own smirk softened further, almost wistful.
“L00K WH4T Y0U D0 T0 M3, PUNK,” he whispered, voice barely more than a vibration in the quiet.
He knew Player couldn’t hear him. That was the point.
Because if he were awake, Griefer would never say it. Never admit that every time the hero dozed off on him, he felt like the most trusted bastard alive. That he liked the warmth pressed against him, the smell of cheap detergent clinging to Player’s hoodie, the way his vines bloomed like they knew something he refused to put into words.
So instead, he let the silence hold them. Let the flowers bloom unchecked, wild and vibrant, all because the one person who made him laugh, fight, and curse in equal measure had also made him feel… safe.
“Y0U R34LLY 4R3 4 P41N,” Griefer murmured, more fond than annoyed. His voice, usually sharp with mockery, was low now—almost tender.
The vines shifted again, curling with the slow deliberation of something alive and protective, cradling the sleeping hero like he was something worth guarding. A secret.
So he leaned down, his wild grin softened to nothing more than the barest curve of his lips. Almost routine by now, almost instinct, he pressed a kiss against Player’s forehead. Light. Careful. The kind of gesture he’d never, ever let the punk catch him doing if he could help it.
Everytime Player falls asleep and he doesn't properly gives him a goodnight, he makes sure to press a kiss to the hero's forehead as a compensation.
Except Player had stirred awake just moments before, heart stumbling against his ribs just like every other time Griefer gave him 'secret' forehead kisses.
He didn’t move though. Didn’t flinch or open his eyes. No—he stayed perfectly still, kept his breathing even, playing the role of “fast asleep” with the kind of stubborn determination only he could manage. Because if there was one thing he’d never admit, it was how much he loved this part.
Every damn time.
That goodnight peck. That fleeting press of warmth on his forehead that burned hotter than any of Griefer’s snide remarks. It wasn’t about being caught—it was about savoring it, holding onto the one piece of proof that beneath all the banter and sharp edges, Griefer cared.
And so he let it happen. Let the villain’s vines hold him steady, let the soft brush of petals bloom around him, let Griefer believe he was still asleep. His smile was hidden, buried against his own arm, but it was there. Small. Secret.
Because the truth was? He wouldn’t trade those stolen goodnights for anything.
Not that he’d ever tell him.
—
"Goodmornin' handsome."
"....WH4T"
"I was talking to myself, you idiot." Player says as he brushes his hair in front of his mirror.
And Griefer was debating on whether he'd smack the hero with his trusty crowbar or kick behind his knees so he'll faceplant on the said mirror.