Chapter Text
Domestic squabbles are a given in this lifetime. Can’t co-exist with anyone without some minor irritation.
It’s a guarantee really.
But Sun never draws the curtains in the morning if you’re still groggy. Moon keeps the TV at night decimals below what could stir you awake.
You make it your honest mission to always keep your clothes in the laundry bin the one time you catch Eclipse red handed tidying up the space.
Difficult to complain when your newly founded housemates did mostly all they could to be agreeable, much as you did in return.
As cliche and sappy as that sounded, you loved them so very much.
But the plants.
The plants.
Your beloved houseplants faced the troubling wrath of miscommunication and you just can’t fathom how it’s plant care that keeps causing arguments.
The first day it happens. You’re awoken to early daylight, and the scent of watered down bleach. Staring out into the hallway, gaze transfixed on the spray bottle in Sun’s hand, like the handle of a dagger in a slasher flick.
Because that is the household cleaning solution he’s wielding.
“Darling! Good morning! You’re up early early today. Lemme finish up and I’ll go make us coffee!”
Spritzing the chemical all over your beloved Fiddle-Fig Leaf plant!
“What are you doing..?!” You squawk, swatting the bottle straight out of his hands. The element of surprise in your favour here, the bottle tumbling to the floor out of harm’s way.
Tempted to kick it across the floor out of his reach entirely.
“Fiddle-Fig was dusty, feel it! Look at it! The poor thing was collecting cobwebs! No need to fret now, I know all about plant care! Used to water and clean all the plants in the Daycare y'know! Silly, wasn’t gonna wake you up just to-”
Immediately connecting the dots,“Those were plastic plants!!” You interrupt in a shrill. Regretting the decision to let frazzled nerves sway your temper.
Sun curling in on himself like a poor kicked puppy.
“I-I’m..-! I’m sorry just-… You can’t water or clean plants with bleach Sun. You have to be gentle,” Giving his arm a sympathetic squeeze, dipping into the bathroom to run the bath.
It’s all you could think. Carefully rinse off the chemicals quicker and keep the pot out of the stream. Gently dab away the viscera from the leaves. More at ease with this taped together emergency plan.
“They’re alive, they’re not plastic.”
But when you turn back around.
Sun is trying again.
To spritz the plants. Again!!
“Dude! Knock it off! Drop it!! Drop it-.. Drop it drop it-!”
To his credit he drops it.
Dull sloshy clank to the floor. Catching the way his posture ever so slightly shakes. Staring him down, metaphorically hearing the annoyance rattling in his casting. Gunking up his gears.
You’ve literally never been this frustrated in your entire life. Snatching the Fiddle-Fig off the hallway table, Sun following to leer in the doorway.
“… I know,” He starts, sharp and wobbly all in the same faux breath. “How to take care. Of our plants.”
“Just keep your mits off Fig!” Poking his chest, showing you mean business. “We’ll get plastic plants you can play with later. Take care of those to your heart’s content.”
Failing to shut the door in time before Sun pipes up again. Sing-songing in a condescending lament as he follows your eye line straight on until the door fully closes.
“I think you’re ovveeerr-reactinggg!!”
You shut the door twice in retaliation.
Beloved, Fiddle-Fig stood no chance against care taking protocols that stubbornly stayed stuck on the wrong dial-tone.
Because this morning you’d been greeted with an even more troubling site.
The dirt is gone.
Out of the pot. Straight up missing.
How meticulous a task to gently remove each little root from the soil and leave it starving. Catching him rounding the corner with gardening gloves (and how in the world he’d even found gloves to fit his hands for one).
“Eugh, saving Fig from all that disgusting dirt was no easy task,” He beams. “Not to mention the bath it needed to get all cleaned up! But look, look it looks much happier. I’m sure whatever you were doing was great too!”
Feeling what little patience you had dwindling. Your eye twitches.
“Liiiike I told you! I took care of plants all the time! No more of that pesky dirt!” Tapping a finger to your nose. An equally affectionate and condescending boop to your nose.
“Taking it out of the dirt is killing it.” Glancing over the still intact roots. “You’re literally killing it.”
“We have the internet y'know! Duh. You’re supposed to wipe down these kinds of plants once a month! It doesn’t look like you were doing that at all. So dusty, blegh!”
Are you going crazy? For real. You feel like you’re going crazy.
“Good thing I’m here! To help you out and help out our beloved plants! Don’t have to worry about all that pesky tidying with me around!”
Gripping his shirt tightly, shaking the fabric in place of shaking him.
"Not with bleach!! With water!! With water Angel! Where did you even read anything about removing the dirt?!”
“The bleach was diluted with water! Don’t get yourself in such a twist!” Literally cupping your hand and making you twirl. Stumbling on the hardwood to catch yourself.
“Where did you read about removing the dirt! Give me your source, give me the name of the article writer I’m going to find their address and stuff live beetles in their vents!”
“Oh!” Distress finally clicking. Maybe. Clicking a little. He cups your face, soothing his thumbs along your cheeks.
“… Goodness. Does our Fiddle-Fig really need… Dirt that much? I mean, I just don’t think that’s true. But if you’re thiiis upset.. hmmm.”
Breathing in deeply, keeping your insistence steady and firm. “All the plants in this house need dirt. And water, not cleaning solutions."
”… Fine.“ He warblers a sigh. Glaring down at the plant. "This one can have dirt.”
Tempted to ask him if he’s heard literally anything you’ve said.
Glitter, and acrylic paint are what come next.
Dropping the plate in your hands, scattering homemade linguine pasta all over the living room floor.
Literally out of the room for fifteen minutes and he’s made a craft project out of the plants suffering. It’s screaming tirelessly to a void that no one can hear.
You’re very glad you’re not a plant. Actually.
Sun sets his paintbrush on the tiny plastic pallet, rushing to you after collecting supplies to clean up the mess of ceramics and sauce.
“The orange didn’t come out quite right! Don’t you just hate that? Mixing colours and noo matter how much yellow you mix in, it’s just not orange enough!”
Fig is ruined, Fig will perish. Fig is not going to continue thriving in this household like this.
Urgency to hide it in your jacket and run off into the woods, protect it from inevitable chemical murder or craft projects.
“I know I can do better, but sure am so so glad you love it so much! Rendering you all speechless!” He chirps, like he’s proud of this.
Leaning down to wordlessly clean up the rest of pasta wreckage. Sun rambles about his other plans for Fig. If he couldn’t clean it properly, he could at least decorate it correctly!
Plants being all one colour is an eye sore.
You could tell him most plants are one colour. Most plants are green. Question his programmed sanity if he too has a distaste for the green grass outside the window. The brittle bark of brown tree trucks even.
“Please don’t ever do this again, plants can’t handle being tampered with like this.”
“Decorating isn’t tampering.”
At least this phase hasn’t reached Moon yet you suppose.
… Yet.