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You hate Sam.
With his sheer force of will, Sam killed you, your creator, and everyone else in your lair. He had fallen for your act, your silly words, and continued to stand by it, even when you were trying to kill him. And yet, he saved your life, in the cruelest move he could have pulled, pretending to be your best friend as some sort of cosmic punishment for what you tried to do. He killed you, brought you back to life, and will continue this cycle as much as he wants.
You can't kill him. He won't let you stay dead. You cannot escape him.
And he doesn't even realize that this is a nightmare, that this is the bad end.
You might as well just grin and bear it. Just beg him to be merciful as you would a god. Perhaps, if you act like he wants you to, you'll be able to survive. And one day, when it's all over, you'll get out.
…
Where will you go?
You have nothing but him.
He's trapped you.
Losing your shit and trying to kill him doesn't free you. Begging for mercy doesn't free you. All of your attempts to escape are met with kindness and concern and friendship.
At least if you continue the act, he doesn't coddle you and try to fix what's wrong. He doesn’t keep bringing up how he thinks the mushroom in your brain is funny, and how he’ll free you from it one day.
...What happens when you no longer remember that it's supposed to be an act?
What happens when one day, you get the chance to leave, and you don't? What if you realize how thoroughly his plan worked without you even realizing it? What if you discover that you love him and feel sick to your stomach about it?
Your hatred has evolved into something you can't name. He extends his hand in friendship and you can't imagine a world in which you don't take it. You feel sick, but you feel safe. In the way a plant loves the flames.
What happens when you don't know who you are beneath the act of “friendship?”
What happens when Sam knows this act of yours better than you know the real you, now?
Like when Sam leans against your side and pulls back with an apology. He says that your fibers twist up when you don't want to be touched.
Do they? Did they always?
…You were never a person. You were never meant to be. You were a tool used by a princess who wanted to control all. And now that you're severed..........
Who are you?
Sam wants to help you find out. And doesn’t that just fill your stomach with bile?
When you act the friend and confide in him and your voice shakes when you admit that you don't know who you are anymore (it's an act, just an act, you're only saying things Sam wants to hear, you're only saying friendship shaped things because friendship is the only option Sam has ever fucking given you, the only option he accepts)-
He promises over and over again that he'll help you find out.
And it twists in your gut that you know that "his friend" is going to be part of who you are. And you don't know how much of that is because you want that and rely on that, and how much is because you're afraid of what happens and what you're left with if you aren't.
You love him.
You have to.
You hate it.
You can't imagine anything but loving him.
You stay by his side and remain his friend, because loving him is keeping you alive. You fear the love becoming something worse.
You are his friend.
You are his friend.
You didn't want to be his friend, you can't stand to be his friend, you can't not be his friend, you can't be anything other than his friend-
You didn't get to choose whether to be his friend.
You can't be his enemy, he won't allow you to be.
And you can't be nothing, not now, not-
oh god without him you're nothing without him you're NOTHING
The urge to be something that you at least chose- no, nononono that's worse, that would be worse-
You cling to him tighter, suddenly short on breath and needing to be safe. Something in your gut twists when you realize you've designated Sam as safe.
The idea of being without him is terrifying.
That's love, isn't it?
Being so afraid of losing somebody that you can't breathe - that means you love them, doesn't it?
You couldn’t stand to be apart from the Spore Mother, either. You loved her too, because you couldn’t live without her. Because she would kill you if you didn’t. She was hungry. So, so hungry.
You feel like a part of you died. You decide not to give it a burial. Who knows, Sam might bring it back if you do.
You love him so much you feel ill. This is what love is, right?
His arm tightening around you feels comforting. He's here with you, beside you, like he's said he'll be, like he's promised he always will be, like he's supposed to be-
(like he has to be, like you need him to be)-
That's what love is, right?
It has to be.
It can't be anything else.
You can't imagine it being anything else.
You grit your teeth and wrap one of your lower arms around his waist and lean your head on his. You shake. You can't tell from what. Your breath comes fast. You don't know why. Your stomach feels queasy. Butterflies? You don't know.
Why does loving someone feel so much like terror?
Your grip on him tightens, your breath picking up. He laughs softly and teases you for being clingy. You can't muster a cutesy response, only burrowing into him deeper.
He looks at you with kind eyes. You feel like screaming.
This has to be love.
It has to be.
It can't be anything else.
It can't be anything else.
You don't feel like his friend. You feel like you're going crazy. You feel like your heart is going to beat itself right out of your fragile, papery chest.
It's unbearable. You don't know what to do.
But you at least want it to be your choice.
And for that, there's only one thing you can do.
You touch his face, and he's an idiot, and he understands.
He looks at you softly and he's so kind that he even closes his eyes and angles his head for you, and you feel like you're dying, and this is love, right?
Your heart feels like it's made of glass and "I love you" falls out of your mouth with the voice of a mourning prayer. He smiles and puts his hand on your face with the barest hint of a chuckle. "I know," he replies, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Of course you love him. Of course he knew. Of course.
Your head falls to his chest, where he holds you as you shake. You feel like throwing up. You're madly in love. Everything feels wrong.
But in his arms, you feel right.
It's the only place you feel right.
But that's okay, because he's here, and he's told you enough times that he'll always be here, right?
Even when you didn't want him to be, he told you that.
You love him. You hate him. You love him. You love him. You love him.
You're home.
You love him.
You feel sick.
You love him.