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There are a lot of things Fern can't do—physically, that is. For reasons unknown to him and everyone else, some basic functions just don't agree with his plant body. He can't eat, that was something he figured out pretty quickly; likewise, he can't drink. Logically, it makes sense: why would he need those forms of sustenance when he gets his energy from the sun? Of course, this doesn't make it any less annoying. He doesn't bleed either, or at least he wouldn't call the sap that comes out of his cuts blood; and, truthfully, he's not sure if he's even breathing sometimes, rather just heaving his chest in a rhythm so familiar to him.
Of course, there are plenty of things he can do that a normal human boy should! He can he walk and talk and lay witness to the world with his own two eyes. He can make swords come from his hands, though perhaps that's more of a "Finn" trait than a "normal" one. He can even remember what it was like to once be a real human, flesh and blood and all; when he thinks too hard about it, however, he feels all weird and does his best to distract himself instead. Perhaps, in a way, this is the greatest example of his humanity.
He's not sure if he'd agree with that, though.
One of the many "human" things Fern can do is sleep—theoretically, that is. His body is more than capable of sleeping, it tends to do that from the moment the sun sets until it rises again; he figures this rigid schedule is just another one of his many plant quirks and doesn't think too much of it.
Sometimes his body seems to not realize when the sky has turned dark, however. It seems as though it convinces itself that it can get it's energy from the moon, too, and continues running despite how desperately he wishes for it not to. It will be dreadfully late into the evening and he'll be curled up on the roof, just waiting for his mind to stop racing until daybreak where it will, without a doubt, resume it's normal activity regardless.
At times like this, he usually ends up laying awake all night, just waiting for it all to stop. (For the sake of transparency, sometimes he does manage to sleep, but that happens so rarely it's almost not worth mentioning at all.) When the sun rises, he knows he will feel energized yet again, just now hung up and anxious over his moonlight thoughts.
Tonight is a night like that, though slightly different than usual. After lying on the roof for two hours (just an approximation, he isn't super hung up over punctuality), he decides he's had enough of it. He gets up.
He spends a minute or two up on the roof, looking out at Ooo. He wonders why he doesn't do this more often; the natural absurdity of this world mixed with the peaceful chaos of the twinkling night sky altogether makes for a comforting sight. He thinks about all of the places that he's been, all of the memories he's gathered in the countless kingdoms.
He's a little too aware that his memories are nothing more than that, of course. No one else seems to remember him ever being there, more than anything they seem to insist that they've never so much as met him. Of course, this is because he's Finn in their memories, and he's not Finn anymore. He often forgets this, especially at night when he's dreadfully tired.
The comfort of the scene has all but faded. He decides to go inside instead, finding his way down into the living room.
He's not sure what the point of doing this was: there's much less to see here, and really not much he can do. BMO rests peacefully on the table where he typically does; Fern briefly considers waking him up and playing some games, but he decides against it. BMO deserves to sleep, even if he can't.
Perhaps coming down here is a vestigial trait leftover from his time as Finn. Back then, he would find his way into the kitchen—just adjacent from the living room—when he couldn't sleep, getting nice glass of water or some kind of snack. It was a habit he fell out of once he ended up in this grass body, but he supposes maybe just the act of going into the kitchen still provides some sort of calm; surely, there is some sort of peace in familiar repetition. At the same time, though, all of the food reminds him of everything he can't do anymore; there is a sense of bitterness over the things he has lost.
He decides the kitchen is a neutral place and leaves it at that.
There are little mementos scattered across the living room, too. Many different things from their different adventures and the like. Most of them he remembers quite well; he was still Finn for them, after all. Some of the more recent ones escape him, though.
It bothers him in a way that's hard to put into words. He wants to know what he's missing out on now, he wishes he didn't have to miss out on anything at all. One of the last big adventures they went on happened just shortly after he got stuck in this horrible form, when Finn and company traveled across the ocean to find the other humans. He understands why he couldn't go at the time, at least he thinks he does. Ooo needed someone to defend it in the meantime, it would've been no good to go without a Finn-like figure for so long.
What happened while they were gone is proof of that: Fern was no stand-in for Finn, and the world fell into total chaos almost immediately. He had one job, and he totally failed at it. Finn insists that it wasn't his fault, that even if he himself was there the outcome would not have changed in the slightest. Even still, he feels a sense of guilt and inadequacy when he allows himself to think too hard about it.
Knowing that he was no help to anyone regardless, he wishes he was just able to go along with everyone else. He wonders what sense of closure he might've gotten from that adventure; Finn surely seemed different after the whole ordeal, even if just in small ways. Maybe other people didn't notice it, but Fern certainly did. He could tell because he could see all the new, small differences between Finn and himself. Something shifted.
There must've been some sense of community in being surrounded by the other humans, right? Even if Finn was still inherently different from the people there, there had to be some sense of peace he experienced when he saw with his own eyes that he wasn't alone. Fern doesn't know for sure, but he wishes he did.
He has heard stories about the place from Finn, of course. He's heard all about their misadventures at sea and everything that happened on land. He's heard about their mother, too.
He wonders what she would've thought of him; if she's the person Finn describes her to be—an intelligent, selfless woman who's heart is always in the right place, even if her actions sometimes don't show this—then he has to hope she'd welcome him with open arms. It's fair to assume that her kindness would extend to him, no? There's no way to know for sure, not until he gets a chance to meet her himself. There's no saying if that chance will ever arise for sure, and as much as he wants to meet her, he'd admittedly be nervous to. What would happen if she doesn't love him like she does Finn? What if she's no different than anyone else and sees him as some sort of strange beast playing masquerading as a human, too?
The uncertainty kills him. At least when he thinks about their father (something he doesn't do all too often, to be fair), it's simple to assume he wouldn't care about him anymore then he cared about Finn. He didn't care much about anything, or he wouldn't allow himself to. Fern's still not sure which one it is. Either way, he highly doubts anything would change between him if he saw him again, now in this body.
He's realizing now that this trip around the house has not helped tire himself out at all. In fact, he may be more stressed and awake now. This entire ordeal has been fully counterproductive and ultimately just harmful, dredging up many thoughts he would have preferred to ignore all together. He should just go back and try to sleep again, maybe he can get his mind off of all of this by sheer force of will.
Before he returns to the roof, though, he decides to take a peek into the bedroom. He's not too sure why he chose to do this, maybe it's just another old habit resurfacing. As he expected, Finn and Jake are both fast asleep, lying in their beds, surely off in some pleasant dream.
He remembers when he used to sleep here; this used to be his room, too. Years of his life were spent in this home and around these people only for everyone to suddenly insist he knows nothing about anything. He tries his best to tell them otherwise, but everyone either doesn't believe him or act weird about it, clearly still thinking that he's not what he says he is. Remarkably, Finn seems to be the person most accepting of him, which is still a surprise: everyone else thinks that's who he's trying to impersonate (often missing the point that he was Finn at some point, even if he isn't now), but Finn is accepting of him. He seems to understand his past and wants to help him move forward.
But he still sleeps in his bed, taking up the spot he's supposed to occupy. They both know things are different now, but why does that mean he had to lose what he used to have?
Almost without thought, he inches over to Finn. Even now, he still sometimes forgets he's not him; he still occasionally finds himself jumping when he sees Finn enter the room. He's a specter in his eyes, haunting his thoughts and his physical space. Even if unintentionally, he constantly reminds him of what he isn't anymore, he reminds him of what's changed.
Sometimes, especially recently, he wonders if he really was Finn at any point. He knows he was, of course, but it's becoming progressively harder and harder to believe. Every time he looks at himself, he sees nothing but a distorted reflection of the other boy; although Finn himself insists otherwise, he knows that he's just a worse version of him.
It's as though he can't do anything right, always saying or doing the wrong thing. When Finn wants to fight his way out of a situation (typically some sort of crazy monster that's trying to hurt them), it's always fine and good. When Fern thinks he's doing the same thing, though, he always gets told something to the fancy of "Fern, we don't fight at times like this." When Finn starts telling stories, be it about old adventures or just some joke he came up with, it feels like he's always met with laughter and happiness; they love when Finn talks. But when Fern tells a story or jokes around, the room always falls silent or someone will try and shut him down so they don't have to listen to him anymore. He doesn't understand; how could he have ever been Finn when he's nothing like him? It's hard to say he's even impersonating him when he's doing such a poor job at it.
He knows this is all besides the point: he's bad at being Finn because he isn't him anymore. In all honesty, though, he doesn't care. Even if he's not Finn now, he still wants to be loved like he used to be. He wants to be appreciated and in everyone's life still, even if as someone new. Why is that too much to ask?
Standing here right now, he feels it even more than usual. Finn wouldn't watch him sleep, because that's wrong and creepy and just something you certainly shouldn't do. But Fern, despite knowing it's wrong, stands over him, watching his chest rise and fall, looking at him all comfortable underneath all of Fern's old blankets and inside his old sleeping bag. Finn would never do this, but Fern is.
Fern is creepy. There's something distinctly inhuman in his act of being a humanoid. Everyone else is so familiar with this concept (including himself), that when he's off in a small way, it's all the more noticeable. When his expression is just a little wrong, everyone can tell. When he walks strangely or talks strangely—not strange in a Finn way, just downright strange—everyone can see and hear. He's something else pretending to be a human, which is odd because he didn't think he was pretending until recently. All of this came naturally to him until he realized everyone else thought he was distinctly unnatural.
Fern is wrong. He knows it, everyone else does too. It's entailed by the previous point; he's like something acting the part of a human, pretending to love and hate and everything in between. He thinks he feels those things, but he still wonders if he's just convinced himself of it. Because when he was Finn he had all of those emotions, but so much is different about him now; if he can't preform many basic functions, why would he so much as consider the idea he can feel complex emotions like that? It seems like an unfair assumption.
He wonders, now, if he's evil. Something within him is insistent upon putting on this charade, right? Something deep down that's convinced him he was this other boy at some point and that he used to act in this way. But has he ever acted like him? Is he capable of that?
He remembers his time in the sword—it's something much vaguer than his time as Finn, but it's slowly been coming back to him—and the different adventures he watched from behind the glass. He remembers when Prismo sent Finn and Jake off to deal with the other Finn—the Ice Finn, or whatever they called him—and how they were meant to kill him. Finn couldn't do it, of course, he couldn't kill himself. He wouldn't even consider it, he knew he had to try something else first. And so, even if it put himself in danger, even if it put everything at risk, he found another way. Because that other Finn was him, or could have been him, or used to be him, or something like that. It doesn't matter what the situation was: there was some sort of moral opposition to killing him that went further than a simple "murder is bad".
Fern wonders what he would've done in that position; he doesn't remember what he thought in the moment, if he even thought anything at all. (He didn't have to do all that much as a simple observer.) Now, he just can't help but wonder if Finn was foolish for what he did; yes, it all worked out in the end, but was there not an easier, quicker, and safer solution? He was hurting so many people, wouldn't it of made sense to "take care of him" in the fashion Prismo intended? Not that Fern would have wanted to hurt him, but sometimes the best solution isn't an easy one.
In another way, he wonders what would happen if Finn ever had to fight him. Would he be as merciful as he was with Ice Finn? Would he do everything in his power to assure both parties made it out alive? Or would he just see him as nuisance and get rid of him?
Similarly, what would Fern do if Finn suddenly posed a risk to his survival? Or even his individuality? Would he fight back to try and reclaim his rightful spot in everyone's minds and hearts?
Does Finn not already pose that risk? He's almost like a weed, suffocating different aspects of Ferns life until he he will surely have nothing left, if he doesn't already. How much easier would things be if he could just have his old life back? If he didn't have to try and reinvent himself, if he never had to accept things are different now? What if he could be himself again?
He looks down at Finn again. He's still sleeping peacefully.
Half aware, he draws his sword from his palm, though not fully; what's there is much like a dagger in length, though much unlike a dagger with it's apparent lack of handle. It's just a short blade, one he clutches with all his might; with how white his knuckles have gotten, it would be fair to assume he's forgotten it's fully attached to him. He cringes as it cuts into his fingers, but doesn't let himself stop. There's no skin to break, after all, and there is no blood to shed; as far as he's concerned, he cannot be harmed in the same way a regular animal can. It matters not that there will certainly be indentations on his fingers, ones that will eventually heal into thick, scar-like bumps, nor does it matter that his hand has grown sticky with the sap coming from those divots. He cannot be harmed in this way, at least this is what he tells himself.
He waits to see if he feels any hesitation, but there is none.
He braces his fist with his other hand, helping to keep it stabilized. Despite his trembling hands, there's no thought of stopping.
"Some part of me will wanna stop" he affirms as he slowly raises his arms, holding them over his ortet."I couldn't do it, I can't do it," he insists.
Yet he doesn't feel an urge to stop. If anything, he can feel a premature sense of satisfaction at the thought of plunging this blade into Finn as he sleeps. He can already feel the peace of being the only one: he would finally know he's the real and only Finn again, even if no one else believes him, even if everyone else calls him a monster. He would know the truth, and that's all that matters. There would be no one left to compare himself to.
He knows how badly he wants to do it, and he knows how wrong it is. Even with his lack of stomach, nausea brews within him. (Perhaps it's purely mental a mental thing, then; maybe fear can still brew these physical sensations even when there is nothing there.)
Finn stirs.
"Finn?" he whispers, retracting the pseudo-dagger and throwing his arms to his side.
"Fern?" Finn opens his eyes, noticing his friend standing beside him. He smiles, sitting up and wiping the gunk away from his eyes. "Were you watching me sleep, you goof?" he asks with a giggle.
"Yes," he states, not missing a beat. Lying through omission is not totally a lie.
"Oh."
"This is the only time I have ever done this, I promise. I couldn't sleep, I think I forgot how. I was, uh, watching you to see how you do it." This is less true than the last statement.
"Oh," Finn repeats, sadder this time.
He scoots over, patting the part of his bed next to him. Anxiously, Fern sits down.
"Is something, uh, bugging you?" Finn asks, locking eyes with him.
He stares at him for uncomfortably long, analyzing the bruise-colored marks around his under-eye and the puffiness in his cheeks. Finn looks tired. Does he look tired? Can he look tired, too?
Fern looks down instead. "Maybe," he shrugs, "I just can't sleep."
"And you don't know why?"
"Nope. Sometimes I just get like this, and I never really know why. My dumb brain just never seems to shut up."
"Aw, don't call it dumb," Finn shoves him playfully. "I get it, I get like that sometimes, too."
He sighs in frustration, looking up at Finn's face. He looks needlessly kind. "Well, I get like this most of the time. It sucks, I suck! I totally math everything up, even stuff as easy as sleeping!"
Finn wraps an arm around him. "Fern," he says, "you're gonna mess your brain up even more if you talk like that."
"Right," he hums. He knows Finn's right about that, but he's pretty sure he's right about himself, too. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize to me! You should be apologizing to yourself!"
Fern cocks his head. "That's dumb."
Finn looks at him with such genuine enthusiasm and kindness that he almost feels bad for being so hard on himself.
"… I'm sorry for saying I suck, me." He says skeptically. "I don't suck."
"There you go!"
Admittedly, Fern can't help but smile a little. He can't say telling himself that made him believe it any less, but it did sound so stupid it slightly raised his spirits.
That feeling doesn't last for long. He soon feels those bad thoughts resurfacing, plaguing his mind again.
He lets himself sit with them for a while, basking in them alongside Finn's company.
"Do you think I'm evil?" he eventually murmurs.
"What? Of course not!"
"But how can you be so sure? You've seen me, Finn, I'm a total screw up! Even when I try to do good things it just ends up worse for everyone. It's like there's some part of me that can't do good, like I'm incapable of it!"
"Messing up one time doesn't make you evil, dude," he assures him. "To be evil you, like, have to always be doing things just to hurt others. You slipped up once and feel like total buns because of it! That's not evil at all!"
"But it's more than that! You can't say that for sure, you don't know every thought that's in my head or everything I've done! There's something wrong with me, Finn!"
"Bad thoughts don't make you bad, bro, you just gotta make sure you don't do them."
There's a stiffness in the air.
"And I know you don't."
Fern is silent.
"Fern?" Finn asks after a long pause.
"Yeah?"
"Do you think a hug would help?"
"Maybe," he mumbles after much hesitation.
He worries that having that sort of closeness to Finn so soon after what he just did may only serve to make him feel worse, but he doesn't want to just turn him away. It's worth a shot, at any rate.
So Finn wraps his arms around him, holding him close and tight. He hums something, some sort of lullaby that was buried deep in his memory.
After a brief spike of anxiety, everything begins to settle; he doesn't quite understand why this is makes him feel so much better, but something within him is calming down. Somehow, just sitting here like this is slowly soothing his mind. He can't say he's happy still, or that he's fully feeling better, but in some way he does feel like he's more at peace.
Maybe there's just some sense of being loved, despite everything that may be wrong, that provides a comfort you can't explain.
Or maybe talking about what's on his mind and overwhelming himself with his emotions has finally wore him down. This is also possible.
He dozes in the embrace, finally getting the rest he's been seeking so desperately. As he fades, though, a little voice wonders: what would've happened if Finn never stirred awake? Would he have stopped if there was nothing in his way?
He can't bring himself to answer, and deep down he knows that may be more of a confirmation than any words could be.
Now, Fern sleeps. Perhaps in a dream he's human again, laughing and playing and bleeding as humans do. Maybe he's himself again. Not that he'll ever know: even if he does dream of something pleasant, only really remembers his nightmares.