Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You're not sure there's ever been a point where you enjoyed Valentine's Day the slightest amount.

At first, the day used to be a drag because your brother was always being lovey dovey with Dess, but at least you and Noelle could hang out on the side and pretend to gag at all of the dumb mushy stuff the two of them did when they thought you weren't looking. Now that she's gone and Azzy spends the whole day hogging your shared room to write the kind of poems he wishes he could have sent to her, not even all of the chocolate being handed out is enough to avoid souring your mood. Everything just reminds you of better times.

(And of the outcast you are.)

It's hard to have fun with an event that seems to sideline you on principle. You may get to eat more sweets than normal, either by sneaking them off one of Noelle's many boxes of chocolate that she gets gifted or by other less nefarious means, but you still don't really feel… included. More often than not, you get chocolates directly from Ms. Alphys, who hands out a handful of them to every student on Valentine's Day. You really like that about your teacher. She may not make a lot of sense most of the time, but she tries to make sure no one misses out on the day's festivities. Not like you aren't missing out anyway, despite her efforts.

Today, you and your classmates got to have the first ever Valentine's Day card exchange in your grade, right at the end of the school day, when the early sunset paints the inside of the classroom amber and everyone is pumped that school's out. It had been pretty exciting at first, even though you struggled to write a simple card for Noelle - you're not much for that sappy stuff.

The excitement only lasted until the cards were handed out, though, because that was when you noticed all of your classmates with their own card. You thought you and your classmates could only write one card each, but while Noelle was the only one who had been given two cards (you could tell who the other one was from, pitch-black with white skull decorations as though it was a Halloween poster), Jockington of all people had a multitude of them for some reason.

But you? You didn't get any. Not even one from Noelle.

You try not to think too much about it. You really do. But in the end, this lack of acknowledgement during a holiday that's pretty much rooted in being thought of just makes you feel more ostracized. And you've never been good at dealing with the frustration that specific emotion makes you feel.

Crestfallen and praying no one else is paying enough attention to you to notice, you start halfheartedly packing up your stuff to go outside and wait for your mom to pick you up. The bell rang quite a while ago, but your classmates were more interested in trying to get a glimpse of each other's cards than going home, and Ms. Alphys is past the point of trying to wrangle all eight of you at the end of a school day, so she just allows you to do whatever. You don't participate in all the ruckus for once - you didn't get a card yourself, so what's the point? Better not try to butt in, before Snowy decides to make fun of you for not having a dumb sappy card instead of the opposite.

There's another reason why you're trying to lay low and avoid reacting, though. That being the other avian monster whose eyes you have been feeling on you for a good five minutes by now.

Your strategy of ignoring Berdly until he gives up is usually fruitful, but it seems this time is an exception. He's been sitting perfectly still at his desk for so long, it's actually starting to annoy you. And could his staring be any more obvious? He sits right in front of you! His freaky bird head is turned a full one-eighty degrees! Does he genuinely think he's being discreet?!

Your hands curl into fists on top of your desk, and you decide to busy them with putting all of your colored pencils back into your pencil case just in case you get an impulse. Berdly is persistent, though - he's always been irritating in that way. He's still staring at you. Completely silent. Waiting. For… something.

…Maybe if you give him a quick Kris Dreemurr glare, he'll finally back off.

You're just about to go through with your decision when he himself clears his throat over the rowdy group of students now all crowded around Jockington's table, making you jolt in your seat. The fact that it actually caught you off guard annoys you even further, but you try your best not to show it.

It clearly wasn't enough, though, because once you finally make eye contact with Berdly to see what he wants, he winces at whatever look you're giving him, before quickly recovering and putting his typical Berdly expression back onto his face.

“Kris, Kris, Kris.” he shakes his head slowly. “I couldn't help but notice that you're not participating in the current humiliation ritual.”

‘You've been “noticing” that for like eight minutes by now.’ you scowl to yourself.

“Tell me,” the bluebird continues. “what is the reason for a trickster of your ilk to exile themselves from such fun?”

Against your will, your eyes narrow when you tilt your head up to look at him properly. Is he seriously making fun of you right now? What does he have to gain from this?

“Wait!” his eyes widen marginally, in a way that makes him look genuinely surprised rather than condescending. “Don't tell me… You didn't get a card?”

You scoff at him instead of replying in any way. If he wants to get on your nerves, he's certainly doing a great job. He's even circumventing his awful acting skills to pretend to be surprised that no one bothered to write you a card. You almost have to respect that. Almost.

Your response - or lack thereof - is all Berdly needs to be sure of his hypothesis. He smiles a small, sorta nervous smile, one surprisingly far from the usual annoying smirk that makes you want to choke him out or deep fry him or both. In a way just shy of rehearsed, he reaches into his shirt pocket to take something out.

“Fret not, Kris!” he crows gleefully. “I will valiantly save you from this annihilating blow of total humiliation!”

With an equally rehearsed flourish, he grabs whatever little piece of paper was in there between two of his feather-fingers and flicks it over towards you in an arc, extending his wing out to you so you can take it into your hands.

“Here!” he sounds genuinely proud when he presents it to you. “Your very own Valentine's Day card!”

More out of curiosity than anything else, you take the “card” from him. It's much less a card and more a piece of squared sheet he ripped out of his math notebook, with something scrawled on it in smudged dark blue ink. It isn't even decorated, not with Valentine's themed doodles, not with a crude drawing of you, not with anything else. It's… literally just a piece of paper with words hastily written on it. Like it was a last minute decision.

Still, you feel slightly less annoyed now. Just slightly.

Your eyes flick back up to him, bewildered. He's clearly waiting for your feedback, but he doesn't seem nervous or even excited about it at all. More so disgustingly happy with himself for his good deed. It makes an ugly feeling bloom in your chest, but you decide to hold off on it until you've read what he has to say.

You look back at the “card” to read his attempt at cursive, avoiding staining your hands blue with the still-wet ink from whatever pen he used to write this.

Even though you can tell this simple poem wasn't supposed to be insulting, the ugly feeling that was plaguing you before grows regardless. It's a weird mismatch - you feel oddly appreciative of the fact that he brought it upon himself to write you a poem for Valentine's Day just to prevent you from being left out, but at the same time, there's this nagging voice in the back of your head telling you he's pitying you, more like a reminder than a possibility.

How exactly are you supposed to read his poem? “You're a weirdo but you still deserve to get a card”? That's the most patronizing thing you've ever read in your life! What, did he only do this so he could feel better about himself? So he could pretend to care that you were pushed aside?!

Irritation boils in your veins outside of your control. Despite your efforts to stop it, your throat closes up until it becomes harder to breathe. Finally, you look back up at Berdly, and you can't help but glare at him, somewhat halfheartedly.

(You can't explain why, but the way his expression falls once your eyes meet makes you regret it in an instant.)

“Wh-what?” he stammers, visibly distressed now. “Did I do something wro-”

‘Sucks.’ you sign sloppily before he can finish his sentence. ‘It sucks. Don't like it.’

You're almost certain you see some type of genuine hurt flash behind Berdly's eyes, but whatever it was, it's replaced with annoyance that mirrors your own soon enough.

“I-” his voice cracks, but he swallows to avoid it happening again. “N-no it doesn't!”

‘Sucks.’ you sign at him again, quicker this time. ‘Don't pity me.’

Berdly's eyes narrow as he processes the signs. “Pi… I'm not- I was just trying to be nice!”

‘Don't.’ your hand jerks when you sign it, growing frustration making your movements shaky.

You shove the poem into your pencil case and close it, not caring if it gets crumpled. The bluebird squawks when he sees you do this, trying to pry it out of the enclosed space, but you swat his wings away harshly, practically throwing your pencil case into your schoolbag.

When you face him again after zipping up your schoolbag, his expression is surprisingly hard to read. You can tell he's annoyed, of course, from the way his brows are furrowed and his eyes are slightly narrowed, but you can't be sure how upset he actually is. He blinks repeatedly for a short while, before turning his head to the side with a loud, pronounced hmph.

“Whatever!” he snorts derisively, the corners of his beak twitching ever so slightly. His voice is at a higher pitch than usual. “At least… A-at least you actually got a card for Valentine's Day! You're welcome for that, by the way!”

The almost bitter frustration in his tone catches you off guard for a moment, but before you can try to read his expression, he's already turned away, aggressively packing his own school supplies - “booklongings”, as he would call them - without turning to face you again.

You realize in the moment that you were not the only one made into an outcast. And as that realization hits, you feel a pit of regret forming in your stomach.

(‘Berdly was trying to cheer you up because no one did the same for him.’ your brain jeers at you during that window of opportunity.)

You push away the thought. You're most definitely overthinking this because Berdly is overreacting. It's just Berdly, right? He's most likely just bothered that his shoddy attempt at poetry wasn't well received and he's not the genius he claims to be. That's way more in line with his personality. Berdly doesn't care that he's alone. He likes being alone. He cares more about himself than whether other people want to be around him or not.

(You'll just keep telling yourself that. Maybe it'll stick.)

Even though Berdly is almost finished packing his stuff, he still stops in the middle of it to turn to you again, looking more upset than before, but at the same time… weirdly determined.

“Just you wait, Kris!” he screeches all of a sudden, sounding on the verge of his voice cracking. “I- I-I'll write one next year too! And it'll be better! I'll show you!!”

You pay his empty promise no mind, slinging your schoolbag over your shoulder and finally leaving your classroom behind for the day despite his repeated protests and “Are you listening to me?!”s. The birdbrain won't even remember this next week - what makes him think he'll remember to write you a poem next Valentine's Day? What a ridiculous promise to make. He can't keep it. He won't keep it. It'd be stupid if he did.

No matter how hard you try, his last words to you still echo in your head as you walk through the main gate and towards your mother's car, and his stupid determination to write you something that you'll enjoy comes across as almost… enviable. The poem stuffed into your pencil case crosses your mind again in tandem. Maybe… you didn't have to jump to conclusions so quickly. Maybe his poem is actually…

…It's whatever. You're just going to throw it away when you get home. Who cares about some dumb pity poem anyway?

(When you get back home, the poem instead sits, untouched, on your bedside table.)

(It doesn't get thrown away for a good, long while.)