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You like Susie from the moment she slams you into the lockers and threatens to eat your face.
You’ve always been a bit weird like that, a bit too into the idea of sharp claws and fangs pressed against the soft skin of your neck. She leans in, mouth agape and grinning. Your heart races in your chest.
And then, abruptly, she pulls back. Something like disappointment sinks in; though, you’d rather it were her teeth. Your warm life welling from the punctures, pooling against the collar of your sweater—
…Anyway. You like Susie, and that’s good, because you’ll be spending plenty of time with her over the next week. It’s preferable if she’s someone you can tolerate—better even, if she’s somebody you’ll actually want to be around. Makes it easier to stick to the plan.
…Right?
Say you had to take someone to the festival, Susie’s voice echoes in your head. Noelle or Ralsei?
You’d almost snorted at the question. Obviously, if you went, it’d be with her. But for some reason, you couldn’t work up the nerve to just say it, and so, you’d just stared at her. After a moment of silence, she’d sputtered and changed the subject, embarrassed to have asked at all.
Now, she lies sprawled across the couch, fast asleep, her weight forcing down the cushions you find yourself smothered in. Kris looms above, a vague figure silhouetted against the flickering light of the TV in the darkness of their living room. The door is open. Now, all they need to do is… turn, and plunge the knife into the floor.
But instead, they just stare.
No harm will come to her, they remind themselves. She’s going to have fun, as always.
What they can’t seem to figure out is why that matters. Sick of wondering, they force themselves to take a few steps back, swallowing harshly against the dryness of their throat.
When they open the Dark Fountain, they turn the opposite direction.
It’s all part of the plan.
You know this. You’ve known this. The Roaring Knight will swoop in, pretend to take Toriel, and take Undyne instead when she arrives. You just need to stall for long enough to make it believable.
But when the Knight swings at Susie, she goes down hard—hard enough that she doesn’t get up for the rest of the fight. A quiet gasp escapes your chest when you hear her body slam into the frozen earth. And then, the Knight turns to face you.
You’re supposed to resist—put up the appearance of a fight, but not so much as to do damage. But when you go in for your attack, you put real weight behind it. The clash between your weapons leaves a chip in their darker-than-dark blade.
You fall on the next strike, as planned.
When Susie gives chase, dragging you by the hand behind her, you keep your eyes to the ground. You’re dead weight. You’re slowing her down. Still, she brings you along with her as though leaving you behind was never even in consideration, even as the doors to the bunker slam in her face.
Doors you already know the code to and watch silently, standing idly by, as Susie slams into them, helpless. When she finally gives up and leaves, she doesn’t drag you along this time. She expects you to follow her, unprompted.
The door creaks open.
Before you can step inside, however, your breath catches in your throat. You turn your head to cough. When you pull your arm back, a singular, yellow petal is stuck to your sweater.
You brush it aside and proceed.
Susie joins you for church the next morning.
Frankly, you haven’t missed it. Service is boring even at the best of times, and especially so without your brother around. During the sermon, you rummage through your pockets and fish out a scented sticker.
You stick it to Susie’s cheek. Her eyes widen for a moment, startled, and then, she grins.
A matching sticker joins your cheek. The roughness of her scaled fingers lingers on your skin, as does the vanilla scent of marshmallow.
“Hey, Kris—” she nudges you afterwards. “You ready to get to the bottom of this?”
She raises two cups of fruit juice. You nod. As if in sync, you dump your cup into Susie’s mouth, and she dumps her cup into yours.
This is fun. You haven’t had this much fun in years. And then, the two of you go over to Noelle’s house, and something in your chest begins to ache.
“Kris, I’ll keep her busy! You go search for clues,” Susie whispers.
You nod. This, too, is part of the plan. You’re going to pretend to search for the shelter code, and then, once you find it, you’re going to ensure it stays well out of Susie’s sight. If Susie is distracted by Noelle, then that’s beneficial. If Susie and Noelle are drifting closer together on the couch, twin blushes rising on their cheeks, then that only helps you.
After dumping you in the closet, Kris shambles into the kitchen, fumbling for their phone. They focus on dialing the correct numbers instead of Susie and Noelle laughing together just outside, heart pounding in their ears. Their throat itches.
They could really use some chocolate milk right now. They place the phone on speaker and rummage through the fridge.
…dark… fountain… next… the staticky voice on the other end of the line mutters. …church… tonight…
Kris only half-listens to the discussion, instead focusing on squeezing every last drop of chocolate syrup out of the bottle and into their glass of milk. The itch in their throat is creeping up their chest and into their mouth. They hold their breath, suddenly feeling as though they might choke on it.
…need… soul…
They grab the milk and start chugging. There’s something stuck in the back of their throat, they’re sure of it now. They swallow harder and harder, trying to force it down.
And then, they can’t hold their breath any longer. Their chest hitches, their stomach twists, and they pitch forward with a violent retch. Yellow petals and half-mixed chocolate milk spew across Mrs. Holiday’s marble countertops.
…Kris? the voice on the phone prods, after a moment. Kris hadn’t noticed the other end of the line had gone quiet. Quickly, they hang up.
Before they can even begin to address the mess, you drift overhead. They grab the empty chocolate syrup bottle and throw it, knocking you cleanly out of the air. You fall on the cold tile, helpless.
You can’t stop coughing, and you don’t know why. Every time you pull away your arm, you find petals—tiny, yellow petals, like the ones on the flowers Dad used to grow in the front yard.
One time, when you both were much younger, you and Asriel tried to bake a pie for everyone. You used mom’s recipe from the fridge and followed every step to the letter. Except, at the time, you and Azzy weren’t too good at reading, and you accidentally substituted the cups of butter for buttercups.
The end result had been so disgustingly bitter that you’d cried. Dad, with his bleeding heart, forced it down for your sake anyway, and ended up spending the next several days in the hospital. Mom had been so upset, she’d demanded he get rid of them all the moment he got home.
You’re certain these are the same kind. When you crush the petals between your fingers, the oils sting your skin. Poison.
Something poisonous is growing inside of you.
“Now, what d’ya think?” the old man—the darkner who looks far too much like your brother’s former teacher—asks, by your side in the maze-like hallways of the Dark Sanctuary. “Where do we go next? No wrong answer.”
Nowhere, you think. I’m getting nowhere.
“Nowhere, eh?” the old man hums, as though he’d heard your thoughts. “I’m sure you’ll get there eventually. So, what’s the rush?”
You eye the path Susie went down. In the distance, you can hear the sound of sugar cracking open against her sharp teeth.
“Y’know, there’s this story I’ve heard—” the old man begins. “Hmm, how did it go, again? Somethin’ about a field of pink and gold…”
Your gaze snaps onto him.
“Oh, you know that one, do you?” He chortles. “I s'pose you’ve read the Lord of the Hammer. But no, the original tale it’s based on is quite different!”
He’s just rambling. You turn away again, disinterested.
“One of the heroes finds themselves at the mercy of a peculiar ailment—a curse of flowers, growing from their heart,” the old man continues, unbothered. “But it's no curse at all, as it turns out. Just the natural consequences of feelings left to grow untended.”
An overwrought metaphor, in your opinion. A contrived narrative device to force drama. In the real world, a feeling like that doesn’t just sprout up on its own.
“Only one cure for a thing like that,” he muses. “Same as it always is. Speak the truth, before it speaks for you.”
Simple to say, you think. If there were any truth to begin with.
“The hero in the story never did manage it,” the old man says. “A tragedy, indeed… But, if it were so easy, we wouldn’t be telling their story, now would we?”
He laughs. The roots dig into your heart.
The natural consequences of feelings left to grow untended.
The thing is, you don’t have feelings. You have desires, sure—you desire for Asriel to be happy, you desire to find her. You desire to put everything back the way things were, before you ruined everything.
But you don’t “feel.” Humans don’t work the way monsters do. In a biological sense, maybe, humans have "emotions,” but the generation and reception of neurotransmitters and endorphins are nowhere so pure as to be called as much. That’s why humans are capable of such evil.
So, you’re not sure what the old man was implying. That you should “confess” to Susie? That you should explain to her how you “feel?” You aren’t “feeling” anything. You aren’t feeling embarrassment that Susie saw your mom drunk and dancing with the skeleton who runs the convenience store, you aren’t feeling irritation that they’re still telling each other jokes now at this insane hour of the night, and you definitely aren’t feeling a deep sense of guilt at lying to Susie’s face about what you know—
Her voice drifts in from outside the window.
We’re not going to let that happen, right…? she asks, more to the air than to you. Still, you reach out for her, pressing yourself against the rusted bars of your cage. Kris does not acknowledge you, but they do toss aside their pillow and approach the window, considering.
They place a foot on the sill.
“Kris,” the voice on the phone, discarded carelessly on your side of the room, whispers. “Don’t forget your promise.”
They pause, glancing back. Then, they place their foot back onto the carpet. A moment later, they hunch over into a coughing fit, clumps of petals falling from their mouth until eventually, full blooms emerge.
They slump against the wall, trembling.
Kris doesn’t look so good.
You don’t ask. Can’t ask anyway—by the time they let you out of your cage, your only option is to drag yourself down the stairs, out the door, and towards Castle Town. Castle Town, where Susie is preparing for the festival today.
Where Susie is preparing for her date at the festival today, rather.
The flowers coiled in your chest instinctively constrict. You let out a weak cough. At least the petals won’t stand out with your Father’s flower decorations all around.
You go through the whole song and dance—make an outfit, reject it, meet Noelle outside. And then, something unexpected happens. They ask you to come along.
Somehow, that’s worse than what you were hoping for. You had planned to spend the day by yourself, off on your own—maybe with Berdly?
(Something inside you instinctively recoils. Maybe not.)
You would have been miserable, but at least you wouldn’t have had to watch. But now, a new opportunity presents itself. They follow behind you, letting you make all of the decisions for them. You could…
You could just…
…
You fill out your ballot for Festival King and Queen. You put Susie down as “King.” And for “Queen,” you write…
Your hand tremors as you form the letters.
“Kris!?” Noelle gasps when you show her your slip. “You wrote ‘Queen?’ But you’re supposed to put someone’s name—”
Susie barks out a laugh and slams her arm across your shoulders, pulling you close. “Nice, Kris! I did the same thing.”
The flowers around your heart release.
…and constrict again.
Noelle and Susie are standing in the lake together, Noelle cradled in Susie’s arms. The buzzy haze of your hours-long blackout nap urges you to close your eyes again, shove your face back into the metal weaving of the picnic table, but you can’t look away.
“If being here can be like this…” Noelle confesses, unaware of her audience, “then I don’t want to run away anymore…”
They’re coming back. You quickly lower your head again before they can notice you—though, they’re so wrapped up in each other there’s no chance of that happening, anyway. The flowers creep up your chest.
“Look, I like you too, okay?” Susie says. “Whatever way you meant you like me, I like you too.”
You swallow, but the flowers keep coming up, like bile stinging at the back of your throat. The noise that escapes you as your chest desperately convulses for air sounds far too similar to a sob for your liking.
This is pathetic. This is not part of the plan. You already know how things are going to end, and Susie choosing you was never in the cards.
So, why does it still hurt?
They’re coming back this way. As quietly as you can, you force the flowers out and into your hand. Then, you toss them under the table and stomp them into the dirt.
You don’t tell Susie why Noelle left early.
Does it really matter? There are more pressing things to deal with. Like the Dark Fountain in your father’s flower shop.
Which you opened.
You shouldn’t be worrying about this. You need to focus. Almost all of the pieces are in place, you just need to make sure that Asgore—
“I guess this flower’s okay,” Susie grumbles, spinning a pink rose of some kind between her fingers and blushing. You stop dead in the doorway. “Guess I should practice… giving it?”
You don’t need to stick around to figure out who it’s for. But, before you can turn around to leave, she glances up and notices you standing there.
“Kris!? The hell are you doing?” she shrieks. “Stop staring! It’s creepy!”
Susie, responding in the Susie way that only Susie can, chucks the flower directly at your face and runs away. It sticks to your skin for a beat, then slinks to the ground at your feet.
You should follow her. You need to follow her. But flowers of your own join hers on the floor soon after. Shaking, you scoop them all into your arms and turn towards the water to dump them—
“Oh my, what a lovely bouquet!” Blue coos, reappearing from nowhere. You almost flinch. “Did you make it yourself?”
He snatches all of the flowers from you before you can damage them further.
“Ah, pink and gold!” he observes. “A rose, for admiration, and buttercups—! An inspired choice, truly. A childlike flower for an innocent heart.”
You stare blankly at the flowers, wet and wilting. They usually die within moments of you coughing them up, and you wish they would hurry it up.
“I knew from the moment we met—you hold love, a great deal of it, and very deeply. Still—” Blue twirls, raising the bouquet overhead as if to present it to the world. “to think it would be so beautiful!”
Beautiful. Beautiful. You think you might be sick again.
“You should be very pleased to experience such wonderful feelings,” he says.
You wish that you could feel nothing at all. Frustrated, you turn away and walk after Susie. At least after that, your chest is clear. At least now, you can talk to her, like a normal companion should.
“Kris?” she greets, sitting at the water’s edge. She glances up briefly to acknowledge you, then turns back down to stare at her reflection. “Sorry. Guess I just… got embarrassed.”
You take a seat next to her, lowering your feet into the pool. Water soaks into your armored boots.
“Earlier at the beach with Noelle…” she begins. Your back stiffens. “You were asleep, right? I dunno how much you heard, but—”
All of it, you think, flowers creeping up your chest again.
“Ahh, why’s it so hard to say?” she groans, kicking her feet listlessly. “Me and Noelle, we maybe… kinda like each other?”
You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to think about what you could have, if only you could ask for it. You can’t ask for it.
It’s not okay to ask for it.
“All I can think about is her!” Susie continues. “Her smile, her laugh, her heartbeat. I…”
You swallow, harshly. The flowers continue upwards.
“When I carried her into the water, it felt like I could’ve kept holding her, forever.”
You glance at Susie, unthinking, and regret it immediately. She’s blushing. The expression on her face is one she will never make while thinking of you.
You can’t breathe.
“What am I saying? This is so stupid,” Susie laughs, breathily. “Kris, be honest. What do you think about—Kris?”
Susie turns to look at you, but whatever she sees on your face makes her eyes widen. Panicked, you leap to your unsteady feet, hand reaching to cover your mouth. Your head swims at the motion, lungs spasming against the tangled knots of stems and petals clogging your chest.
“Kris!?”
You collapse, flowers forcing their way from your lips.
You awaken in Susie’s arms.
It’s not the bridal carry that Susie brought Noelle into the lake with, but something closer to a piggyback ride—your limp body slung over her shoulder and dragged to Ralsei as quickly as she could possibly manage. But Susie’s arms are still around you, and this is better, maybe. Your face lies against the warm crook of her neck. Half-conscious, you nuzzle deeper into the sensation.
“Kris? You awake?” Susie responds.
Immediately, you pull away, muttering something noncommittal. You feel the tension leave Susie where your body rests against hers.
“You gave me such a scare, man!” she jokes, though there’s something strained beneath it. “Your face was like, blue! Well, bluer than usual…”
You tense up as the memories come flooding back. Instinctively, you pull away harder, but Susie holds you tightly in place. To your horror, the buttercups are lying in a pile on the floor, right in front of you, with Ralsei eyeing them, contemplative.
“You been eating flowers without me?” Susie complains, joking, as she reaches for one. “Dude, you gotta chew before your swallow!”
Your breath hitches as her clawed fingers curl around a flower—your flower, and raise it to her mouth. Her lips open to reveal rows of shiny teeth. You shudder, unable to tear your gaze away as it drifts closer and closer to being torn apart, swallowed, consumed—
“Susie, stop! Don’t eat those!” Ralsei interrupts in a panic. “They’re poisonous!”
The warmth in your stomach twists into something empty and cold. Of course. Of course. You’d forgotten—
“Poisonous?” Susie echoes, blinking. “Kris, what were you doing eating poisonous flowers?”
You can’t answer that.
“Susie… they…” Ralsei stutters, conflicted. You cut him off.
“Mistake,” you mumble, voice rasping. “It was a mistake.”
“Oh.” Susie stares at the spit-covered flower, baffled. “Well, be more careful next time, idiot!”
The flowers are already growing back. Despite that, you squeeze Susie tighter. This may be the last chance you get.
Ralsei watches you, concerned, but silent.
The closet door clicks shut. You stand there a moment longer in the unlit hallways of the school, listening to the crickets chirping outside.
This can’t just be a me and you thing, Susie’ voice echoes in your head. It needs to be… Noelle’s thing, too.
Your hand creeps up your chest. You force your fingers through the worn material of your sweater, through your pallid skin, through your ribcage—into the space where your soul rests, that metaphysical place that is both you and not yours. You have done this so many times before.
But you are not reaching for yourself.
You feel around, pressing against the walls of your being, searching for a stem, a petal, a root—anything. These feelings inside you are not yours, either. They can be removed just the same.
Or, so you think. Pain blooms at every motion, worsening the longer you linger within. You find nothing, no matter how hard you dig. Your vision whitens around the edges.
You yank your hand out, empty. You slump forward like a puppet that’s lost its strings, gasping for breath. But as you come to, you realize you are still intact.
All of you.
You glance back up at the closet. Susie is getting ready for Noelle’s visit tomorrow. She’ll be hanging welcome banners and Christmas lights, and building a room with everything she thinks Noelle will like. Your roots grow deeper.
You force yourself to your feet and limp all the way back home.