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“Flowery.”
He perks up immediately when his name is called, like usual. “Oldbuddy!” he replies jovially, propping a hand on the top of his spade as he drives it into the ground. He’s not actually allowed to help Mr. Asgore garden, even after all these years (three, now? Almost. Jeez, time flies when you’re having fun!), but he likes to look and act the part. Play pretend, and all. “You need something?”
Every so often, Mr. Asgore will ask something of him, and that’s generally the highlight of his week until the next time he’s asked for something. It’s usually a glass of cold water nowadays, or sometimes a cup of tea, but the first time will always stay the best in Flowery’s heart.
...Well, maybe being happy Mr. Asgore cried into his shoulder and leant all his weight onto him until they both fell over is a little crass, but it’s true. Hey, he’s really just happy to help, is all!
“...You don’t have to come out here every day, you know.”
He laughs. Of course he laughs— it’s the only reasonable reaction. He can’t help himself, anyway. It bubbles up and out of him like steam from a kettle, or something or other. Pollen on the breeze? Well, dandelion fluff might be a better—
“Flowery, I’m not... I’m serious.”
Hmm. That doesn’t make any sense. “If you say things like that, I might actually think you’re notjoking,” he snickers. He goes to pat Mr. Asgore firmly on the shoulder, but his hand stops short as he sees the look on the older man’s face.
Oh, wow. That’s an intense look. Certainly not one he’s had since... Gosh, his wife left him? Not that Flowery was around for... Ah, but that day in the shed during his first year...
His heart stops. Flowery forces it to restart, because the conclusion he’s gotten to is totally nonsensical, and Mr. Asgore will clear it up if he just asks. “Haha. You’re not serious, right, oldbu—?”
Mr. Asgore’s strong, steady face turns away for the first time in three years. He looks down slightly, towards the ground. Maybe. Flowery can’t see his eyes. Maybe he’s looking up at the Angel’s sky. “I am.”
Flowery swallows. Lightly. Lightly enough to feel his throat work right where the Adam’s apple would sit. If he had one. If he was, you know, a real humanbeingguy. Which he is! Kind of. As close as a flower can get! “Oh! Okay. Sorry, pal.”
His hand won’t move back towards him. It’s sort of frustrating. It’s just reaching out, still, stubbornly. Like a sunflower looking towards a lamp in the dark. It’s stupid, is what it is. God, isn’t it all so stupi—?
“Flowery, I—” Mr. Asgore looks back at him. Mr. Dreemurr. Whatever. Does that matter now? “I don’t mean that I don’t... appreciate you. Because I do. I did. It’s just...”
Suddenly, his arm is more than happy to move. It falls dumbly to his side and stays there. He uses the other to twirl the spade in the dirt a little as he shrugs good-naturedly. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, the year’s almost over, right? No sweat off my back. Seriously!”
“No, Flowery, look—” Mr. Dreemurr puts a hand firmly on his shoulder. Flowery’s face gets hot in the particular way it does when he thinks about that day in the shed, the first and only time Mr. Dreemurr has really touched him like he’s— a real person, maybe, a bright and shining example of Hope and Dreams and all the good stuff flowers and realboys are made of. “Look. This isn’t— You didn’t do anything wrong. This was my fault.”
‘Fault’ is a loaded word. Flowery frowns. “Geez, oldbuddy, there’s no need to be so hard on—”
“Please don’t interrupt me right now.” Mr. Dreemurr looks like he’s grieving. It’s weird. It’s weird, because he’s looking Flowery straight-on, directly in the eyes, and he’s looking at him like his own son just died and was replaced. He didn’t change that much over the last three years, though. If he did, it was on purpose, and for the better. Besides, he likes this new style of his. It beats being ‘Gold’, that’s for sure. “Flowery, I shouldn’t have let you... I shouldn’t have allowed you to think I’m reliant on you. It’s not appropriate.”
He opens his mouth to say something. Mr. Dreemurr said not to interrupt, so he closes it. It’s easy to do what’s asked of him. Simple. It’s so easy, even if it hurts.
“I’m... Flowery, I am an adult. I am an adult man, with a wi— an ex-wife, and children, and— you know Kris, right?”
Flowery hesitates, not exactly sure if he’s allowed to speak— but it seems like he’s being prompted rather directly, so— “Yep! They’ve got a great spookystyle. Love the little horns they—”
“Yes, that’s them. I...” Mr. Dreemurr— Asgore—? grimaces, and Flowery recognizes the face from the shed because every time he shuts his eyes he replays the scene from start to end. Breaking down because his ex-wife really doesn’t want to have contact with him. Because his son has been off to college a few months and he’s worried and frightened because his other child is in a house with two people less than it should have. Scared, afraid, alone. Feeling like a failure, or a lesser man, because there’s a real chance that they go missing in the dead of night and he won’t be there to step in or do anything about it. “...The point is, this— this relationship that— This can’t go on, Flowery. This isn’t your fault, but it’s wrong. It’s wildly inappropriate for an adult— an adult man— to allow a teenage boy to believe he’s responsible for... moderating his mental health.”
“Teenageboy?” Flowery snorts. “I told you I’m totallylegal next—”
“Flowery.”
Well, Asgore did misremember his birthday. No matter. It’s— It’s fine, really. He’ll just remind him when it happens. In a week. Oh, wow, he’ll be eighteen in a week. And then graduation is next month, which is barely... three weeks out, and...
...This really was fleeting, wasn’t it? These past three years. “Sorry,” he says. He’s still smiling because it’s his default state of being, but his mouth feels closer to a line than it normally sits.
“Flowery, I’m just... I’m sorry. I’m sorry I... allowed this to happen to you.”
He should say something. He really should, but he can’t. His face is still perfectly his face, but his mind is a total blank. Numb, sort of. Not really unfeeling, but certainly unthinking. One time Asgore cut his paw just a little on the shears and Flowery ran to get him some sort of medicine— lidocaine, something like that— and when he asked how it helped, Asgore said it had a numbing effect. His mind feels smeared in lidocaine, then. Totally dumb and useless, a gray blank slate. “This?”
“Our relationship. Your... You think I’m dependent on you.”
Flowery’s brow furrows. “Well, you do work2much2 do anything el—”
“Please don’t change the subject. My point is that I’m not. And if I was— If I ever was, or even if... in the present, I am, I shouldn’t be.” Asgore’s hand is still on him, though. Warm, firm. Heavy on his shoulder. The warmth of it spreads through his heart and soul— goes right through the soft fake flesh of his cheeks like wildfire. He can’t help but focus on the shifting weight there, borderline kneading the muscle. Asgore certainly doesn’t notice he’s doing it. Why would he? It’s hardly a conscious motion. Flowery has a vague idea, from all the lovely shoujo he’s read, of what this feeling is. “Because you’re a child.”
“It’s okay, oldbuddy,” is what heroines say. Well, he’s not a girl, but being a hero will have to do. He smiles. His eyes feel dewy and soft. Something akin to a heart is stirring wonderfully in his chest, kicking up drafts of sparkling and soft emotions as it goes. The world feels soft. He feels soft. This is a real feeling, at least, as far as feelings of any kind go. “It’s OK.”
“It’s not,” Asgore says. He shuts his eyes briefly. His hand detaches from Flowery’s shoulder and Flowery’s shoulder almost chases it and takes his whole body with the motion. “You... You’re no longer welcome here, I think. Please leave.”
What?
“Again, this is... This is in no way a judgement of you, or your character, or... I’m just a pathetic old man.”
This isn’t how it goes.
“Besides, you... Ah, this is... Perhaps it is cruel, but...”
This isn’t how these scenes are supposed to go!
“I think, being on this end of a person’s unwanted affections... has made me realize why my wife felt the way she did about me. So, in the end, I... suppose I ought to thank—”
“Asgore!” Flowery yelps, without meaning to say it. The rest of the sentence comes out sharp and a little like a switchblade, or maybe garden shears, or maybe a bullet. It comes out sharp and high-pitched and mean, and in a way that’s not very Flowery-like at all. “I love y—”
The spade fell out of his hands a long time ago. Asgore doesn’t interrupt him. It’s his own mouth that stops short. His throat works, and works, and his voice won’t come out. He tries again to say something, anything, but he—
It won’t—
He can’t—?
“Flowery?” Asgore asks. Oh, he looks genuinely concerned. It’s such a nice look on his face Flowery forgets he’s upset at all. Did he even hear the start of that confession? Hopefully he didn’t. Flowery will just do it again. Later. Except there is no later, because Asgore doesn’t want there to be a later. “Are you... Oh, dear. Are you alright? I know that was certainly a lot to take in at once...”
His voice. He’s— He claps a hand to his throat, and then to his mouth, and tries to speak again. Asgore?
“...Ah, have you lost your voice?” Asgore is the picture of concern. Lovely, as always.
Flowery, face red-hot with shame instead of the soft, pink tinge of romance, nods once.
“Let us— No, I shouldn’t. You ought to head to the nurse’s office, and... rest up.”
He nods again. What else is there to do except smile and nod? Or just nod, maybe. Without the smile. But that’s not very Flowery-like. He stands in place, lingers for a second longer to see if Asgore will say anything, but he doesn’t, so he turns a little and begins to head out of the gardens.
“Flowery,” Asgore says. He starts to turn around. “No, don’t look back. Please. Just...”
Flowery stops with his head cocked, to hear Asgore’s parting words just a little bit better.
“...Don’t do anything rash, please. And... Please don’t come back. Ever. I’m sorry. I’m... I’m so terribly sorry for all that has happened to you. Goodbye.”
Flowery looks back and gives Asgore the brightest, most beautiful smile he’s ever given anyone. His eyes are squeezed so tightly shut by it he can’t see Asgore’s face, or even if Asgore saw it at all. He gives a two-fingered salute, whirls back around, and marches off for real this time.
The last few days have been a haze of nonsense and light and noise, and Flowery has come to realize a few critical truths he, embarrassingly, hadn’t realized before.
Today it’s cloudy and rainy out, which means it’s a miserable Friday to anyone who isn’t him. The soft breeze cards through his hair as he peeks down at the gardens over the railing. They always look lovely from up here. It’s such a shame he’s banned; he’d love to take a stroll, or something like that.
He’s excited. He’s excited because today he’s going to get to go on vacation. It’ll be a long one, and he won’t be able to contact anyone while he’s gone, but he’s already written a lovely letter and drawn a lovely flower in the negative space to fill it out, so he’s basically all set. Gosh, has he ever been on vacation before? It’s surely something realboysandgirls do, but to his knowledge, he hasn’t.
He got the idea on Monday, after Asgore rejected him by letting him down nicely. It’s a good idea, too; it’s hardly rash to go on vacation, and while he’ll miss graduation, who can blame him? He’s turning eighteen tomorrow. He’ll be more than a realboy— he’ll be a realman, a realadult. Totallylegal, and all that jazz.
Not that it matters much on vacation.
The interesting thing about vacations are that vacations are a reward for very very good people, and while Flowery hasn’t been a very very good person, he has done his best to be a ‘good’ person, and however far that’s gotten him was apparently good enough to buy him a ticket to anywhere. His body feels soft and malleable, warm and fuzzy. Just the thought of vacation is a good one.
A breeze blows again, and this time it makes his toes curl in his socks as it runs across them. He wears white socks to match his shirt, obviously. It’s kind of funny, standing on a roof in nothing but his socks, but he did take his shoes off to feel the wind, so in the end it’s his fault.
Maybe someone might call him, if he had his phone on him. He doesn’t. It’s shut off and at home, where it’s been since Monday, since he got home from the confession. The nurse. All those shenanigans.
Maybe someone would call him if they had any reason to. But he hasn’t given any. Besides, this can hardly be considered rash. It’s such a lovely Friday to start a vacation. Even though it looks like it’s about to rain, you can go somewhere else. Well, maybe it’s raining somewhere else.
The stretch of time from lunch on Monday to now on Friday is still a little jumbled to him. He missed his first class after lunch to go to the nurse’s office, sure, but after that the rest of the day was more-or-less normal. Dance class with Blue, a little roughhousing with Yellow and Orange... It was a normal day, other than the part where everything went wrong. It wasn’t a bad day by any means.
Sure, they were a little worried about the fact he’d lost his voice, but he’d calmed them down soon enough, and then everything went back to normal. He had it back by the next day, but for some reason whenever he thinks of Asgore his throat seizes up and goes dry and he can’t conjure any words at all even now. What a strange ailment. What a bizarre affliction.
Tuesday was the same as any other Tuesday; hanging out with Seth in the school’s library, skipping lunch like normal but this time going to the roof instead of the gardens, Home Ec with Green, art class with Aqua... Wednesday was the same as any other Wednesday, and after that came Thursday, and then there’s today. Today was different, very much so.
A strong wind blows and batters the long hem of his jacket in the breeze. Laughing to himself, he pushes himself up and hooks a leg over the rail so he can sit atop it, letting his legs dangle freely off the side. The wind batters them, too. It’s fun, letting himself be swayed by the whims of the world like this.
Today was a good day, actually. He’s surprised by himself. He really thought he would be much more upset or broken up by Asgore’s rejection, but he’s not. At least, he doesn’t think he is. It’s just like waking up from a long dream to a draft from your bedroom door.
Just like waking up from a long dream of three years.
He tilts his head up and shuts his eyes. The breeze skirts across the planes of his face firmly, like a large, solid hand caressing it. It’s cold, unlike a hand, but it’s pleasant.
He cracks open an eye and glances down at himself, at the position he’s in. He’s in no real danger of falling, really. His hands are firmly gripping the rail, and he’s reclined so far that his center of gravity would send him firmly onto the roof if he were to fall at all. It’s a fairly coolpose, all things considered. Satisfied, he looks back up at the sky for a moment before shutting his eyes again. It’s still cloudy. He’s not sure why he looked at all.
Today was different than most days, because last night he finished prepping to go on vacation. He ironed his favorite shirt (the one with the flower buttons Aqua made for him) and laundered his bedsheets and all his clothes. He packed up the rest of his things into bags and donated them to charity right before school, the way he usually does with things he won’t be using anymore. Although, he did have to explain why he didn’t have his schoolbag to Seth and Orange and Yellow and Blue and— well, even perfect people forget things sometimes! They all had a goodlaugh about it. It was great. Gosh, his friends are so great.
Fridays are always a little different though, right? Always a little tension, a slightly different schedule to cap off the week. Everyone wants to go home on a Friday. He’s usually the exception; he sticks around longer every day anyway, to help with the garden. This week, he’s been tending the roof, but his schedule hasn’t changed much. Today was both different and the exact same as every other day. Isn’t that interesting?
Tomorrow he’ll be eighteen. A grown adult. Not a boy, but a man.
And what will change, tomorrow? Nothing. He’ll wake up the same person he’s always been, with the same thoughts in his head. It’s not like he’ll be replaced with a version of himself who’s perfectly mature or brilliant or special or adult, or anything like that. It’s not like he’ll wake up and Asgore will... What, suddenly re-open the garden to him? No, that would be silly!
Nothing will change tomorrow. Or the day after that, or the day after that. Nothing will change here, whether it’s raining or not.
He absently runs his tongue across his bottom lip. The wind can’t decide whether it wants to go full-blast or be nothing more than a whisper. It keeps oscillating back and forth between two extremes, but it never fades completely. It’s always there, in the background, like a dim awareness that never leaves.
It’s weird that people treat adulthood as a transformation of some kind. It isn’t. It’s just another birthday. It’s a gradient of ages and maturities. Nothing changes unless you put in real hard work and effort to make it change, and if you slip for a second it starts backsliding.
Three years. He’s been dreaming for three years. So many things happen in three years. Three years is long enough to get a degree, in some places, or for certain kinds of people. Three years is enough time to meet someone and fall in love. Three years is enough time to get married. Have a child. Do all the cute little mundane things that come with living, reallyliving. Three years is enough time to watch a loved one die, and come to terms with it. Three years is long enough for a million mundane joys and agonies to come and go.
He’s sure he’s ready to wake up now. The last week has been a blur of getting ready to wake up, anyway. He’s spent the whole week setting up the roof for this particular scene. Something symbolic, something fun. Vacations are meant to be fun, and he really has been having fun with his preparations. There was something intoxicating about last night, running his legal documents through the paper shredder he donated this morning. Little taboo, thrilling things like that. He even did something he wasn’t supposed to and ran his ID through it, watched the plastic go through, chunk by chunk by chunk, and be shred into worthless grit and dust.
He thought the shredder might break, but it didn’t, which was delightful because it meant he could donate it, brand-new and all shiny and unbroken. It would have been a shame if it broke, because then it would be a waste of manufacturing. But it didn’t break, so it’s fine.
His pockets are empty. He left his keys on the counter and his wallet, too. The only thing he has on him is petty cash for the train fare. To kick off vacation, you know?
He opens his eyes, and looks down at the gardens beneath his nearly-bare feet. The wind kicks up again, practically on cue.
When monsters die, they turn into dust. When humans die, they bleed out in red, dirty patches, like discarded and tamped-down petals.
But a flower isn’t a monster, or a human. What happens when a flower dies? Yellow certainly seemed interested in finding out, sometimes. Poor thing. If you convinced him for even a second he’d done something wrong, he’d stick to his metaphorical and literal guns and try to do right by the world.
Actually, Flowery thought the world was perfect before. He’d Hoped so, at least. Who wouldn’t? But in a perfect world, bad things don’t happen to perfect people. They just don’t. Rather, they can’t.
In this world, bad things have happened to a perfect person many, many times over, so it can’t be perfect. But it’s the responsibility of a ‘good’ person to make an imperfect world perfect. He’s tried his hardest to become a good person, these last three years.
He’s become a better person. He’s become a kinder person.
And yet, at the sunset of his childhood, he realizes he’s still selfish. He’s not a good person, or really a person at all. He’s still just a greedy flower, the same Gold as Gold as always been. The name makes him grimace. He hasn’t thought of himself as Gold since before he started to introduce himself as Flowery, but the thought comes crashing back in without him wanting it to.
He’s selfish. He wants to try to be ‘good’ anyway.
In a perfect world, bad things don’t exist. Good people prune the hedges and take out the trash and discard the nasty, rotten things that life brings with it so that the nice things shine brighter. So be it, then.
He’s selfish. He wants to give up and accept the fact he’s bad. He’d like to lean forward and let go. Fall into the garden, flower thrown from the roof, and crash into a sea of soft leaves and petals. Lay there, face up, and face the sun when it breaks through the clouds some day.
He wouldn’t die. Flowers only die when they aren’t tended to. Flowers are reliant on other things to survive, fragile and short-lived.
If he jumps, someone will find him.
He lets go.
His center of gravity carries him onto the roof. He tips over the rail and lands firmly on his back and yelps because owiethatstings! After a second, he dusts himself off, adjusts the sleeves of his oversized jacket (it’s supposed to be decorative— he’s never actually worn the thing before...), and looks down at his shoes. He frowns a little, crouches, and readjusts them.
He would have liked to jump properly, obviously. That’s what the shoes are for! Symbolism, and all that fun stuff. It would have been a lovely scene if he did, but he can’t jump because someone will find him and be sad because death in general is always saddening, and that wouldn’t do at all. He’ll let himself have the letter and nothing more. The first shoe pops back on like it’s molded to fit him, because it is. It was fun to pretend he was going to really do it, though. It was thrilling to indulge, for once. Here goes the second— it pops on perfectly, too.
Now the only thing left is vacation, which is exciting. He’s never been on vacation before. There’s a mountain a few transfers away from here. It’ll take the rest of the day and some of the night to arrive, but that’s fine. He’ll have to walk a great distance from the station to get there— it’s remote, and all— but that’s fine. Mt. Ebott, he thinks it’s called?
Apparently, lots of people have gone missing there, and have never been found.
It’s an exciting place for a vacation. It’s an exciting place to die, too.
...What? It’s not like he’s been sugarcoating it. He’s been fairly literal this whole time, as far as he thinks literality goes.
He takes off his jacket, slings it over his shoulder like usual, and takes one glance down at the gardens. Well, you can’t miss anything when you’re dead. He gives them a two-fingered salute with a grin, and then he’s off to the station.
He wonders if the flowers near Mt. Ebott are as lovely as everyone says they are.