Chapter Text
"There's no point in trying to fix me," you tell the therapist as soon as you've sat down. "I can't feel anything."
The therapist, whose name you've deliberately chosen not to learn, simply looks down at the clipboard you handed her. There's a moment's silence. You simply look around the office. Warm colors, affirmative posters. Cheerful. Almost sickeningly so. You don't know much about interior design, but the bright primary colors and simple lettering on the posters strike you as vaguely insulting.
"You indicated on this questionnaire that you have trouble sleeping," she says, tapping the line in question with a painted fingernail. You aren't great at reading human facial expressions yet, but you're pretty sure that she's trying to convey a calming presence. "You also indicated that you are often restless. Can you tell me about that?"
She's ignoring what you said. You idly consider giving her a scary face, but decide to save it for later. "It's already there on the questionnaire. Obviously, I don't like sitting still and I can't sleep. Do you need reading lessons or are you just braindead?"
"There's no reason for it?"
"No," you say, wondering how you ended up with the most idiotic therapist in the world. "It's just a thing that happens."
"I see. What do you hope to get out of therapy, Asriel?"
"There's nothing I can get out of it. My mom's just making me do it. Like I said, it's pointless. I can't feel anything."
"You said you were restless."
"That's not an emotion, stupid. It's just having nothing that holds your interest for very long. It's a state of mind."
"Fair," she concedes. "What would you be doing if your mom didn't make you come?"
"Setting stuff on fire, probably. Or pranking people. Or making them cry. I'm very good at that."
"I see. Do you have any other interests?"
"Nope."
"None at all?"
"Nope."
You know what this is. She's trying to get you to open up with something you like, something that makes you happy, in order to gain your trust so you'll tell her more later. It's a tactic you yourself have used a thousand times. You decide that you're not giving her anything.
"Any friends?"
"No."
"Hobbies?"
"No."
"What do you do with your time besides pranking people and setting fires, then?"
"Mostly, I sit in rooms with people who want to know all the sad things that happened to me." You make a show of glancing at the clock. "Are we done? Can I go now?"
If the jab bothered her, she doesn't show it. "If you don't want to discuss anything, you don't have to. May I show you something?"
"Knock yourself out."
She opens a drawer in her desk and extracts a brightly colored sheet of laminated paper. She holds it up. There are three brightly colored circles and some arrows. "In the psychology field, we often talk about the cognitive-behavioral theory of mind. We have emotion, behavior, and thoughts. They are all distinct from one another, but they do influence one another."
She taps the page. "Even with your emotional issues, we can address your thoughts and behaviors here to help you become a more well-adjusted person. I don't plan to force you to pretend to feel what you don't. My job is to help you adjust to your new life and find fulfillment, whatever that may mean for you."
You give her your most insincere smile. "Gee, that sounds nice! It's almost like you think I'm not soulless. Did you not hear me the first time? I'm not gonna be 'fulfilled' no matter what happens."
"I understand that you believe that now." She considers you, still projecting that aura of calmness. It's like she's trying to tame an unruly animal. You don't like it. "But your boredom is sometimes alleviated, isn't it?"
"Nope."
"Never?"
"Nope." You check the clock again. Only two minutes have passed.
"Why don't you tell me about your home life?"
"Why should I?"
"It will give me a better idea of your situation."
"Golly, it's almost like you haven't already heard it all from my mom! Look, I'm not dumb. You're hoping I'll tell you that I cause trouble on purpose. That I'm a bad kid, who is just so tortured by his psychological issues that he can't help but act out! That I'll spill my sob story or whatever, and you'll finish this session proud that you've found the heart of the soulless prince. And I'll behave nice from now on, and you'll have a shiny new credential on your wall."
She's blinking. It's a small reaction, but it's enough. You grin even wider. "You were glad that my mom chose you, weren't you? I've gotten a lot of press attention since I came back from the dead. If you fix me, I'll bet you'll be the most respected therapist in the nation! Maybe you'll even go on Mettaton's new talk show, talking about how you 'understood' me and 'loved' me and all that junk. And you'll feel super good about yourself, 'cause you proved to yourself that you're a good enough person to fix even the most hopeless piece of work anyone's ever met!"
"It's disappointing that you think of yourself as hopeless," she says, after a small pause. Her voice is even. "Maybe that's something we can work on."
You grudgingly have to admit that she's good. She's even quit blinking. You point a finger at her. "You're deflecting so you don't have to face the truth. Admit that I'm right already."
"I know you believe that people have ulterior motives for their behavior around you. And it does make sense, considering your situation, and the complexity of people's reactions to you. People do sometimes have multiple motives. But Asriel, sometimes altruism itself is the motivation. Sometimes people do things because it's the right thing to do."
Your smile turns razor. "Oh, absolutely! You're doing this out of the pure kindness of your heart. And you're graciously turning down the payment for this invaluable service."
"People have to eat," she says. Her expression is still unshakingly gentle. "If I had all my material needs taken care of, I would be doing this job for free. I give a lot of my paycheck away to various charities. I like to give back to the world."
"How special! I bet you adopt blind puppies and foster random orphans too."
"You're showing some spirit. I'm glad. The first step to change is motivation, even if you aren't directing it to where it needs to be directed."
"You sound like a fortune cookie."
She smiles serenely. "Even with your emotional issues, you clearly have some very strong opinions. I think that's a good place to start. Why don't you tell me some of your thoughts about your family?"
"Why don't you throw yourself off a cliff?"
"That's one way to start."
***
You're in the backyard, idly casting fire onto the end of a twig, when you hear a cleared throat. You look up. A thin smile crosses your mouth when you see who it is. "Howdy, Chara."
They kneel beside you. It's weird, seeing Frisk's body move so differently than how they usually do. You're still surprised nobody else has noticed it. When they speak, their voice is more clipped than Frisk's, the enunciation more deliberate. "How did it go?"
"Oh, y'know. We talked about some stuff. I tried to scare her. Revealed my tragic backstory. It was awful."
"It must be so hard for you to have a civil conversation with someone. Truly, a burden you do not deserve."
You roll your eyes. "Did you sprain something with all that sarcasm?"
They're fighting a smile. "All those horrible things you have done, all the times that you have died, and what finally gets to you is being forced to talk. It's the worst tragedy I've ever heard. I could weep tears of blood--"
You reach out to push them, but they bat your hands away, smirking. "Nope."
"I could sneak attack you, you know. Rip your guts out when you're sleeping."
"And I could do the same to you."
"I'm faster."
"I'm quieter." Their smirk grows even wider. "If we are talking assassination, I have you beat in nearly every department that matters. Unlike you, I am used to the body I inhabit."
"You don't have magic, idiot. I have long range burn control." You wiggle your fingers. "Still figuring it out, but I could probably snipe someone with this! And then they would be super dead."
"Well, I have one way to beat you."
"What?"
"I can't be killed. If I go down, I'll always come back. And I will learn from my mistakes."
"Edgy. I'm soooooo glad my sibling gets power over life and death! Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."
They go quiet at that. After a moment, they lean against your shoulder. You don't push them off.
It's rare for Chara to touch you at all. Frisk loves giving every monster who stands still long enough a hug, and you are no exception. They like flopping against you while you're sitting on the couch, giving you long hugs after they come home from school or ambassador activities, hooking an arm around you when they introduce you to their endless number of friends. It doesn't take more than half a brain cell to guess that they're trying to make up for all the time you've spent alone. When it's Chara piloting, though, things are different. If they're leaning against you like that, they're either having a bad day and want your comfort (for some reason), or they're having a good day and just think whatever they're about to say is important enough that they want to lull you into a sense of nostalgia. Both possibilities annoy you.
"Really, though," they say. "Did it go well?"
"Shouldn't it be Frisk asking that? They're the sweet, nice, caring one."
"I'd be here for it anyway. That is kind of how the connection works."
"Still. Why not them? Do you get a kick out of seeing me say that nothing helps and that I'm still the same as I ever was? Does it make you feel better about yourself?"
"And that answers my question. You could be nicer about it, you know."
"Okay," you say cheerfully. "I'm still soulless! Inside, I'm still a horrible little weed. Nothing can change that and nothing ever will. I don't love you or anyone else, and you're stupid for hoping that I will someday."
"And it is my fault." Their voice sharpens a few degrees. They stop leaning on you. "I believe you forgot that one. That is why you have license to do whatever you like, correct? In the end, you can blame it all on me for letting you die. You have absolutely no responsibility for your own actions at all."
"It is your fault! But you're still kind of behind on something."
"Which is?"
"It doesn't matter." You spread your hands, still grinning. There's a bitterness on your tongue. "Blame, conscience, responsibility? Those mean nothing when you can't feel remorse! I'd assumed you'd know that already, Chara."
It cuts them, the way you knew it would. They're quiet for a few moments, breathing deep. "So what happened to 'I did a lot of weird things as a flower?' You did seem like you wanted to change, before. But now you will not even consider the possibility."
It strikes a chord in you that you didn't even know existed. You can't find a witty retort, something else to slip past their armor and get an amusing reaction. Suddenly, it no longer feels like a game to antagonize them.
You did want to change. You'd been sure of it, back when the remnants of everyone else's love still burned hot in your chest. You'd promised never to become as cruel as you were before, even if those feelings faded, even if you turned back into a flower. You'd been certain you would never hurt another person.
(You'd thought, before your cowardly instincts shied away from it again, that you would be able to ensure that you wouldn't live to hurt another person. You were already dead. It was better that you disappear instead of continuing a meaningless existence.)
(But, of course, you've never been brave the way Chara is.)
(You kept living. You kept this shape. And you are still empty inside, despite everything.)
"I said that when I could still feel," you finally say. You haven't let yourself stop smiling, though you feel so hollowed-out you could crack open. "Did you think things would stay the same after I lost those feelings? That I would want the same things I did before? You idiot. You're just as stupid as you were before you died."
"So you refuse to even try."
"I prefer to think of it as conserving my energy for something more interesting. Like, like… I don't know, planning to murder six random humans and dragging someone who loves me into it."
You're playing dirty, going for the lowest blow you can get in, and it hits. They smile, sudden and bright and sharp like the glint off a knife. There's so much anger in it that it resembles a smile in only the most superficial sense. "You are such a coward, Asriel. You always have been. If you want to hurt everyone who loves you, just so you can keep pretending that you have no emotions, by all means, be my guest. But you are not above consequences. Do not come crying back to me when everyone abandons you."
"I won't, because nobody will abandon me. They still think the old Asriel is in here somewhere, locked up and waiting to be rescued, and they love him way too much to leave me alone. Nobody is ever gonna stop trying to fix me." Your smile feels increasingly like plastic. "Monsters don't throw away people, even when they're too messed up to ever heal! It's another thing I learned from you."
Their hands squeeze into fists. "You--"
You're ready for them to punch you, but their expression changes suddenly. There's a wobble at the corner of their mouth, fear in their expression. Frisk doesn't look at you when they sign, That's enough.
"We were just getting to the interesting part of the argument." You can't seem to stop the avalanche of words spilling out. "Or do you want to tell me how you were thrown away too, just like Chara, and how you throw yourself into helping people because--"
Stop, they sign, and the gesture has so much force that you flinch. They're holding their body so stiffly that their muscles vibrate. Don't say anything else.
Something about their expression makes your stomach hurt. You finally hold your tongue, looking down at the burnt twig in your hands. Their breathing is shaky. You can tell they're struggling not to cry.
You've never gotten that reaction from Frisk before. You always hammer on every button until it breaks off, trying to find some scrap of entertainment in antagonizing the people around you, but Frisk always stays stoic when you go for their throat. You'd assumed that they were simply too perfect to be bothered by you. Now, you're revising that idea. You think that they might just be good at hiding their vulnerabilities.
The thought should excite you. You like tearing off masks and finding the weak spots underneath. It's the only thing that consistently held your interest when you were a flower, and even now, it remains your favorite game. But your stomach is aching so badly that it's making you sick. You can't find any interest in pursuing their weaknesses anymore. Even the thought of trying again once the ache is gone holds no appeal for you.
(You think of how you'd promised yourself that you would never hurt anyone else again.)
It's stupid. You never apologize to anyone, at least, not in any way that matters. You can't feel the necessary emotion to make an apology sincere. But you have the feeling that you've shattered something important, and you can't go back in time and fix it. You don't want to alienate Frisk and Chara so much that they stop spending time with you. It's an unfamiliar impulse, but you open your mouth to stumble your way through an apology.
But when you look up again, Frisk is gone.
***
"You seem to have a hard time defining your sense of self," your therapist comments during your fifth session with her. The small, sickly-bright room hasn't changed at all. You've spent the majority of these sessions alternately deflecting questions, halfheartedly trying to provoke her, and staring at the glowing salt lamp she keeps on her desk. You're wondering if you could get away with stealing it. The idea has some attraction.
Since you're saying nothing, she says, "You told me you have no interests or hobbies. Is that still true?"
"Yep."
"You might have an easier time with your chronic boredom if you try to find an interest."
"Okay! I'll go try committing arson."
She smiles. "Something constructive. Maybe knitting, or drawing, or writing. Many people find art to be a good outlet for negativity. At the very least, it'll fill up your time."
"I don't like any of those things. They're stupid."
"I see. You're very good at communicating when you dislike something, you know. It stands to reason that there must be things you do like, as well."
"No. There's nothing "
She nods as if it's a reasonable statement. There's that look in her eye that she gets every time she's about to corner you into admitting something. You hate it. "Then there are things you must hate less than others."
"Wrong again," you tell her, showing your fangs. "Just because I don't like something doesn't mean that I dislike it, idiot. It can also mean that I'm indifferent. Which I am."
"Then you shouldn't mind trying a few constructive hobbies out."
Cornered again. You can't say you weren't expecting it. You wish you could still morph your face; you'd like the benefit of a grotesque expression right now. The best you can do is roll your eyes and return to staring at the salt lamp. "Okay. I'll get right on building a set of bombs. I bet Mettaton has some good tips."
She opens a drawer in her desk and extracts one of her infinite sheets of paper. This one is regular black ink on white paper, for once. She hands it to you. It's a list of questions, with plenty of space to write answers. "Before we leap to explosives, maybe you can fill out this worksheet at home. If you're so indifferent to everything, you'll have no trouble using some of your free time to get it done."
Instantly, your fingers catch fire. You hold eye contact and smile innocently as the paper goes up in flames. "Oops! My bad."
She looks unsurprised. This is far from the first time you've set things she handed to you on fire. Instead, she simply holds out the trash can and says, "There. We have one answer for the worksheet filled out, at least."
"How many copies did you make?"
"Ten."
You drop the ashes into the trash can. You've set off the smoke detector before, too, but it had taken ten minutes for someone to turn it off. You'd gotten a headache. You'd prefer to just burn the papers she hands you and then quickly extinguish them. "Great! You can just hand them all over right now. You know, just in case I have another accident on the way home."
"I think I'll hang on to most of them." She hands you another one. You don't burn it immediately, mostly because she's expecting it now. "Anyway, one of the questions is 'name three things that you are good at.' I think fire is a good answer."
You look down at the paper. "Gee. This looks like a get-to-know-you exercise. Aren't you supposed to give those out on the first day of therapy?"
"It's not for me. It's for you. I think it would be good for you to define some things about yourself."
"That's stupid."
"You might as well try it. And while you're at it, maybe you can try a hobby. It can be something as simple as playing a new video game. You never know what might be good at easing your boredom."
"...Fine. Whatever."
"Our time is nearly up. Would you like to say anything else?"
You set the worksheet on fire. "Nope."
She smiles again and gets another one from the drawer. "You can also try to perfect your magic. I bet you can get a paper burnt in less than four seconds if you try hard."
"So you are encouraging arson. Good to know."
Her smile grows. She puts the paper in your hands. "Burning paper you own in a controlled environment isn't arson. It's just developing a skill."
"Whatever."
"Have a good day, Asriel," she calls as you head out the door.
You bring the worksheet home, mostly because your mom is giving you a look that means she won't give you extra peach cobbler at dessert if you throw it away in front of her, but you simply leave it on your desk and refuse to work on it. Your therapist will probably give you that disappointed look. You don't care. Finding new ways to be deliberately uncooperative is the only thing that keeps your therapy sessions even a little bit interesting, and even that has started to lose its appeal. You hope she'll get sick of you and tell your mom she wants to quit soon. You're running out of ideas. Soon enough, you'll be forced to simply keep your mouth shut for every session, and how fun would that be?
The thing is, you get bored easily. Your mom tries her best to fill up your days with things to do, with varying degrees of success, and you always have new trouble to cause and new places to visit when the press isn't trying to follow you everywhere, but there's an empty pit in you that won't be filled no matter what you do. Maybe the soul power is decaying even more over time. You haven't turned back into a flower yet, but you think that it could happen soon.
You find that you wouldn't care much if you did. Maybe it would be easier to let yourself do whatever you wanted then.
So the next time your eyes fall on the worksheet and you realize that one of the questions is "name three things you dislike" you decide to just do it. It's pointless, but it's a way to fill up the time, and you think you can come up with some funny and inventive answers.
(You try not to think about just how pathetic that is.)
Name three things you dislike.
1. People who ask me dumb questions.
2. People who treat me like I'm stupid.
3. People who won't take a hint.
Does it go against the "I don't have likes or dislikes" thing you've been maintaining? Sure. But she's known it was crap for a long time. You're changing tactics. Let her think she's getting somewhere with you, only so you can pull the rug out from under her again and show her what you really are. It might be enough to convince her that you can't be fixed.
Name three things you like.
1. Setting things on fire.
2. Messing with people.
3. Being a problem child.
Most of the questions are equally inane. You're asked about your hobbies (you put down 'arson' and 'being a nuisance' for that.) You answer the questions about your favorite food and favorite activity in a similar fashion.
You're asked about your relationships with your family. You simply write I don't love anyone for that question. The same goes for the question of whether you have friends.
These questions are starting to bug you. You're soulless. Doesn't anyone understand that yet? There are some things that just don't apply to you.
What is your greatest fear?
I don't feel fear.
What is your greatest goal in life?
I don't have one.
What do you like about yourself?
You want to come up with something hilarious for that. Your ability to do the most inventive pranks, maybe, or your ability to evade annoying questions. But none of the options seem funny anymore. You're getting sick again.
Do you like anything about yourself?
It's a stupid question. You move on.
What do you wish was different about yourself?
I wish I was strong enough to make everyone let me do whatever I want, you almost write, but you stop yourself at the last minute. Despite all that you've been doing, you know actually attacking people is wrong. You're not going to shed a single drop of dust or blood ever again. That's one thing you've been able to stick to.
Dumb question, dumb question. After a moment, you decide to leave it blank as well.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
You stare at the question for a long moment. Your fingers tighten on the pencil.
You've never considered that question before. Back when you were a prince, you'd always known that you were going to grow up to be king. If you'd ever wished you'd could be something else, you'd never thought about it for long. There were impossible things that were okay to wish about, and impossible things that weren't. Only the worst kind of coward abandons their responsibilities. No matter how inadequate for the task you felt, you had no choice but to do your duty.
And then you'd been murdered, and growing up had become an impossibility. It had afforded a kind of freedom, being given anonymity and the ability to don a thousand different masks, but you'd known nothing you did truly mattered. You were always going to be frozen forever as a child. You'd given up on the idea of having a future at all.
And then Frisk had come, bringing hopes and dreams for everyone, and a new future for you. They'd returned for you three days after the Barrier came down. Chara took over and told you that they had been with Frisk all along, and they had apologized, and said that they loved you, and asked you to try, just try and see if you could live on the Surface without turning back into a flower, and you'd felt--
Nothing. You'd felt nothing. You were as empty as if you were dead.
The only thing you'd been certain of, once it became obvious that you would have a future again, is that you didn't want to pretend to love anyone. You've been a liar in every previous incarnation of yourself, but that kind of lie had seemed too big a responsibility to bear. You told your parents that you were soulless within five minutes of your reunion. And, of course, like they have every other timeline you've told them the truth, they held you tight and said it didn't matter. And, of course, like every other timeline, you knew that it did.
You have no idea what kind of person you'll grow up to be. You don't even have an idea of what kind of person you are now. You can't be Flowey anymore, but you don't know how to be Asriel, either. You jump from mask to mask, persona to persona, the way you've always done, but none of it feels right. None of it feels real.
You don't feel real.
The door creaks open.
The pencil snaps in your hand.
Frisk ducks into the room. Their posture is defensive. Without looking at you, they sign, Can I borrow one of your books?
"Sure."
You have seperate rooms, mostly because you'd initially insisted on it. Sharing a room with Chara again after all this time would have been much too thorny for you both. But now, in the third week of both Chara and Frisk avoiding you as much as possible, you wish that you hadn't been so adamant against the idea. At least then it would be easier for you to tell if you've shattered everything beyond repair.
Your head is pounding. You can't muster up the words to ask them to stay with you. They're moving like a hunted creature, pulling their sleeves down over their hands, every step as careful as if they're walking near broken glass. It's like they think you'll explode if they catch your attention.
You don't need to act like everything will mess up if you breathe wrong, your crueler instincts want to say. There's a part of you that wants to be rid of the uncertainty and simply destroy any chance at reconciliation. Bitterness coats your tongue. You don't speak, caught between the desires to destroy and repair. You can reset. There's no real reason to worry about me hurting you.
They select the book -- a slim booklet about having difficult conversations -- and leave, closing the door without a word. They still don't look at you.
Buttercups come to mind.
You look down at the worksheet again.
After a long moment, you crumple it into a ball and toss it into the trash can. You're just going to tell your therapist that you ate it or something. It's too pointless to even consider completing.
***
Late that night, as you're staring sleeplessly up at the ceiling, the sound of muffled crying comes through the wall. The sobs are noisy, much too wild for the crier to care about volume. You recognize it to be the noise someone makes after a night terror. You can't tell if it's Frisk or Chara. You don't know if it matters.
For a few minutes, you lie there, caught in a half-faded memory. You'd been frightened the first time Chara cried like that, frightened enough that you hadn't known what to do. You'd never seen that kind of raw pain before. Your heart had ached for them, but coward that you were, you had burrowed further into your bedsheets and pretended that you were still asleep. It had taken what felt like an eternity for them to quiet down. Only then did you get out of bed and offer to let them sleep with one of your stuffed animals.
It was a shallow gesture. Even back then, you'd known that. You'd still had the ability to love. And yet, a patched toy bunny was all that you could bring yourself to offer. How weak. How pathetic.
This time around, you can try to help. If you do a decent enough job, you could get them to quit avoiding you. You don't know Frisk very well, and it's been too long for you to remember what used to pacify Chara, but it's not like you haven't had to figure out manipulation on the fly before. You have more than just a stuffed toy this time. You have the backing of hundreds of resets spent learning how people work. Calming someone down should be child's play.
You get up. The sounds get louder as you pad out of your bedroom and down the hallway. There's no light coming from under their bedroom door. You can barely see the cheerful sign declaring FRISK in the darkness.
You're about to knock, but a thought stops you. You've hurt both of them too many times to count. There's a good possibility that they're crying because of something you did. Seeing you might make everything worse. They might assume you're here to hurt them again and just slam the door in your face.
And Chara knows you for what you are. Even if Frisk won't see it, they do. If you knock on the door, they'll know that you're only trying to manipulate your way back into their good graces. They're not naive enough to accept that kind of calculated comfort. They've always been too smart for that. Even your most sincere expressions of love were only sporadically accepted back before you both died.
You stand there, fist half-raised. You consider every action that has brought you to this point, every word you've used as a weapon against them both. You remember how you brought the buttercups to Chara. You think about the number of times you tried to kill Frisk. They've both forgiven nearly everything you've done, but everyone's forgiveness runs out eventually. You don't know if you'll get another chance to make things right.
You idiot. You should have just kept your stupid mouth shut. You don't have the resets to fall back on anymore. You should know by now to be more careful with the people you play with. It's all broken now because of you.
You go back to your room. The emptiness in you is so pronounced it's nearly a physical ache. You can still clearly hear the sobs from next door when you lay down in your bed. The image of Chara hugging the stuffed bunny like a lifeline haunts your mind. You don't know if it's imagined or if it's a real memory.
The cries don't taper off.
You press your hands against your ears and wait for it all to stop.