No More Lives To Go

by MaskedGamer

Summary:

There’s a flower on his windowsill.

Chapter 1: Season’s Greetings

Frisk stares at its outline through the admittedly grimy glass, and even though it’s dark outside, the petals seem the right shade of yellow. He’s seen them enough to know them well, even though they appear to be torn and scrunched up upon a closer inspection. Cautiously, he knocks at the surface.

 

The face that looks up at his, exasperated and wet, looks tired, above all. He would’ve opened the window anyway, but this makes him do it faster than the amount of time it would’ve taken him to walk to the kitchen, grab a Coke, and watch the flower squirm as he dragged out this whole interaction even more.

 

“What are you doing here, Flowey?”

 

He mumbles something, so Frisk knocks at the window loudly, making him startle and glare. “Speak up. You’ve never been shy, don’t start now . I’ve got work in the morning.” Maybe the Coke thing wouldn’t need to happen. Then it would’ve been a walk of spite. Serves the little guy right for pulling his leg all the time.

 

“So leave me alone if it’s so inconvenient for little old you,” Flowey snarls. “I didn’t ask you to open your goddamn window.”

 

Frisk sighs. “Look, get in if you want. It’s pouring out there and I can’t keep this open for long.”

 

“I don’t want to be in your stupid apartment.”

 

“Then why are you at my window?”

 

Pause. “Just forget it.”

 

Oh my god, he does not have time for this. No walks. “Flowey, get inside my stupid apartment. We both know that if you had anywhere else to go, you wouldn’t be here.“

 

Flowey gets inside the stupid apartment. He also gets Frisk to spend another ten minutes digging out a pot so he can hang out beside all the other plants Frisk kept alive, thank you very much. And then, Frisk realizes that sleep isn’t an option at this point, so he sucks that shit up and collapses on the couch, the start of a migraine rearing up already, no doubt to fill up the gap left by his rapidly receding will to live.

 

Flowey watches him disinterestedly, in that way that always implied that he was, in fact, interested. “I thought you said you had work in the morning.”

 

“I do.” Sigh. “But it is what it is. Guess you have the honor of being in the presence of my charming self tonight. Would you like a drink?”

 

“Fuck off.” Then, “do you have scotch?”

 

Frisk’s eyebrows fly up at that. “You’re a fucking flower. Aren’t you also, like, a child?”

 

“I’m a fucking sentient flower from a magical land far, far away,” Flowey says, with the sweetness of a cyanide pill. “And I’m also older than you, for the record. Dipshit.”

 

“Jeez. George Lucas made you?” Frisk goes to the kitchen, and then comes back with two Cokes. You know, just in case. “I was kidding, by the way. I don’t drink.”

 

“I wasn’t.” A vine extends from the pot and curls around the can of Coke on the arm of the couch, and he hears the metal crunch ever so slightly as it moved toward Flowey. There’s a moment of Frisk watching, fascinated, as Flowey popped it open and poured Coke into… yeah, okay, no shit. His mouth.

 

“Honestly,” Frisk says, “I was expecting you to pour it into the soil.”

 

“Ha-fucking-ha.”

 

Frisk pops open his own can, sits back, and switches on the telly, as it were. There’s nothing, as per usual, not at this hour, so he switches on his PC and turns on Memento for the hundredth time, just because he can. Guy Pearce shaking that Polaroid in reverse is more than enough to make him swoon. Reverse bullets are so fucking cool, what the hell.

 

“Why are you watching it backwards?” Flowey asks, around when Joe Pantoliano is officially alive again, and Frisk grins. “Wait for it.”

 

Not even five minutes later, the flower pot is on the coffee table, and two pairs of eyes watch, transfixed.

 

“ If we talk for too long, I'll forget how we started. Next time I see you, I'm not gonna remember this conversation. I don't even know if I've met you before. ” Pause.  “I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?”

 

“Oh, I get it now,” Flowey says, too nonchalant, and Frisk doesn’t even look his way. “Yeah? What did you get?”

 

“You’re such a sad idiot. It’s pathetic. I don’t understand why you do anything you do.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“But this, this is the saddest thing ever! You identify with Mister Memory Guy, dontcha?”

 

“I mean,” Frisk frowns. Does he? “Not really? How?”

 

“Looping, or whatever. Starting anew every time,” and there’s definitely some pointy teeth in that smile.

 

Sigh. Biggest sigh possible. He looks at the screen mournfully, watching Shelby go about his one-sided phone conversation. Oh, that’s an amazing thing.

 

“I don’t understand why everything has to connect to my time down in your magic land. No, Flowey, that’s not why I like this movie.”

 

“Liar.”

 

“Why the hell would I lie?”

 

“Because-“

 

“See, I don’t care about the past, and it can stay where it is. I, unlike the basketcase here, don’t have a memory problem, so that makes it harder for me to forget certain things. Such as the fact that I don’t give a shit about the Underground anymore.”

 

Quiet. It’s beautiful, even if short. The scene switches back to the standard, saturated color palette, but the room is cast into shadow for a split second as it transitions.

 

“But then why-“

 

“Maybe because it’s a good movie, Flowey. It’s a fucking fantastic film. I happen to love puzzle films. Do you like puzzle films?”

 

This time, the silence extends far beyond regular capacities, and Frisk sighs again at the bowed head of petals. He pauses at a great shot and crouches in front of the pot. The things he does for these monsters sometimes.

 

“Look, if you want to ask something, ask it instead of going about it all circular. The reason I let you in tonight was not because I have something for your ‘friendship is magic’ land, it’s because of you and you alone. If you’re going to be an ass about it, feel free to show yourself out.”

 

Flowey is quiet, downcast. He’s thinking, that much is obvious.

 

By the time Frisk sits back down and the scenes are back to playing out as they should, Flowey starts. “Why did you help us?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“They hurt you, all the time. Why did you let them out?”

 

“Eh.” Frisk shrugs. “I was a kid. I thought you guys were my friends, maybe. Took me years to realize that wasn’t the case. And it’s better this way, for everyone. Moved on, done and… heh. I really don’t care. Next?”

 

He turns away from the screen to see Flowey’s dumbstruck expression, and rolls his eyes. “Next? I actually want to watch my movie, you know.”

 

“How can you not…”

 

“I didn’t have the ties that you do.” Or the ones that Chara did. “I never climbed Mount Ebott with the intention to live, to begin with. The only reason I was DETERMINED was because of. Hm. You know what, it was kindness. I thought someone cared for once.” Until I realized it was never that way. “Anyway, that’s said and done.”

 

Oh, that was a doozy to say out loud. Damn.

 

“They do care,” Flowey mutters.

 

Frisk barks out a laugh. “My turn on the ha-fucking-ha. You want the CliffNotes or the extended version of that? Because believe me, I’ve had more than enough time to think about this.”

 

“The old goat-“

 

“-was mourning your ass. She needed someone to fill the gap left behind. Some kid would suffice. You do know my only two options down there were stay in prison or never return out of valiant duty or whatever, right?” There was another. “I don’t think I need to explain the second goat’s non-permanence.”

 

Flowey goggles. “The skeletons-“

 

“Papyrus is too pure for his own good,” and Frisk does miss the guy a bit. Just a bit. “His brother only cares about Papyrus, naturally, and befriended me out of necessity.” Does that sound a bit too rehearsed? Maybe. “And if you think the rest of them cared, go ahead and reevaluate your definition of that term.”

 

Silence.

 

“Why did you let me in?”

 

“Because you literally don’t have it in you to care, Flowey. You’re a sentient flower. You don’t make that choice. You were my enemy only on the grounds that you were bored, and I contested a power that you had only because of a fallacy. Which I’ve established I don’t care about, so the grounds for hating you kinda go away. And hey, hating someone takes energy, and my alternative is a well-meaning indifference. It’s raining outside like a motherfucker, and I’m not an asshole. Are we done?”

 

It’s the start of something beautiful, Frisk thinks to himself, as the flower sits back in his pot and tracks the rewound film with a new air about him. There’s surprised jolts at just the right moments, and Frisk grins when Flowey turns around to ask him about the first John G.

Chapter 2: Push Button

So yeah, that kind of becomes the norm for these two. Flowey should just buy a notepad and a pair of reading glasses at this point, make the couch his permanent home, and ask Frisk how he feels before planning for what to do when Frisk fucking snaps one day, because that is imminent. The flower has zero doubts about that much.

 

Somehow, he stays in the pot and… yeah, he’s still in the pot. It’s one of those clay ones that’s curved at the middle, perpetually cool to the touch.

 

Fine. Living with Frisk wasn’t that shit.

 

 

 

But he was so infuriating. Goddamn.

 

“She’s my coworker, Flowey.”

 

“She’s a bitch,” Flowey says.

 

“That too, but that doesn’t make it acceptable to punch her in the face for calling me names.”

 

“It should! She deserves it.”

 

“Says who?”

 

“You! Stars, you’re so pathetic. Do I have to do everything for you?”

 

“Flowey, I appreciate that a lot, believe me. But that’s where it ends, okay? Don’t do anything stupid. ‘Sides, it’ll pass. She’s just upset because I didn’t sleep with her.”

 

“Sleep with- oh. Oh stars. Ew.” Then, “why are you idiot humans like this?”

 

“Hey, I didn’t do shit except say no.”

 

“You cannot detach yourself from your species’ stupidity.”

 

They’re watching Pulp Fiction today, just because Frisk feels the distinct lack of Tarantino in his life even more keenly these days, and Flowey needs to understand this. Vince is on the bit about the Royale when Flowey throws his Coke can across the room to get his attention. “Oi, I asked you what you’re gonna do about it then.”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Nothing?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“You are so stupid.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“Let me do something!”

 

“Mhm… no. I just said no.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Look, look, he’s about to say the thing.”

 

“But-“

 

“Shhhh.”

 

Samuel L. Jackson says the thing, with a great fury indeed, and Frisk mouths every word of every following scene anyway. Flowey becomes interested when the bullets start flying, so the topic doesn’t come up again until the film ends and Flowey finishes complaining about Vince dying. “I still don’t get it. Why won’t you do anything about the bitch?”

 

Frisk sighs, but this time, it’s because he’s expended most of his energy in the direction if explaining how Vince’s frivolous death was the best part of the movie. And Butch’s ass watch being more than a gimmick. Flowey needs to be exposed to fine cinema more often. “It’s easier to ignore things sometimes. You confront something like this, it means you care enough.”

 

“But she’ll keep doing it.”

 

“And I don’t care.”

 

Mumble, mumble. You.

 

“Speak up.”

 

“It’s inconvenient! And you get in trouble!” That’s not the general shape of what Frisk heard, but sure.

 

“No, but if her pranks get to that point, the manager likes me better anyway. He’ll listen to me over her. But throwing someone under the bus that I’m damn well driving isn’t on my to-do list. Which is why, Flowey, drop it. It’s fine.”

 

“I don’t like it.”

 

“And you don’t have to.”

 

“I don’t like it for you. You’re better than her.”

 

“Aww, do you care about little old idiot me?” He laughs at the disgusted look he gets. “And I know that, don’t worry.”

 

Flowey glares. “I’m not worried about you.”

 

“Sure. Hats off to the bull.”

 

He laughs again at the nearly purple-hued indignation. “Seriously, I apprecIate you, man. Just do me a solid and trust me with this, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

 

“I doubt that sometimes.”

 

“My word. That hurts me, Flowey. You’ve stabbed me. You’ve stabbed me, and I’m bleeding out over here, cold and alone.”

 

“Boo-fucking-hoo.” But Flowey relents, even though he doesn’t look happy about it in the slightest. Frisk feels an odd warmth he hasn’t felt in a while.

 

They sit around like that in a comfortable silence until it’s like two more hours later in the morning and Frisk feels the strain of sleep. “I hate weekends. Hey, pass me your Coke. I’m going to show you something cool.”

 

He ends up having to clean up the floor after Flowey absolutely loses it and with a shriek louder than life, flings the can upwards when he pops it open after Frisk shakes it to oblivion.

 

“Fuck you! See if I care ever again.”

 

“Flowey, hey. Hey, don’t do that. How the fuck did you dig your head in the fucking soil of that pot? Come back. Flowey. Flowey, please.”

Chapter 3: The Button Has Been Pushed

“And like, I don’t understand.”

 

“Yes,” Flowey says. He’s not sure where to go with this, because Frisk doesn’t drink, and he definitely doesn’t stumble home like this, and he definitely didn’t have a girlfriend or something that gross. He’s ranting about someone and Flowey just goes on agreeing with him because the glassy-eyed look is this close to shattering into tears and it’s…

 

Flowey doesn’t understand anything. He just uses his vines to hold Frisk up and seat him in his favorite spot on the couch, and it takes a few moments to put on Twelve Monkeys.

 

“Fl’wey?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I love you man,” Frisk mumbles, and Flowey feels…

 

He doesn’t feel. It kind of sucks.

 

“Watch the movie, you idiot,” he says instead, and sits there in quiet contemplation. Mostly to watch as those mumbles turn into snores. He still doesn’t leave, however. The Dutch angle shots are almost comforting in the darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

“So.”

 

“So?”

 

“Who was that?”

 

“Blythe.”

 

“And that is…”

 

“Yes, Flowey, I am dating someone. No, Flowey, I’m not going to ask you for permission every time I do.”

 

“Maybe you fucking should, because I’m the one stuck dealing with your sad, idiot sap of a self when this blows up in your face.”

 

“Fuck off, Flowey.”

 

“Fuck you, Frisk.”

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t- stars, you’re crying. I don’t know what to do with that.”

 

“I’m sorry, Flowey.”

 

“I know.”

 

He resolutely doesn’t look behind him and puts on Get Out. He thinks he hears Frisk choke back tears and laugh, but he likes Jordan Peele too.

 

 

 

 

 

“I hate this.”

 

Flowey gives him an unimpressed look. “You’re being an idiot again. Go and talk to him.”

 

“I’ve created a monster.” Frisk looks at him in awe. They’re sitting on the ratty couch again, but there isn’t a film on. Instead, there’s the usual two cans of Coke and a splintering will go live in clear view.

 

“Ha-fucking-ha. That’s funny because I’m already one.”

 

“Get over it. You think I should talk to him.”

 

“Now unless I missed hearing my own voice-“

 

“I have created a monster.”

 

Flowey sighs. “As your unwilling roommate, I despise him. But he makes you happy or whatever, so that saves me from having to do this every weekend.”

 

Frisk isn’t even looking at him anymore. “Oh my god, that’s a glowing letter of love, Flowey. I don’t need no man but you.”

 

“I’m leaving.”

 

“You love me.”

 

”Die faster.”

 

”You love me to death and beyond.”

 

“I love your movie collection.”

 

“Hearts, Flowey. Hearts in my eyes for you.”

 

“Gilliam.”

 

“Scorsese.”

 

“Fine. Taxi Driver.”

 

“Deal.”

 

 

So like, you get the idea.

 

It’s all really, really normal, for everything that had transpired at some point. Frisk goes to work, Frisk frisks about and then goes home to watch a film with his resident houseplant. It’s cute enough to be a sitcom, or something. He thinks of this during one of his work breaks and texts Flowey immediately (on his phone. That he got. He doesn’t know where Flowey got it from, but whatever.) 

 

Flowey sends him a thumbs-down emoji, which wouldn’t have been as hysterical if it was anyone but a sentient flower.

 

Life is good. 

Notes:

Don’t fret (to those of you who are bored at all the needless interactions between these two), the action picks up eventually. Reading over it now, it’s been two years since I wrote this, a lot of this is indulgence and honestly? It’s fun.

Chapter 4: Splatter

It’s a fine Tuesday morning that finds Frisk turning a corner in the storage room, obnoxiously humming Black Widow, janitor from A Scout’s Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse-style. No mop and bucket unfortunately, which took away from it a bit, but he supposed something had to give.

 

Frisk turns around to grab the cleaning spray, flinging open the cupboard, and then almost screams when Flowey’s head pops out like a goddamn marionette.

 

“Flowey, you bastard,” he hisses, when he’d caught his breath. Thankfully, he had only knocked down a box when he almost fell. “Oh my god. Are you trying to kill me again?”

 

Flowey blinks at that, and glares. “Shut up. You think I want to be here?”

 

Frisk keeps the box back vehemently, looking around quickly to make sure he wouldn’t get caught talking to himself. “I told you one thing, Flowey. One rule. What was that? Hm?”

 

“It was-“

 

“Don’t bother me at work, exactly. I can’t explain your existence to my-“

 

“It was a goddamn emergency, Frisk.”

 

It’s the flatness of his voice that gets Frisk to turn around. The air around him grows colder.

 

“Who.”

 

“Papyrus. They found you.” The flower looks as stressed as Frisk feels at that very moment, eyes narrowed and pursed… mouth flaps? He didn’t actually have lips. “Look, I didn’t answer the door, no shit, but that won’t stop him from trying again.”

 

Frisk doesn’t hear any of that over the white noise. “Papyrus. Of course they sent him.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I- Frisk?”

 

It’s like a pin drops.

 

“Shit. Shitshitshit. My brother in Christ, how quickly can we pack up and leave?”

 

Flowey closes his eyes. If he had hands, he’d probably be face-palming or something. “First of all, never call me that again. Second, no way. Do you have an apartment you can produce out of thin air?”

 

“How the hell did they find me?” He looks crazed, probably, grabbing at fistfuls of his own hair and sitting on his knees, but he doesn’t care. “This is annoying. Annoying!”

 

“It doesn’t matter, does it? Frisk, what do you want to do?”

 

“What could they even want?” Frisk moans, slamming the nearest wall with a fist, “I gave them everything they could possibly want man, what the actual hell…”

 

…except the wall was a stack of boxes. Which came tumbling down like it was Snowpiercer and Frisk was running the goddamn train.

 

“Fuck. Flowey, get out. I’m gonna fix this and then we deal with the noise ahead of this one.”

 

“Way ahead of you.” That was when it occurred to Frisk that he never actually heard the boxes hit the ground.

 

Vines curl around the line of boxes, and they’re shoved back into place slowly as Frisk stands up, awed. A few fall off the sides.

 

“Damn.”

 

“There’s a few I missed. I’m not dealing with those.”

 

“Thanks bud. Okay, uh,” and Frisk paces the room with a little more care for the boxes around him. “So would they have figured out where I work if they know where I live?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Man, this is so annoying.”

 

“You said that before.”

 

“Okay. You didn’t answer the door, right?” Frisk nods to himself. “Alright. I think they’re actually crazy enough to make Papyrus wait outside until I come back, so we can’t go back.”

 

Flowey stares at him. “I can.”

 

A pause. “Whose house is this again? That’s what I thought.” Flowey’s resigned muttering goes absolutely unnoticed.

 

“Anyway, I can’t go back.” Frisk frowns at the mental image of his backpack, the physical incarnation of which was currently sitting in his locker, and tried to remember whether he has anything that could get him mugged.

 

Then he has an idea. “Unless… you can give me wall-climbing abilities, multiverse-plant-variant-of-Spider-Man style.” He makes his most convincing puppy eyes at the flower. “Please?”

 

Flowey groans. “Oh my stars.”

 

“You’re literally a mythical being. Why can’t you pick me up and get me through the window?”

 

“Because you’ll make me do that every day.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“I didn’t even… fuck you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why can’t you just make a platform for me?”

 

“You think I create vines out of thin air?”

 

“Ow! Fuck, why are you making it tighter?”

 

“Shut the fuck up, you idiot. Are you trying to get us caught?”

 

It would’ve been a funny sight to behold, if it didn’t look like Poison Ivy was breaking into a residential building on an average Tuesday evening in Gotham City. Flowey looks around to make sure no one was witnessing this absolute disaster, before dragging Frisk up against the wall to the fifth floor. Luckily, there was only one open window, and before Frisk could come up with any bright ideas regarding how to get back at that downstairs neighbor for filing noise complaints against them, he curls a vine around his mouth and glares.

 

It’s not too hard to push open the window, (because Flowey was a goddamn genius who had left it open while leaving), and then drop Frisk on the couch with a flick, only as gentle as he was because throwing him down would cause a racket that they didn’t need.

 

Frisk, however, is far from amused (both at how he had been fucking manhandled within an inch of his life and how he could’ve been robbed), but as they shut the window as quietly as they can, he doesn’t hesitate in pulling out his phone and swiping on the inbuilt flashlight. He keeps it faced away from the door, phone screen facing the ceiling, as both he and Flowey creep up to the peephole.

 

“Hold this,” Frisk mouths, barely visible in the darkness, and Flowey nods. There is probably some clever observation to be made about this kind of lighting technique in cinema and how this whole situation felt like a fucking motion picture, but Frisk’s eyes are dead-set on the door, expression grim.

 

They’re lucky the floor was mostly tiling, and moving up to the front door noiselessly wasn’t too hard. Frisk slowly flips up the peephole shutter and looks through, wary.

 

Nothing.

 

The corridor is empty, yellow light as sickly as always against the matted carpets adorning the floor. The door mat is still there. Trying to look around more only strained his eyes further.

 

He lets out a slow, quiet breath, and draws back. Flowey droops, sullen regardless, as Frisk rubs his forehead and looks towards the window. The silence is still dense with nerves, like a knife’s edge wouldn’t be sharp enough to cut through.

 

Frisk stands there for a moment longer. He then turns to Flowey, opens his mouth, and-

 

Footsteps, from the hallway, courtesy of the shit soundproofing in this building. Boots, judging by their weight.

 

They both freeze.

 

The shutter hasn’t been flicked up now, but Frisk knows it’s too dark to see inside. He backs away, slowly ducking underneath the hole’s view and pressing his back against the wall.

 

It’s fine. It’s fine.

 

It’s all fine, except Flowey is fumbling with the phone flashlight, swiping up with a trembling vine as he glares at the screen. Frisk starts to shake his head vigorously, and slashes a hand through the air like that would do anything at all.

 

There’s a beat of silence, as the footsteps get closer.

 

Flowey drops the phone.

 

(Obviously.)

 

Flowey drops the phone, and the footsteps pause.

 

Frisk holds his breath.

 

The footsteps carry on just then, and they keep going until the end of the hallway. Must be the next door neighbor, judging by the jangling keys and the sound of a door slamming shut.

 

Flowey sags, and resolutely looks anywhere but at Frisk, whose eyes are like fucking lasers. He’s about to open his mouth when a new set footsteps bounce through, and stop way too close to their door for comfort.

 

“HELLO HUMAN FRISK! ARE YOU AWAKE YET?” A pause. “IT HAS BEEN OVER NINE HOURS.”

 

Flowey and Frisk look at each other. 

 

Oh my fucking god.

Chapter 5: Never Come Back

Breaking news! Overzealous skeleton with the temperament of a child found to be sitting outside the door of a perfectly average Joe and his pet flower who also happens to be sentient! |

 

Frisk stares at the blinking cursor, white against black for the sake of his eyes, and sighs, putting his phone down and burying himself deeper into his blanket. It’s three in the fucking morning, and Papyrus is still outside their fucking door.

 

Back when he and Flowey had stood near the door for about half an hour (before realizing that the skeleton probably wouldn’t be able to hear them if they were quiet enough in moving to the bedroom), Papyrus had revealed that he’d already gotten kicked out once for being a general nuisance (“-FOR WAITING FOR MY GOOD FRIEND-“) so he was being quieter. Frisk sees no difference from when they’d last spoken but who knows, maybe it was just that he was getting old.

 

Anyway, Flowey hadn’t been able to find sleep either, so he had been doing the to-and-fro thing, reporting his findings every half hour or so. The last time he’d shown up was a little under an hour ago so Frisk assumes the little guy finally passed out. Good for him or whatever.

 

There is still work today. There is work to leave for in exactly five hours from now.

 

Somehow, this doesn’t make sleep come any faster. He still feels like he’s a sad little puppet on strings, being maneuvered around despite the fact that someone forgot to repair the stitching on his neck again.

 

Instead, he’s thinking of the Underground again, that jolly place, and is suddenly glad that the curtains are drawn shut. If they were willing to use Papyrus…

 

Frisk shudders. It’s not even ironic.

 

He is no stranger to the occasional loopy-ass dream, but the ones featuring that fucking short-ass skeleton turn out to be arthouse psychological films that are about as tangible in his mind as memories from a night of heavy drinking and crying on Flowey. Except these have the additional perks of cold sweats, shaking uncontrollably, panic attacks, the whole works. He’s not even entirely certain of why, because while Sans had been someone whose true nature had shocked him to his core, he’d never actually been… violent.

 

Yeah, fine, okay. Maybe his eye-lights went dark and he threatened him with death over what was supposed to be a dinner between friends, something that wasn’t even true because Sans had made a promise to the goat, and oh my god. It always goes back to her, doesn’t it? She’d love that.

 

Maybe there’s time when his eternally smiling expression exuded an odd cruelty, something dark lurking just beneath the surface. It was much more noticeable after Frisk hit reset for the first time, after the aforementioned bombshell. It was enough to make him angry and depressed, just a tad. Annoyed, some days. Apathetic for the rest, since trying so hard, getting so far, and finding out that Linkin Park only ever had the bitter truth to offer does that to a person.

 

Don’t pretend to be my friend. Don’t give me hope if you’re going to take it away.

 

Anyway, that can of worms was long sealed and dealt with. It’s just that he has flashes of beige, golden and brown, and blood, not all of it his own, and Sans at the helm of it all, like his psyche had decided that Sans was the literal gold standard for a sleep paralysis demon, because that dude managed to hit Frisk with 90 mental damage all while being the laziest fuck alive.

 

Maybe that’s why it was successful? Sans went the extra mile (sigh) for him, or seemed to be doing that, so it was easier to get pulled into a false sense of security, like things ever went well for Frisk.

 

Point of this whole tangent is, Sans could teleport. The limitations were never clear, because this was Sans, come on, but Frisk thinks it has a lot to do with if Sans has seen the place prior. Hence, the curtains were permanently drawn shut for the foreseeable future. Flowey grumbled about sunlight, as he grumbled about alcohol and any monster-related news they came across, but that fucker lived in a hole underground so Frisk doesn’t believe that at all.

 

He turns over, and prays to any deity that is listening for a moment of reprieve. Please.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(He ended up having a lucid dream about a basketball flying at his head. How quaint.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frisk seems to have blinked away the night, because there had been a beam of moonlight where yellow sun filtered into the room between the slight movements of the curtains, revealing all the dust that was flying through the air. It takes a while for him to get changed, all in a rush, but by the time he tip-toe-runs to the living room, Flowey is glaring at the television screen with something close to a soul-crushing longing.

 

Valid. Frisk hurts for him.

 

Flowey blinks at his arrival, and points at the door. They hadn’t pushed down the peephole’s slider, so Frisk’s easily able to toe his way to the door and look through.

 

There’s no one there.

 

He almost breathes a sigh of relief, just as a skull pops up from underneath his field of vision, probably in front of the door, grin as wide as a bridge threatening to be built, and Frisk falls back with a barely suppressed yell.

 

“HUMAN! HUMAN FRISK! GOOD MORNING! I HOPE YOU ARE AWAKE NOW! IT IS A LOVELY DAY TODAY, YOU KNOW? A LOVELY DAY TO MEET FRIENDS!”

 

Fuck. This.

 

Flowey seems to have made a long-suffering expression his permanent mode of existence, so he doesn’t even look surprised when Frisk asks him, low, whether he could be taken to work through the window. But one thing was abundantly clear.

 

Coming back to the house was the biggest mistake they could’ve made.

 

“So, we should’ve seriously just never come back,” he finishes, sighing. “I don’t have any other ideas, and-“

 

“I think I liked it better when you couldn’t speak,” Flowey says, snippy, as Frisk lets him curl onto his shoulder after he gets them to the street his store is at, away from the apartments. Frisk has been brainstorming ways to fuck off without being noticed, and this is what he gets. Go figure.

 

“Oh, shut your hole too. You did such a great job at it back home.”

 

“I will actually kill you in your sleep.”

 

“If I can get any, that would be great. I’d take death too.”

 

Flowey blinks, suddenly concerned in his own way. “How much did you get last night?”

 

“Like… three? Two? I don’t know.”

 

“Hm.” Then. “Don’t you humans have medicines or something for that?”

 

“Hehe. Medicine? All we get is drugs!”

 

“…”

 

“All medicine is just drugs in sheep costumes with specified dosages. Just so you know,” Frisk says. “And look, I used to take melatonin, but I’ve built up a tolerance and now the dosage I need to take causes my dreams to be way too… vivid. I get the sleep, but I feel just as shit afterwards with mental scarring to boot. Not worth it.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Yeah, anyway, so let me speak.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“…the fuck. You’re never nice.”

 

“I’m not. This is so that you won’t ask me to carry you to work after you get tired or whatever. Keep talking.”

 

Frisk grins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They keep doing this for a few days. Papyrus leaves, but never for long, and he always comes back. He keeps talking about his latest recipes and experiences like as if Frisk spends his time sitting by the door and listening, like a prison inmate with precious call time who doesn’t want to interrupt.

 

It’s cute, he would’ve said a few years ago. Now, he’s tired.

 

It’s work, and then lingering in silence while he and Flowey attempt communication via every other method that doesn’t involve opening mouths. They even watched Evil Dead 2 on Frisk’s phone. What has the world come to. And then, it’s straight to bed, where he’s plagued by memories and nightmares and non-memories and everything else under the moon and sun, and then it’s back to work, because the weekend couldn’t come any sooner.

 

And when it’s here, he wakes up with a crick in his neck and no desire to live, because he and Flowey couldn’t do what they usually did on the weekends, which was watch something shitty while drunk and holler about it as such.

 

That’s probably the last straw. Who knows. There have been several last straws thus far.

 

So, he calls Flowey into his bedroom while Papyrus talks about mushroom risotto and how it smells charred when it’s cooked perfectly, and buries his head in his hands.

 

“We need to end this.”

 

“What?”

 

“We can’t live like this. This is hell. This is how he’s behaving without knowing we are home. Imagine what he’d do if he knew.”

 

“…it is hell,” Flowey agrees, frowning. “But then, what do we even do? He and the rest of them won’t leave you alone.”

 

“…”

 

“Doesn’t this count as workplace harassment? You could report them.”

 

“This isn’t my workplace, so it’s not precisely that. But I get what you’re saying and… no. They deserve to… exist. I wish they didn’t make it my problem. But I can’t complain because if I do, they won’t be accepted anywhere anymore. It’ll hurt them.”

 

“Fuck them,” Flowey hisses. “Look at you, Frisk. You can’t even sleep. You haven’t eaten anything in the last thirty-six hours. And you leave for work through a window.”

 

“Point taken. You don’t look well either.”

 

And Flowey looks kind of… sunken. His petals look more ochre than yellow. He shakes his head, and one comes flying off. “It’s okay.”

 

“It’s not.” And saying that sort of makes something in Frisk curl uncomfortably tight, and then solidy into something steely. Steely resolve. Look, he’s still got it.

 

“What do we do?”

 

Frisk thinks. For a blissful moment, he can.

 

And then promptly groans when something Papyrus is saying echoes more than the rest of the sentence he’d been yelling through. “Oh my god. There’s literally no other way. I’m opening the door.”

 

“What?!” Flowey almost yells, and Frisk shushes him. “What the fuck kind of decision is that? Can you use your brain?”

 

“Look, I’m not going another damn day without watching The Room with you while we throw plastic spoons at our TV. We’ve planned that for ages.”

 

“You open that door,” Flowey says, rough, “and only the stars can tell if we’d ever be able to do that.”

 

“What do you want to do then? Live like this? I don’t have enough money to rent another place, much less to move everything there. We are stuck here. Forever. And he’s not going away. They want something from me, and they’ve never stopped when it comes to getting that sort of thing.”

 

Flowey is quiet. And Frisk looks up to see his face, because he’s been silent for a bit too long, and-

 

“Oh my god, are you crying?!”

 

Flowey is… dribbling water, and that’s the only way to put it. His eyes are shiny and his leaves tremble. He looks…

 

“Fuck off. I h-hate you.”

 

Scared.

 

Oh.

 

“Flowey, buddy. Oh my god,” Frisk feel his own eyes burn, and he laughs. “You’re going to make me cry now. Flowey, I’m not leaving you. You’re coming with me, okay?”

 

“S-Stop that. Stop.”

 

“I’m not lying. No matter what they do, no matter what happens, I’ll be with you, and you’ll be with me. This doesn’t change anything.”

 

Flowey shakes a bit. He’s a silent crier, Frisk notices, something that causes his chest to hurt. He’s shaking his head, trying to push Frisk’s hands away as he shakes harder and harder.

 

“Hey. Who’s going to take me to work if you don’t, huh?”

 

“That fuck- that fucking skeleton could just t-teleport you there.”

 

Oh. Oh.

 

Frisk’s expression drops. “Why would I let him do that?”

 

“I don’t fucking know.” A hiccup.

 

“I don’t think I lived in a house with him.”

 

“…”

 

“Did he perhaps… hold my hair back while I threw up over myself?”

 

“…”

 

“Oh, yeah. He was definitely the one who I watched the entire Three Flavors Cornetto trilogy with, yeah?”

 

“…shut up.”

 

“Oh no. He was the one who berated and trashed my taste in partners so much that I was set straight. He even made me food, yelled at me to take care of myself, and listened to me cry everyday. Such a sweetheart. How shall I ever thank him? I’ll need to find him a gift basket or something. Luckily, I have all these pots around my house that could work. They’re full of soil though…”

 

Flowey looks up, shaky, but there is no more liquid leaking from his eyes. He laughs, an uncertain, shocked thing, and Frisk grins.

 

“You’re so stupid for someone who calls me stupid, you stupid flower.”

 

“You are v-very stupid.”

 

“Okay.”

 

They sit in silence for a bit, until Flowey composes himself enough, wiping tears away and clearing his throat. “So.”

 

Frisk leans forward. “Yeah, so.”

 

“The door.”

 

“It’s the only way,” Frisk sighs. “We’ll just give them what they want. It can’t be too hard, can it?”

 

Flowey stares. Then he sighs. “Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“Okay. Let me on your shoulder.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They march to the door, hearts in throats and quivering nerves and all that. Frisk has changed into something more befitting a fight, jacket slung over a shoulder while Flowey hovers on the other. They decide against the kitchen knife, because Frisk pales at the sight of it and Flowey is insanely perceptive, but he still has his flashlight and stock of gummy bears in the pocket of that jacket. His phone, his wallet, his keys. He thinks he’s got everything.

 

Papyrus is still talking, going on, and on, and on.

 

Flowey and Frisk make eye contact, before Frisk sighs. He takes a deep breath.

 

Then he unlocks the door.

Notes:

I survived! It’s been ages, hasn’t it? Anyway, this has been rotting in my drafts. I’m not the happiest with it but I can’t keep hating it, so I’m just going to move along. Hopefully I can make things better as we move along.

Notes:

Another one I came across while closing up shop in my Notes app. I actually sort of like this one so sharing it was natural. To those that made it this far: thanks for reading. Updates will be sporadic and dependent on my mental state.