mercybutton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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castle_perrault2017-03-03 10:56 pm
mercybutton) wrote in castle_perrault2017-03-03 10:56 pm
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(no subject)
They're tired of being alone. (With only Flowey.)
They know they did this to themself. They isolated themself with him and refused to talk to anyone they passed by, sleeping in ridiculous places, in strange enough places in strange enough positions to have given themself aches and kinks in their bones, though they know they'll all fade. They're tough. Very elastic.
It's been months. They still haven't quite gotten over October--they were so lively. They felt like the forest. They felt like spring gusts and fresh flower sprouts and fire and clean air, and even better? They could see. Not perfect, but it was a degree, and they felt air in their lungs fresher and freer than they ever knew before.
That was fun, but that was months ago. Nowadays, they just feel like stale fog. It's heavy. It's still. And they walk through the halls sick and still, they haven't had an appetite in upwards of a month, they feel so static, they feel useless. They feel so awful, blind and disabled and drained of all want to do anything.
Flowey has calmed down much, and for once, they thank his soullessness--his lack of caring gives him endless patience to deal with them, thank goodness. They know it's bad of them to be happy that he lacks a soul, but they can't help but be just that. It's selfish. They can't bring themself to care. He's still very much mad at Asriel, but his fervent temper has cooled enough so that he won't strangle his counterpart upon sight. He ropes Frisk into helping him cook things (a flower can't do much on his own in a kitchen, unfortunately) to pass time and hone his own skill. Frisk is his critic, of course. These are peace. Or sometimes Flowey reads to them in private rooms, both laughing and joking and making fun of the text or each other, or discussing morals and philosophy. Those conversations are especially interesting between a kid like them and a soulless little blossom. It's moments like these that they cherish, that feels enough like home that they calm just a little, just a little.
They don't last long.
Frisk leaves Flowey near the Edge and the Forest, with a pile of philosophy books to pore over, as they retreat into the castle. They should socialize--reckon it's how they'll stop feeling so quiet and blobby. They don't want to, not at all, but they should. They should at least try. As a solace, they decide to let people engage them, instead of listening for people and tracking them down and starting conversation by themself. They don't start conversations, they commentate.
So they linger in places, sitting on windowsills and swinging their legs, or running hands across shrubbery in the gardens, or mumbling poetry and quotes to themself as they stroll down halls. Lots of poetry, lots of quotes. Thomas Paine and John Locke and Matthew Arnold and, and...
They know they did this to themself. They isolated themself with him and refused to talk to anyone they passed by, sleeping in ridiculous places, in strange enough places in strange enough positions to have given themself aches and kinks in their bones, though they know they'll all fade. They're tough. Very elastic.
It's been months. They still haven't quite gotten over October--they were so lively. They felt like the forest. They felt like spring gusts and fresh flower sprouts and fire and clean air, and even better? They could see. Not perfect, but it was a degree, and they felt air in their lungs fresher and freer than they ever knew before.
That was fun, but that was months ago. Nowadays, they just feel like stale fog. It's heavy. It's still. And they walk through the halls sick and still, they haven't had an appetite in upwards of a month, they feel so static, they feel useless. They feel so awful, blind and disabled and drained of all want to do anything.
Flowey has calmed down much, and for once, they thank his soullessness--his lack of caring gives him endless patience to deal with them, thank goodness. They know it's bad of them to be happy that he lacks a soul, but they can't help but be just that. It's selfish. They can't bring themself to care. He's still very much mad at Asriel, but his fervent temper has cooled enough so that he won't strangle his counterpart upon sight. He ropes Frisk into helping him cook things (a flower can't do much on his own in a kitchen, unfortunately) to pass time and hone his own skill. Frisk is his critic, of course. These are peace. Or sometimes Flowey reads to them in private rooms, both laughing and joking and making fun of the text or each other, or discussing morals and philosophy. Those conversations are especially interesting between a kid like them and a soulless little blossom. It's moments like these that they cherish, that feels enough like home that they calm just a little, just a little.
They don't last long.
Frisk leaves Flowey near the Edge and the Forest, with a pile of philosophy books to pore over, as they retreat into the castle. They should socialize--reckon it's how they'll stop feeling so quiet and blobby. They don't want to, not at all, but they should. They should at least try. As a solace, they decide to let people engage them, instead of listening for people and tracking them down and starting conversation by themself. They don't start conversations, they commentate.
So they linger in places, sitting on windowsills and swinging their legs, or running hands across shrubbery in the gardens, or mumbling poetry and quotes to themself as they stroll down halls. Lots of poetry, lots of quotes. Thomas Paine and John Locke and Matthew Arnold and, and...
no subject
It is. The hug is such a comfort. Frisk runs fingers through his fur, taking in his soft texture, tracing the shape of the back of his skull, where his ears start, down his spine, across his shoulders. They want to solidify his shape to them.
"'M sorry. I just… I, uh, I didn't want to talk to anyone after October. I'm sorry I shut you guys out, I should've reached out sooner, I um… yeah. What about you?"
no subject
"It's okay, you got nothing to apologize for. I didn't feel like showing up much either. Even though I apologized to everyone, I just didn't want to show my face, you know? I still felt rotten for what I did." he smiles. "I've been looking after the flowers at my favorite place in the garden. I lost some of them to the frost that happened a few months ago, but the golden flowers were safe. I replaced what died and now the new plants are just sprouting from the ground."
no subject
"That sounds great, Asriel. Sounds like you got a new hobby. Flowey's gotten back into cooking, but it's kinda hard when you don't have any legs or arms and your only friend is blind."
Fuck, this is a million years late.
There's a joke to be made somewhere about a flower growing flowers. It doesn't come to him however.