Chapter Text
“I guess… what I want to say is…”
* For the first time in what you swear was years, you almost feel the warmth of HOPE rising in your soul.
“…Kris, this can’t just be our ‘adventures’ anymore.”
* The cold rushes back in.
“People are in… actual danger. We can’t mess up anymore. We have to tell someone. Someone closer to the shelter codes. Someone who can help us fight. Kris, this can’t just be a me and you thing. It needs to be…”
* You already know what she’s going to say.
“…Noelle’s thing, too.”
* Angel, you wish you were wrong. More than anything, you just wish you were wrong.
“Kris…”
Finally, finally, you look up at her, though you can hardly bring yourself to do it. The door seems to bathe half her face in dark shadow - until she leans out, just far enough for you to see her smile. Just yesterday, it might have been enough to blow the darkness away.
“Thanks for walking me home.”
Click. The closet doors shut behind her.
* You think that whatever warmth you had went with her.
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You bolt awake, gasping and sputtering as you desperately try to breathe with lungs too weak to draw in a full breath. One hand digs into scratchy old carpet, the other clutching your chest, and your vision swims, twirling around you as darkness encroaches upon its edges. You shake your head violently, trying in vain to blink the bleariness out of your eyes.
You feel around almost blindly at first, hands searching for something, anything - and find the bars of your cage. It lies on its back beside you, the door still ajar after Kris all but tore it open oh-so-long ago. As your vision slowly clears, you find your comforter still lying in a heap on your bedroom floor, just where you’d left it. The soft morning light filters in through your open window, your curtains blowing gently in the breeze just as they had yesterday morning.
The last thing you remember is… Susie. You don’t recall walking yourself home, let alone climbing in the window - you assume you climbed in, anyway, based on the fact that it still hangs open. You certainly don’t remember passing out on the cold floor, which you can already tell you’ll be feeling in your spine by the time you reach your thirties.
Despite your weakness, you push yourself to your feet, ignoring the part of you that’s still reeling from Susie’s words as best you can. With a halting gait, you stumble out into the hall, leaving the door hanging open behind you. You find your mother’s door still locked, just like before, and instead make for the stairs - though they turn out to be rather difficult to navigate when your legs still feel like they’re made of hot jell-o.
You half-walk and half-fall down the steps, nearly eating the hardwood floor at the bottom when you only barely manage to catch yourself on the railing. Just like your room, the kitchen is exactly as you remembered it - the fridge is still fully stocked, the trash still empty, the sink still clear of dishes.
* You wonder if your mother spent the day out.
After everything that happened yesterday, you don’t deem that thought important enough to dwell on. Instead, you turn for the door - though you aren’t really sure you have anywhere to go. You already know Noelle’s impending arrival will be all the buzz in Castletown, and it’s certainly all Susie will talk about. The Holidays are… busy, and the reason for that ache in your chest is the last person you want to see, probably-dead-dad or otherwise. As for Asgore…
“…Kris. Could you be a dear and put some toast on?” You practically jump out of your skin as your mother’s voice cuts through your thoughts. Oddly enough, she’s exactly where you left her yesterday morning, awkwardly draped the wrong way across a chair with a blue blanket draped over her. Her face is still resting in a less-than-comfortable looking position against the chair’s arm, her drool still pooling in the folds of the fabric. She looks at you with those same bleary, half-opened eyes.
* …You say yes.
“Thank you, dear… and, don’t forget to put honey on it, okay, honey?” Again, she repeats the same words, her voice just as heavy with sleep and wine as it had been the day prior. You suppose she must have had Sans over again - a thought that makes your face crinkle as you turn away.
You can’t help but watch as the soon-to-be-toast spins in the microwave, though you swear that looking at it makes it take longer. It’s just enough time to let your thoughts wander - to let your mind drift through all you’d been through. You remember doing all you could to spend time with Susie during the festival, though she always made it about Noelle. You remember waking up at sunset, listening to their sickly-sweet words as they walked out into the lake that had once been yours to share. You remember Susie telling you that there was no point in going there now - not just the two of you.
* You taste bitterness in the back of your throat.
You remember opening that angelforsaken darkworld, praying that she would finally see you - but she was too busy thinking of Noelle’s heartbeat. You remember the way she fell into Flowery’s fantasy without you. You remember Cyan, Orange, Blue, Green, Seth, Yellow… You remember how they tried to replace you. You remember how your own father cast you aside in favor of his flowers.
You remember when he finally saw you. You remember when he said he was proud of you. You remember when, for the first time since that awful festival started, you felt like someone loved you. You remember when he was-
BEEP!
Your head snaps up as you’re startled out of your thoughts by the microwave’s chime. You reach up for the half-empty honeyjar - and find that your hands are shaking. With as much care as you can muster, you do your best to spread it across the already-cooling toast. Once you’ve deemed it adequate, you return to your mother’s side. Just like yesterday, she doesn’t bother with sitting up to eat it.
“Thank you for the honey, honey,” She says, smiling at you with toast still hanging out of her mouth. She stops for a moment, then glances off to the side, something akin to guilt in her eyes. “…Kris… how did YOU sleep last night, honey?”
Though you don’t remember trying to sleep, the answer to that question is obvious enough; your entire body aches, and your muscles protest every movement. It’s as if you spent the night running a marathon - and, for all you know, you might have. But… you already know what she’s going to say. You already know she’ll only give you some half-baked excuse. You already know she’s just going to end up talking about your brother again. You already know she ‘got carried away’.
* …You tell her that you don’t really want to talk about it.
“Oh… well… that is alright, honey.” Her smile turns slightly strained at that, what might have been practiced words instead seeming awkward and hesitant. You don’t answer, instead turning toward the door.
But, as you pull it shut behind you, you start to realize that you don’t know where else to go. Castletown is out of the question - the last thing you want to hear is a chorus of ‘Noelle! Noelle! Noelle’ from every darkner, and you certainly don’t want to hear Susie talking about her. The Holidays are out of the question, considering… everything, especially when it comes to Noelle and Asgore…
* You don’t want to think about Asgore.
Still, you walk away, one hand clutching your sweater as you stumble aimlessly into town. You keep your eyes on the ground at first, not wanting to see the lights you know are still hanging, but… where are the decorations? Last night, the streets were littered with confetti, decor, and discarded balloons, but you find the streets empty now.
You soon realize that those lights aren’t hanging at all, the houses around you lacking any hint of the Festival, though you doubt anyone would remove them so soon after the ceremony- especially not when it ended in what you can only assume to be a tragedy.
* You wonder if he survived.
* …You shudder, trying to push that thought out of your mind.
As you walk further, you expect to see people taking decorations down, carts wheeling rides away, people whispering about yesterday’s events… but you find no such thing. In fact, you see a few of your neighbors putting up balloons and strings of pennant flags, as if they hadn’t all been taken down the night prior. Further down the street, you can see crates, folding tables, and misplaced signs laid out on either side of the road, like someone put everything away only to take it all back out again. Some part of you half expects to see your father tending to his flowers again when you round the corner, but you know that’s nothing more than wishful-
“Oh, Kris!” A warm voice, filled with cheer and excitement, rings out across the road. You freeze. He can’t be here. You know he can’t be here. You know he’s gone. And yet, when you turn to look at the once-abandoned Flower King, you find your father greeting you with open arms.