Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Flowey first sees him, he’s on his way to try throwing himself off of one of Snowdin’s many cliffs. Or possibly freeze himself to death. Flowers are awfully susceptible to the cold, after all, and he hasn’t tried that yet. (He’s deciding on the way)

When Flowey first sees him, he’s crouched in the snow a little ways away from the doors to the Ruins, several cardboard boxes piled up beside him. There’s a determined look on his face, a marker braced between his teeth, and a pair of scissors in his hands. He’s wearing a roll of duct tape on his wrist like a particularly chunky bracelet. 

Flowey notes his appearance, wonders exactly who he is and where he came from, then promptly uproots himself and dives headfirst over the edge of the plateau. Seconds after the pointed treetops below spear through his petals, he opens his eyes and he’s back in the garden again. 

The second time Flowey sees him, he’s debating trying that freezing to death thing since he didn’t do it last time, and the skeleton is once again going at it with the boxes. He’s sitting at a different angle this time, and the duct tape has a fun little pattern on it. Normally he wouldn’t pay attention to such a tiny detail, but it’s something different, and that’s novel enough to get him to take notice.

He’s not sure whether he’s just sitting there for an inordinate amount of time or whether the skeleton somehow senses he’s being watched, but he looks up and meets Flowey’s gaze from across the path. He tilts his head in what’s clearly confusion.

Flowey lets him stare for all of a handful of seconds before he ducks below ground to go find somewhere else to kill himself.

It’s several deaths (or, near-deaths) later, a few “resets” after Flowey’s decided that dying has stopped being worth the effort, and he’s making friends with people this time. He can’t bear to spend any more time in the palace, where Asgore will dote on him relentlessly and continually try to offer him plant food interspersed with caring words, nor can he stand the Ruins where Toriel will pretend like they’re still a normal family, like she hasn’t abandoned her kingdom, like he isn’t some SOUL-less husk of a living thing, a God-damn abomination of science.

So he’s trying something else. Waterfall is creepy and he’s not too fond of the heat, so Snowdin it is. It’s cute. Quaint. Peaceful. The people there are confused at his appearance, but not scornful. Not suspicious, or wary. He thinks the lingering stares are more owing to the fact that they don’t get a lot of visitors or passers-through moreso than because of his appearance. 

The dogs are… frivolously entertaining, if a bit one-note. The rest of the townsfolk are equally bland. The elemental might be interesting if he ever did anything besides standing behind the bar, but alas, there’s an unfortunate lack of pyrotechnics. No-- after several days of observing and interacting with the town, the only people he can say show any kind of intrigue are those bizarre skeletons. 

He recognizes the taller of the two, though for the life of him he can’t say where either of them came from. Skeletons aren’t exactly a monster you see a lot of. (Actually, he can’t remember ever having seen one before.) And sure, each monster is unique, but even then there’s usually a pattern that’s followed. 

The strangest part is how close to human they look. 

They obviously aren’t, because human skulls aren’t that round and human jaws aren’t that tall, but they’re just close enough to it that it almost gives Flowey pause. 

Almost. 

But not quite.

The shorter one just gives him a weirdly critical look when he approaches, but the taller one immediately crouches down and offers him a gloved hand.

“GREETINGS!” he says, very loudly, and something about the way he talks resonates oddly in Flowey’s head. An accent, perhaps? But where he would’ve acquired that Flowey can’t fathom, considering they don’t have enough regional variance to create differing accents down here. “I AM PAPYRUS! OR, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, IF YOU WOULD LIKE! IT’S A NEW THING I’M TRYING OUT.”

“Howdy!” Flowey says, and he can’t really shake hands like this, so he just sort of leans forward and smacks his face into Papyrus’s hand. At least the glove (oven mitt????) makes it soft. “I’m Flowey! Flowey the Flower.” 

“EXCELLENT TO MEET YOU!! ARE YOU NEW IN TOWN? SO ARE WE! MY BROTHER AND I JUST MOVED HERE FROM--”

“papyrus,” the short one says, and that’s apparently enough of a message in its own right because Papyrus’s jaw immediately clicks shut.

“...RIGHT. WELL, IT IS NICE TO MEET YOU, REGARDLESS!”

And it’s interesting. For a while. Sans (as he eventually learns) always seems critical of him in a way that makes him sweat, but Papyrus is a font of boundless optimism that would’ve made Asriel--

Well. In any case it’s almost enough to make Flowey feel excited about something again, and that alone is worth dedicating his time and energy towards making friends with the guy.

He finally learns what the cardboard monstrosity is; a Sentry Station, like the ones built and occupied by the members of the Royal Guard, an organization which Papyrus is determined to join. He seems very proud of it, and Flowey has to remind himself that he’s being nice this time around when he compliments the shoddy construction. (And to be fair, it’s remarkably stable, considering it's held together by duct tape and a dream.)

Papyrus disappears sometimes, and when Flowey asks where he went after he comes back, he explains he’s having cooking lessons with the Captain of the Royal Guard. Some plucky upstart named Undyne. Flowey can’t remember her, which means she must have gotten the job some time after Asriel died, and that realization alone is enough to make him want to avoid her like the plague. 

But each time Papyrus comes back from his lessons he gets more and more adamant about his declarations to join the guard, and Flowey realizes that a “good friend” would probably try to help him. 

Helping. It’s something Asriel probably would’ve started doing a lot sooner, but that Flowey has only just now realized he’s in the perfect position for. The ability to travel anywhere, and just do it all over again if he says something wrong. He could probably get anyone to do anything with enough tries, right? He just needs to figure out the right thing to say. 

“I’VE COME TO A CONCLUSION!” Papyrus says one day, mid-attack cycle, almost distracting Flowey from his dodging. This go around, a good dozen resets after they really met for the first time, Flowey finally figured out what he needed to tell Undyne (and what he needed to make Papyrus tell Undyne) for her to finally get that he’s worth giving combat training as opposed to just cooking lessons, so now he spends nearly all his time working on his attacks. Flowey’s learned at this point that if he wants to actually get Papyrus’s attention while he’s in the midst of a fixation he has to work with the skeleton as opposed to just brute-forcing his way through. So now he’s target practice.

He’s a little worried. Papyrus is far more capable than most give him credit for, but his control isn’t exceptional. And Flowey doesn’t have a stellar amount of HP to begin with, given that his life force is tied to a flimsy plant. Honestly, it doesn’t make much sense-- with a brother as weak as Sans, he’d have thought control would’ve been the first thing Papyrus would’ve learned. 

Regardless, none of his attacks are precise enough that Flowey fears for his life. His leaves are another matter, and he suppresses a grimace as another handful drift to the snow below them.

“Yeah? What’s that, buddy?”

“I THINK YOU DON’T GET NEARLY ENOUGH APPRECIATION!”

“Oh?”

“YES! IT’S THANKS TO YOU UNDYNE WAS WILLING TO START TRAINING ME,” Papyrus says, and he sounds remarkably calm considering he’s furiously blocking the pellets Flowey is shooting at him with a conjured bone. “AND YOU HELP ME WITH TRAINING, EVEN THOUGH I KNOW FIGHTING ISN’T REALLY YOUR FORTE. I THINK YOU NEED A LITTLE MORE APPRECIATION! SO I’M GOING TO START A FAN CLUB FOR YOU.”

“...A what?”

“A FAN CLUB!” Flowey’s turn ends, but Papyrus takes a few seconds to catch his… breath. Or, whatever the equivalent is for a creature that doesn’t breathe. “I’LL MAKE MEMBERSHIP CARDS! PINS! PERHAPS A LOGO? OOH, AND A FORUM WEBSITE! LIKE THE METTATON FAN CLUB I’M IN.”

“Um, thanks,” Flowey says, “but that’s… fine. Really. I don’t need a fan club.”

“ARE YOU SURE? I’VE HEARD THEY DO WONDERS FOR A MONSTER’S SELF-ESTEEM!”

“I’m fine. My self-esteem is fine.” Well, it could be better, but he’s coping with the “being a flower” thing pretty well, he thinks. “But I appreciate the gesture. Thanks, Papyrus.”

“OF COURSE! YOU’RE MY FRIEND, AFTER ALL,” Papyrus says, then raises a hand and sends a wall of bones directly through Flowey’s stem. He catches sight of the horrified expression on Papyrus’s face before he blinks and he’s in the garden again.

Well, damn. Now he has to convince Undyne to start training him all over again. It took weeks last time. This was gonna suck.

He gets Papyrus back to the point he was at before, training under Undyne to become a member of the guard. But he’s a few days into it when he realizes it’s all seeming… startlingly familiar. Of course Undyne reacted the same way, given Flowey had Papyrus do the same thing they did last time, but Papyrus is also reacting the same way. Sure, his responses to Flowey change a bit, given that Flowey himself isn’t repeating everything he did last time, but for the most part it’s… exactly the same.

As it was.

And Flowey feels sick.

“Papyrus?” he asks, one late night when they’ve wrapped up the training thing and Papyrus is healing his own scrapes from when Flowey managed to land a hit on him. Flowey himself took next to no damage. Not because he didn’t get hit-- he did, actually, several times-- but because Papyrus’s control is, for whatever reason, far better this time around. None of his attacks did more than one or two points of HP. “Why do you want to join the guard?”

“HM? OH. WELL, I…” He clasps his gloved hands together. He hasn’t been doing any cooking lessons, but he’s still wearing oven mitts along with the weird outfit his brother helped him make a little while ago. Flowey is starting to think he just doesn’t realize they aren’t actually mittens. “...I WANT TO BE STRONGER. FOR MY SAKE, FOR MY BROTHER’S SAKE, FOR ALL OF US. UNDYNE HAS ALWAYS SEEMED SO… COMMITTED. TO WHAT SHE DOES. SHE TRULY BELIEVES MONSTERS HAVE A FUTURE WHERE WE’LL GET OUT OF HERE SOME DAY, AND HER VIGOR MAKES EVERYONE ELSE BELIEVE IT, TOO. AND I WANT TO BE ABLE TO DO THAT. GIVE EVERYONE AROUND ME HOPE JUST BY BEING ME.”

“So it’s not really about the guard at all.”

“I SUPPOSE IT’S NOT.”

Flowey isn’t sure what answer he wanted, but that definitely wasn’t it. It’s too… nebulous. It’s all feelings. And he can’t work with those anymore.

“Okay,” Flowey says. “I have to go.”

“WILL I SEE YOU TOMORROW?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he just ducks beneath the ground, making it as far as Hotland before he decides he doesn’t want to keep doing this anymore. Helping Papyrus like this. He doesn’t even have a tangible goal. Before, it was very clear what Flowey had to do to help. Just say the right things and push the right buttons so Papyrus ended up a member of the guard. Now that’s not even what he actually wants, but what he wants is something Flowey can’t just give him. And it’s--

--Too much. 

Next time he wakes up in the garden, he doesn’t even glance in Snowdin’s direction.

He goes back. It takes several dozen resets, and even then he’s about halfway through trying to help Alphys get a little more confident before he realizes this is so relentlessly boring that he would rather throw himself into the CORE and see what happens than keep having to deal with her stuttering. (He wouldn’t, because for some strange reason that strikes him as the sort of thing you don’t really come back from, even with the ability to jerk the timeline around like a puppet on strings.)

So he goes back to Snowdin, and re-introduces himself to Papyrus again. Without Flowey’s influence, he’s doing those cooking lessons again, but he seems satisfied. Not that that’s saying much. It’s easy to see how fake Sans’s grin is, but Papyrus is either really good at faking a smile or he just really is that happy all the time. (Whatever the reasoning, Flowey is as unnerved as he is mildly impressed.)

He sticks around. He’s not very helpful, and he mostly makes a nuisance of himself, but at this point he’s done everything else, and he just doesn’t have the energy to do anything but hang around and be a bother. He’s helped everyone who’s willing to be helped. He’s made this town the most cheery place in the Underground. 

Papyrus has started a fan club for him again. This time, he thinks it’ll help boost Flowey’s spirits. It sort of does, even if Papyrus is the only member. He shows Flowey a badge he made out of scrap paper and safety pins, and he sticks it to the scarf-slash-cape that goes with the silly outfit he’s wearing again. It’s almost enough to make him smile. 

He feels… stuck. Literally and metaphorically. He doesn’t have skin, but if he did it would be crawling with the feeling of being trapped. The stone ceiling over their heads has never felt more oppressive. 

There’s nothing new. There’s nothing interesting. There’s nothing left . 

He knows each and every person here down to their most minute reactions. He knows everything that’s happened, and everything that will happen. 

That’s it. He’s done everything, right? 

…Right?

Papyrus is at Undyne’s for a lesson, something he’s very insistent about Flowey not tagging along with him for, which leaves Flowey to try and find some sort of amusement in his absence. He really thinks Papyrus should have learned not to leave him to his own devices at this point, since it usually results in him bothering some of Snowdin’s more… pitiful inhabitants. It’s the dogs this time. He’s not being cruel, really, they’re just so fun to tease. 

Except he guesses he is being a little too cruel, because when he dangles the one yappy dog minus his big suit of armor over a cliff, his partially blind buddy leaps after him. And when Flowey yanks the yappy one out of the way, the blind one’s eyes go wide and he plummets to the ground miles below, disappearing the second he hits the ground in a cloud of dust that quickly mingles with the falling snow. 

And he hears a sharp gasp, and he guesses Papyrus must have gotten home from his lesson early, because he’s standing there with wide eyes and his hands clasped over his mouth.

He’s barely gotten a word out before Flowey is opening his eyes to the garden again. 

It was a mistake last time, messing with them like that. He was just looking for a little fun. He really hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt.

The excuse doesn’t really carry over to this time, where he’s holding a horned monster down with vines around their ankles and flinging bullets at them. The dogs are already gone, dust in the wind, and he can hear someone screaming. Might be the kid. He can’t tell. 

“STOP IT! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!”

He doesn’t stop.

It’s very quiet. 

He thinks that’s the worst part about all this. 

He’s so used to hearing the din of people, the ever-present background chatter of a thriving society. 

He’s used to hearing Papyrus shouting.

Next time, he kills Papyrus first. The dust has barely settled before there’s an otherworldly shriek from behind him and he feels his very cells torn apart. The grin on Sans’s face isn’t cheerful in the slightest. 

When he wakes up in the garden, he’s shaking.

He doesn’t kill Papyrus again. At least, not where Sans can see. He still does, sometimes, because hearing Papyrus begging him to stop before he crumbles to pieces is at least new. His pleading is a little different each time. 

It makes him feel a little more sick each time, too. 

Papyrus says “I KNOW YOU CAN BE A GOOD PERSON! I BELIEVE IN YOU!” and Flowey flings a cascade of bullets at him.

Papyrus says “YOU CAN DO BETTER! EVEN IF YOU DON’T THINK SO!” and Flowey sends vines spearing through his bones. 

Papyrus says “PLEASE, FLOWEY, YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS,” and Flowey tears his SOUL out through his ribcage. 

Papyrus says “I DON’T LIKE THIS!!” 

And Flowey hears I don’t like this plan anymore and he hears I don’t like this, I’m just doing this because I have to know what happens, and his magic freezes in mid-air. Undyne, watching from where she’s trapped nearby, takes advantage of his hesitation and tears herself free of the vines she’d been held in to fling a spear through his stem.

He opens his eyes in the garden and he doesn’t do anything at all. 

He can’t reset, and he feels like he’s about to have a panic attack. 

He has to thank his lucky stars he hadn’t tried killing himself to reset this time. He’s not sure what would’ve happened if he’d nearly died and couldn’t reach his save file. Would he have just reset to the garden anyway? Or would he have…?

Well. He doesn’t need to find out.

Even that small comfort, though, is not enough to stop his anxiety. He can’t reset. He can’t go back. He can’t undo. He’s stuck. Even more than he already was. Any choice he makes, any action he performs, it’s all permanent. There are consequences now. He had the timeline in the metaphorical palm of his metaphorical hand, and he’s lost it.

He wants it back.

There’s a human.

And it isn’t them.

He doesn’t care. He wants his save point back. He wants his power back. And he’ll do whatever it takes.

He gets it. And he loses it again.

And then he wakes up, and he isn’t in the garden, but it doesn’t matter. He’s all too familiar with what a reset feels like.

There’s a human and it is them, he can see it in the way they move and act and the way they cut through everything in their path. Not even that-- the way they go looking. It’s not enough to simply fight their way to the barrier, oh no. They take their time, they scour every damn inch of the Ruins, scatter every last speck of dust they can find. They only seem satisfied once there’s nothing left to kill.

That ruthless Determination… he recognizes it alright. He never thought he’d see it again. They’ve clearly stolen the SOUL they’re latched onto, because that’s not their body, but… well. This isn’t his body either. 

Even after they should both be dead, they just can’t be apart, huh?

There’s a human, and it’s them, but something is wrong.

He used to find their creepy faces funny. Asriel knew they’d never hurt him, so that sickening grin was just another one of their little quirks that little idiot had found charming.

But they never used to be taller than him. They never made that creepy face when staring him down, looming over him, knife in hand and a Determined set to their steps. They never approached with such clear malice. He never felt scared. 

He thought they were like him, at first. Or maybe he was like them.

He’s wrong. He’s so, so wrong.

At this point, there’s not really anywhere to go. Either they’ll kill him, or they won’t. Maybe Sans can stop them, but if they get through him… well, Asgore is useless. 

Except, maybe, as fodder. 

He never gets the chance to see if it would work. They don’t make it to the throne room. They don’t make it through the hallway at all. They die, over and over, and each time Flowey wonders if this is it, if this is the time they win. But they don’t. 

They die again. And Flowey opens his eyes and he isn’t in the throne room anymore.

Flowey isn’t sure which he hates more: the overwhelming terror of realizing his only friend left in the world (because everyone else was dead) had decided he was in the way and needed to die and that the only reason he didn’t was because someone even stronger than the both of them wiped them off the face of the Earth enough times to make them give up, or… this. This… friendliness. 

It’s not them, the same way it wasn’t them the first time they fell. He doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, why sometimes it’s them and sometimes it isn’t but their body is the same every time, but fine. Whatever. He’ll let it play out. They’re strong, he knows that. Eventually they’ll win. And next time… next time he won’t back out. 

He won’t.

Even if he did the first time. And even if he did it again as soon as he had the chance. He knows better now.

They’ll do it together.

Flowey opens his eyes. And he isn’t… himself.

Or, rather, he is himself and it’s terrifying.

When he’d said he was tired of being a flower, this wasn’t what he meant. 

He can’t call himself Flowey, because that just isn’t correct, but… well, is he Asriel? Or did Asriel die a long time ago, his dust scattering over the King’s garden, the corpse of his best friend in his arms? He isn’t really sure.

But he doesn’t just have the power to reset anymore. 

He has everything.

And they’re standing right in front of him. 

He knows it isn’t them. His best friend. He’s seen them reset enough times to know that while sometimes they’re the one piloting that body, it isn’t them this time. (He still calls out for them, because they were good once, right? They can be good again. Maybe.) They wouldn’t have made friends with everyone. They wouldn’t have reached out. They wouldn’t be trying to save him right now, and he knows it, no matter how much he wants to believe otherwise. 

Maybe they weren’t such a good person.

Maybe he wasn’t either.

He can go anywhere. He could bring himself to the surface. He could do anything.

He goes back to the Ruins instead. 

And he waits. 

Sometimes, Flowey can’t believe it’s real. 

The surface. The sun. Freedom. Part of him can’t help but think that every time he closes his eyes he’ll open them and be back in the garden again. He’s pretty sure a lot of monsters share the sentiment (including Sans, not that he’d ever commiserate with him about it). He knows someone out there could still reset if they wanted. He’s almost expecting them to.

But they don’t. Life goes on. Monsters integrate into society near seamlessly. And Flowey is right there to watch it all happen.

(Frisk calls him Asriel when they come down to get him. He shuts that down immediately. He isn’t Asriel anymore. He’s not sure he ever was.)

He won’t (can’t) thank Frisk, but between all the blustering insults he shoots their way (despite the disappointing lack of a reaction), he may or may not let it slip that he’s kind of grateful they ended up being stronger than him. That they were able to knock him down a peg. And, while he won’t ever put a voice to it no matter how sentimental he gets, he’s grateful they were merciful enough to make the trek back down into the Underground, clay pot in hand, just for his sake.

Okay, and a little bit for their sake, because they really can’t talk about the whole “resets” thing with anyone besides him and that stuff weighs on a person. It’s true that at least a handful of them have some sort of recollection, but Undyne just attributes it to deja vu and Sans…

The less said about Sans’s feelings on the matter, the better. He’s mostly stopped glaring at Flowey any time Frisk leaves them in the same room together, but Flowey still does his best to act like he has no idea who the guy is. Not that he thinks Sans would do anything-- if only for the very convoluted reason that they both know Frisk cares about Flowey, and that if he got killed, Frisk might just reset for him-- but it’s still just better for everyone involved if they limit their contact as much as possible.

He still hasn’t forgiven Alphys for turning him into this in the first place, but he also knows she didn’t do it on purpose, so they reach an understanding of sort of just not talking to each other. It works. He’s a little more civil with his… the former King and Queen.  

They don’t know who he is. Whatever the hell happened that broke the barrier and made it so everyone learned Frisk’s name apparently didn’t extend to making them all remember who Flowey was, and Frisk was nice enough to not tell them the truth without his input, so he doesn’t loathe being around them. Asgore still tries to feed him plant food, but at least he isn’t blubbering about it at the same time.

And then there’s…

Well.

It’s nice being on the surface. Living with Frisk and Toriel and whoever else is crashing in their guest room(s) at any given time. (He thinks he prefers it this way. Frisk had told him that last time they got everyone to the surface, they didn’t stay with Toriel, and it… hadn’t gone well.) Everyone seems to be collectively ignoring the fact that he was there right before the barrier broke. The surface is always changing, so he’s never bored. He likes it, as much as he can like anything. 

But.

Then there’s Papyrus.

They were friends in this timeline, or something like it, and the whole Situation didn’t erase that part of Papyrus’s memory like it did everyone else’s memories of what really happened with his involvement. So whenever Papyrus comes by (whether or not Sans is also there) he takes time out of his day to sit with Flowey and chatter on about what’s been going on in his life lately.

He got a new job. He learned to cook a new dish. He got his driver’s license. He got a car to go with the driver’s license he just earned. It’s all dreadfully mundane.

Flowey keeps his mouth shut and listens to every single word. 

He doesn’t really care, in the sense that he’s not at all invested in Papyrus’s day-to-day, but it is nice hearing someone sound so utterly passionate about something that isn’t invigorating in the slightest. He’s able to turn something as dull and banal as complaining about his co-workers into a compelling narrative, and it’s almost enough to make up for the fact that Flowey can’t feel a damn thing. Contagious enthusiasm for life. 

He seems happy. He’s got a good life here on the surface, he’s got good friends. He’s found a place he belongs. He has at least one fan in the form of a particularly over-eager child, two if you count Frisk. It’s good. The surface is good for him.

And every time Flowey looks at him he sees horror writ across his face as a dog collapses into dust, or a barrage of bullets decimates Undyne even with her determination keeping her alive, or a vine pierces right through his chest. He’s smiling at Flowey like Flowey hasn’t torn him and everyone he knows to dusty pieces over and over again just because he felt like it. Because he was curious. Because he wanted to.

“FLOWEY?” he says, “DID I LOSE YOU?”

“I’m listening,” Flowey lies. “You can keep talking.”

Papyrus’s grin fades ever so slightly, and he sets his hands flat on the table. He’s stopped wearing the oven mitts around all the time, as well as finally changed out of that costume Sans helped him make. He looks much smaller, all slim shoulders and bare hands. (Not that he’s a small guy, but the costume added a certain amount of gravitas that he now lacks.)

“WE’RE FRIENDS,” he says, and it’s so matter-of-fact that Flowey can’t really find it in him to counter it, “AND FRIENDS TELL EACH OTHER THE TRUTH. RIGHT?”

There is no direction this can go that Flowey will like. 

“That’s… right.”

“RIGHT,” Papyrus repeats. He fidgets with his hands a bit, and Flowey idly wonders if it hurts when he shifts the carpals out of place like that. Probably not, if he’s continuing to do it, but it’s not like Flowey is unfamiliar with self-destructive habits. “EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT BEING FRIENDS WITH PEOPLE SUGGESTS THAT IS THE CASE, HOWEVER… I HAVE NOTICED A STARTLING LACK OF TRUTH-TELLING IN MANY OF MY FRIENDSHIPS.”

The worst part about Papyrus is that even after all these resets, Flowey still can’t quite get a read on him. He’s cheerful, but not exceedingly saccharine. He’s hopeful, but not blindly optimistic. He’s intelligent, but not all that canny. He’s sincere, but not innocent . 

“FRISK IS MY DEAR FRIEND, HOWEVER I KNOW THERE ARE THINGS THEY DON’T LIKE TO TELL ME. IT TOOK UNDYNE A VERY LONG TIME TO ADMIT WHY SHE DIDN’T LET ME JOIN THE GUARD. EVEN SANS IS… DISHONEST, AT TIMES. AND I MUST ADMIT, I DO NOT APPRECIATE BEING LIED TO.”

“Well, gosh,” Flowey says, and curses himself as he does, because he really doesn’t mean to take the manipulative angle any chance he gets but despite how much Frisk tries to make him feel like he has a SOUL some people just can’t ever change, “sounds like they might not be very good friends, then.”

Papyrus shoots him a look that’s filled with enough vitriol to immediately shut him up. 

“WE WILL DISCUSS YOU LATER. RIGHT NOW, THIS IS ABOUT… WELL, THIS IS ABOUT ME.” He’s fidgeting again. At this point, Flowey isn’t sure what to expect from this conversation. (It’s kind of invigorating.) “IN FRIENDSHIPS, IT IS NOT GOOD TO EXPECT THINGS FROM YOUR FRIENDS THAT YOU YOURSELF ARE NOT WILLING TO OFFER. IT WOULD BE VERY RUDE OF ME TO DEMAND HONESTY WITHOUT BEING HONEST IN TURN.”

…Where is this going, actually?

On one not-hand, Flowey knows he shouldn’t assume anything about Papyrus. If he’s learned nothing else, it’s that the monster is and always will be wholly unpredictable. (That was the only reason he’d continued to bother with him no matter how many times he reset.) He knows Papyrus isn’t as innocent as people tend to think when first meeting him, nor is he an idiot. But on the other not-hand, he can’t imagine what secret Papyrus could’ve possibly been keeping that would have him so fraught. On that note, actually, what secret could he have been keeping?? With how many timelines they’d gone through together, Flowey had sort of thought he’d learned everything there was to know about everyone, including Papyrus. The guy was really an open book when it came down to it. 

And yet here he was, fidgety and nervous and going on about honesty. If he was just about to confront Flowey for all of his lying, he wouldn’t have been so anxious, right? He never had much of a problem standing up for himself before. While he might have been gentler with people he considered his friends, he was never fearful about it. At least, not openly. So if he was going to confront Flowey--

…Actually.

Did Flowey lie to him at all in this timeline?

He’d had Papyrus bring everyone to the barrier, yes, but all he’d said was that it was important that everyone be there. That Frisk was in trouble. And neither of those things were false. Sure, he’d told a handful of white lies here and there like he always did, but nothing that was really deserving of any kind of encounter.

It’s like there’s a piece missing from those puzzles Papyrus was so fond of. Something Flowey isn’t getting.

“I KNOW YOU’RE NOT EXACTLY ONE FOR FEELING REMORSE ABOUT YOUR ACTIONS, AND THAT IS PARTIALLY WHY I WANT TO TELL YOU FIRST. I KNOW WHAT SANS WILL SAY, AND FRISK… THEY HAVE ENOUGH ON THEIR PLATE. OUT OF EVERYONE, I THINK YOU DESERVE TO HEAR IT THE MOST.” He looks at Flowey, then, grin turned down and dark sockets all grim seriousness. “FLOWEY. I REMEMBER.”

Flowey’s own perpetual smile doesn’t waver. It doesn’t. “What? Sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

“PLEASE DON’T TREAT ME LIKE I’M STUPID. I’VE HAD QUITE ENOUGH OF THAT ALREADY.”

So, here’s the thing.

Papyrus isn’t stupid. He’s smart-- wickedly so, in fact, a tactician with a clever mind to match. He’s shown Flowey some of his puzzle books before, and Flowey couldn’t make heads or tails of the jargon he was looking at. And Flowey’s smart, too, even if more of his intelligence is simply born of experience as opposed to a learned genius like Papyrus. Or a born one. 

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he still doesn’t really know where Papyrus came from. Him or his brother. Over all their time knowing each other, that was one of the things he’d never actually gotten an answer about. 

Part of Flowey almost wishes he’d kept track of the resets over the years. How much time had actually passed if you put them all together. He could gauge roughly how long each one lasted, if only because he knew when Frisk fell and he lost the ability to reset after that, so none of them could’ve lasted any longer than three years. But that wasn’t all that helpful when he’s long since lost count of just how many times he’d reset. Thousands. Perhaps more. How many cumulative years had gone by with every tug of the timeline’s strings?

In nearly every single instance, he’d spoken to Papyrus in some capacity. Made friends with him. Given him pointers, advice, encouragement, predictions, whatever. He knew him better than almost anyone. Flowey knew his motivations, his ideals, his hobbies, even knew his favorite food, for God’s sake. (It was that stupid oatmeal with the little dinosaur shaped candies in it, for the record.) Over the course of all his resets (and all of Frisk’s), Flowey had known Papyrus for what likely amounted to centuries. And Papyrus had managed to keep some secrets all that time. 

He had to be impressed.

And a little unnerved, actually. 

Because if Papyrus had managed to keep a secret about something as simple as where he came from--

…Then what else had he been hiding?

“Maybe I’m a little stupid, then,” Flowey says with a wink, sticking his tongue out like he isn’t tearing his memories to shreds trying to remember every little thing he doesn’t know about Papyrus. “Mind explaining what you mean, buddy?”

Papyrus is still staring him down with his approximation of a scowl, and Flowey shrinks back into his pot a little bit. It’s not an expression he’s used to seeing on that face. 

“WE CAN KEEP GOING IN CIRCLES LIKE THIS, OR WE CAN JUST GET RIGHT TO THE POINT,” he says, and for a split second Flowey heard “let’s just get to the point” in his brother’s voice and he has to stop himself from flinching again. “I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. ASRIEL.”

And Flowey. 

Well, he’s pretty sure he blacks out for a second, or something like it, because when he next opens his eyes (not having realized he closed them), there’s gentle hands lightly cradling his petals and Papyrus is leaning over him with a fearful expression. 

“ARE YOU OKAY?? OH, GOODNESS, I’M SO SORRY. I NEVER MEANT TO-- OH, DEAR.”

“You,” he says, and his expression twists into something fanged and hostile without his say-so, “where did you hear that?” 

Papyrus frowns. “YOU TOLD ME.”

He did, which is the worst part of it. Flowey told him. Over all the resets, he had told Papyrus the truth of his former identity in one. One reset out of countless. He’d been so desperate for some kind of new reaction from someone and hadn’t quite realized the “murder” thing was a viable option yet, so he’d decided to just say “screw it” and admit who he was. Papyrus had been surprised, naturally, but he’d taken it in stride. Which was almost worse than freaking out about it. Flowey hadn’t tried that again.

But if he’s saying it now.

He remembers.

It’s probably a good thing Flowey can’t get sick, because he very much feels like he wants to right now. 

“How long?”

“THE WHOLE TIME,” Papyrus says, and Flowey curls in on himself a little further. Away from that disgustingly comforting hold Papyrus has around him. “I TRIED KEEPING TRACK FOR A LITTLE WHILE, BUT IT GOT TIRING HAVING TO FILL OUT MY NOTEBOOKS AGAIN EVERY TIME. FORTUNATELY, I HAPPEN TO HAVE AN EXCELLENT MEMORY! PICTURE PERFECT!”

And if he remembers, that means--

Oh, God.

“Why?”

“I’M NOT ENTIRELY SURE! AS FAR AS I KNOW, I’M THE ONLY ONE. WELL, I KNOW SANS IS AT LEAST SOMEWHAT AWARE, BUT I’VE TRIED ASKING-- IN A SUBTLE SORT OF WAY BECAUSE YOU KNOW AS WELL AS I DO THAT HE TENDS TO FREAK OUT KIND OF EASILY-- AND HE ONLY HAS A VAGUE RECOLLECTION OF THINGS. HE MOSTLY KNOWS BECAUSE OF THAT MACHINE OF HIS. SO IT’S NOT BECAUSE OF OUR MAGIC AT LEAST!”

That wasn’t really what Flowey was asking, but he supposes that’s on him for failing to clarify. (And good to know, in any case.) “And why-- why me? Why are you… why were you ever nice to me? If you knew?”

The only reason he’d been able to get away with so much in his resets is because no one knew about them, no one remembered them, so no one would notice if he acted differently across them. But Papyrus knew. The whole time. And he never said a word, never changed his behavior, just kept living and living and living--

Until he didn’t, because Flowey was there. And he…

“BECAUSE YOU SEEMED LIKE YOU NEEDED A FRIEND!” Papyrus carefully bumps one finger under Flowey’s head to make him look up. His expression is… sad. “YOU WERE VERY NICE AT FIRST, BUT YOU SEEMED A LITTLE… LOST. LONELY. EVEN WHEN YOU STARTED HURTING PEOPLE, I… WELL. I KNOW IT WAS-- IT WAS BAD OF YOU, YES. BUT IT NEVER… LASTED. YOU KILLED EVERYONE. AND THEN THEY WERE ALL BACK. AND I FIGURED, THEN, YOU DIDN'T REALLY WANT EVERYONE DEAD. IT WASN’T BECAUSE YOU HATED THEM, OR BECAUSE YOU WERE A BAD PERSON. YOU JUST NEEDED… SOMETHING NEW. AND I-- I’M DIFFERENT. THAN MOST PEOPLE. I CAN DO THE SAME THING EVERY DAY AND ENJOY IT. BUT MOST PEOPLE CAN’T, AND… AND I THINK EVENTUALLY, ANYONE WOULD’VE DONE WHAT YOU DID, IF THEY WERE STUCK FOR THAT LONG.”

“AND,” he continues, like he isn’t shattering Flowey’s world view with every word he says, “I THINK EVERYONE CAN BE A GREAT PERSON IF THEY TRY. BUT IF SANS HAS TAUGHT ME NOTHING ELSE, SOMETIMES IT CAN BE VERY HARD TO TRY IN THE FIRST PLACE. AND I’M NOT GOING TO PRETEND TO KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU, EVEN IF I DO KNOW A GREAT DEAL SINCE WE’RE VERY GOOD FRIENDS, BUT I THINK YOU AND MY BROTHER HAVE A LOT MORE IN COMMON THAN YOU LIKE TO PRETEND. YOU SMILE IN A VERY SIMILAR WAY.”

If he wasn’t already in metaphorical pieces from all of this, Flowey might try to deny any similarities between them. As it stands, though, he can barely bring himself to stay upright. No SOUL means no emotions, but that isn’t stopping him from being on the verge of tears. 

“YOU HURT A LOT OF PEOPLE. BUT, AS ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO WAS HURT, I THINK IT’S WELL WITHIN MY RIGHTS TO SAY THIS; I FORGIVE YOU!”

Screw “on the verge,” he is crying. He didn’t even know he could still cry as a flower. 

“OH NO!! I’M SORRY!! I DIDN’T MEAN--”

“Shut up,” Flowey says, sniffling. “Don’t be an idiot.” 

“HEY, NOW, THAT’S NOT-- OH, WAIT! I KNOW! THIS IS DEFLECTION, ISN’T IT? IT’S OKAY!!” He feels himself moving, and it takes him several moments and the strange, staticy feeling of a nearby SOUL for him to realize that Papyrus is hugging him. The best he can in his potted form, anyway. “YOU CAN INSULT ME ALL YOU’D LIKE IF IT MAKES YOU FEEL BETTER! THE GREAT PAPYRUS HAS THICK SKIN! WELL, ACTUALLY, I HAVE NO SKIN. BUT METAPHORICALLY MY SKIN IS VERY THICK!”

Flowey laughs despite himself, though he’s still crying, so the sound is kind of wobbly. “Y’know, I don’t have skin either. Pretty sure my metaphorical skin is pretty flimsy, though.”

“PERHAPS WE CAN MAKE A CLUB! ONLY FOR PEOPLE WITHOUT SKIN!” He’s glossing right over the part where Flowey insulted himself, and Flowey has to be glad for it. 

There’s the click of a door latch, and Flowey freezes. He’s done pretty well at keeping up an aloof image so far. If someone catches him letting Papyrus cuddle him like a teddy bear, it’s all over. “SORRY FRISK! WE’RE GOOD FRIENDS, BUT I’M AFRAID YOU HAVE SKIN AND THUS CANNOT BE PART OF OUR SUPER COOL CLUB.”

Oh. Well. That’s okay. They already know he’s a big crybaby. 

He looks over at them. They’re frozen in the doorway, looking between him and Papyrus with a confused look that’s slowly turning to joy the longer they stand there.

Flowey feels himself blush. Just because they already know he’s emotionally unstable doesn’t mean they need to look so happy about him engaged in what’s clearly an emotional moment. And he’s not even complaining about it. “Well, don’t just stand there. Either get in here or go away. And close the door!! We’re having a private conversation.” 

They get in there. And then they close the door behind them, thankfully. They trot over to where Papyrus is seated, and he quickly shuffles Flowey into one arm so he can help them up to perch on his opposite leg. 

“Important conversation?” Frisk signs, expression screwing up in curiosity, and Flowey rolls his eyes.

“Important as in none of your beeswax, buddy.”

“FLOWEY…”

“What??”

“HONESTY.”

He scowls. Papyrus has a point, unfortunately. 

“LOOK, I’LL EVEN START!” He places his free hand, the one not curled tight around Flowey’s pot, on his chest. “FRISK, IN THE INTEREST OF CREATING A FRIENDSHIP THAT IS NOT BASED ON LIES, I WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU SOMETHING. FIRST, I WOULD LIKE TO SAY THAT NO MATTER WHAT, I AM YOUR FRIEND AND WILL CONTINUE TO BE SUCH. I WHOLEHEARTEDLY BELIEVE YOU ARE A GOOD PERSON AND NOTHING CAN CHANGE THAT FACT.”

Frisk sends Flowey a concerned look. He just waves a leaf in their general direction. He’s pretty sure this is a “just rip the bandage off” situation. 

“SO! WITH THAT OUT OF THE WAY! FRISK, I REMEMBER ALL THE VARIOUS TIMES YOU WENT THROUGH THE UNDERGROUND. PLEASE DO NOT BE ALARMED!” he adds, quickly, probably because he can see the way Frisk’s concern is quickly turning into mute horror. The way their eyes are welling up with tears. Flowey feels for them. “I DON’T HOLD ANY OF YOUR PAST ACTIONS AGAINST YOU! I PROMISE.” 

A dozen sorries turn into Frisk clutching at their shirt as they sob into Papyrus’s chest. He wraps both arms around them, which has the inadvertent (or, knowing Papyrus, completely intentional) result of tucking Flowey up close against their side. They reach out to grab him, and he just rolls his eyes as he lets himself exchange hands. Might as well go all in on the sappiness. He’s already here, anyway. And if there’s anyone he trusts to not use this against him later, it’s the two people who are actually present.

Well. Frisk might use it against him, but they’d only do so if they knew there was no one else nearby to hear about it. 

“IT’S ALRIGHT,” Papyrus says, holding them both close. “I’M HERE. AND IT’S ALL OKAY.”

And, well. That’s sort of that. 

It’s hard to argue in the face of such… rampant positivity. Frisk is smiling. Flowey is too.  

He still doesn’t think everything can be resolved just by being nice. But if it meant getting to be here? Where everyone he knows (and he can’t say he loves them, he can’t, because he doesn’t have a SOUL so he can’t feel love but Damn it all if there isn’t something warm in wherever his chest would approximately be that sort of feels like it) is safe and happy?

He’s pretty sure he’d do it all again.