So my friend decided to start spamming me with images from a comic based on Overgrowth this Saturday, which then prompted me to throw my phone in emotional agony before looking up the AU to learn more about it and read the fanfic behind the comic. In summary, I have fallen in love with this AU, but it has broken my soul, so of course, I had to write at least one thing for it.

I don't know how much good this is, really, and it certainly didn't turn out as planned since there was /supposed to be/ some resolution, but...eh. Hopefully it's alright. Hope you all enjoy.

Credit for the Flowerfell AU goes to .com. You should check them out. :D

Rated for: Body horror, coarse language, mature themes, violence.

(For anyone not familiar with the AU, it's basically Underfell, except every time Frisk dies, a flower grows on their body and it slowly kills them. It's pain. Enjoy. :D )

He's always thought that flowers are pointless.

That's part of why he lived in Snowdin, when everyone was stuck Underground. Flowers couldn't grow in blizzards, in constant drifts of snow, in the freezing cold temperatures that forced all the residents of that godforsaken little town to either bundle up or wait to die from exposure. Of course, he also lived there because it was logical. Because it was strategic, because it made capturing the humans passing through easy, because it was what Papyrus wanted and he knew better than to try and deny his brother anything. Papyrus had ambitions, and he was just like any other monster: he fought for what he wanted.

Maybe a little too hard, sometimes. Sans remembers times before he learned to stop caring, times when Papyrus came back from a fight having run instead won, his bones full of cracks and his eyes spitting anger as he gritted his teeth and tried to heal himself, threatening to dust Sans if he came close. Useless excuse for a monster, he'd growled, you would have made a better decoration than a fighter. Lazy creature, waiting for me to succeed to live off my accomplishments. When I'm Head of the Guard, when I'm King Asgore's confidant, you will not survive off me.

It was a miracle Papyrus hadn't dusted himself, the way he went picking fights with anything that looked at him the wrong way and anything that could get him further up the food chain. Then again, he'd always had a skill for being creative in how he won, and he never let anybody live long enough to escape.

Sans shakes his head to clear the thoughts from his head; he's not here because of Papyrus. He's here because he's been asked by the King to come to the memorial ceremony to speak in honor of Frisk's memory, since apparently they'd been right in assuming that the only thing they needed to do to make the monsters all care about what happened to them was to get to the end and die for their sake, though any deity who cared enough to monitor what was going on knew well that none of the monsters deserved it.

Still, he agrees to the King's request, not because it is the King who makes it (he couldn't give less of a fuck about that if he tried; he's brought Asgore to his knees before, and he'd do it again if the old goat tried to force him into anything after what the monsters had done to Frisk) but because he knows it's what's right. Because it's what they would want. Because Frisk would tell him to go, and none of the other monsters knew shit about them and now none of them ever would, and they deserved to be remembered as something other than the martyr everyone made them out to be.

He comes here to the ceremony because it's the right thing to do, but he stays because he's pissed. He doesn't know who is responsible for the yellow flowers everyone has woven into their hair and grasped in their hands and pinned to their clothing, but if he ever finds out, he thinks he'll probably dust them. These flowers aren't badges of honor, they're tokens of death. Every flower that grew on Frisk's body had been the sign of a life they'd lost trying to spare someone who had never and would never deserve their mercy. They are not tokens of honor. They are not things of beauty.

He doesn't even notice that his fists are clenched until he hisses sharply in pain as he notices that he's leaving gouges in his bones from digging his claws into them. The royal scientist passes by him and casts him a strange look before shaking her head, rolling her eyes and proceeding onward, the flower in the pocket of her lab coat bobbing happily as she walks, hand in hand with Undyne, whose flower is shoved in her hair with the haphazard carelessness that indicates that she's here for little more than ceremony.

Sans suspects they all are. All the monsters here came not to remember Frisk, but because King Asgore said they should and so here they are, hands full of flowers and hearts full of apathy, none of them caring for the human child they're supposed to be mourning, few of them regretting what they'd done at all.

He comes here to speak in Frisk's memory, do them one last favor, but when he sees all these flowers, he can't. Maybe it's wrong, maybe it means that despite everything he didn't really change at all, maybe it means that wherever they are now, they're ashamed of him. He doesn't really give a fuck at this point and he's not about to pretend he does.

He'd held Frisk's body in his arms and their soul in his hands as they'd breathed shallowly, smelling of summer and rot until eventually, they breathed no more. If these people want to hear stories of Frisk, then they'll have to face him alone. The whole guilty assembly has already taken their life. He won't let them take their memory too.

Once, when they're resting after they've died trying to escape Undyne, a dozen resets after the flowers have claimed Frisk's eyes, Sans sees them sigh. Their hand, thin and covered in gold, floats up to their face to touch the deadly petals, and he feels sick when he watches the yellows blend together as if their hand is molded to where their eyes once were.

An uncharacteristic frown flickers across their face. Sans notices. "What is it, sweetheart?" he asks. "Something wrong?" It's a stupid question, and he knows it, but he doesn't really care. If anyone will answer a stupid question without protest, it's this kid.

Frisk shakes their head. "It's nothing," they say softly, and the hand falls away from the flowers across their eyes, landing in their lap. The petals bend under the weight of their fingers, of their palm. Sans wonders if they feel it.

He raises an eyebrow that he knows they won't see. "Just felt like checking if the weeds were still there?" he asks, and ignores the glare Flowey sends his way from where he sits in a boot between Frisk and himself. It's impressive how enraged this little plant can look. He thinks it's almost amusing.

Frisk shakes their head, and their smile is sad. "No," they say, "I know they are." They extend a hand in front of them like they're testing to see how many fingers they're holding up though there's no way for them to know. "I feel them there."

Sans nods a bit, the answer easily expected. "Then what's up? Trying to rearrange?"

"They can't rearrange the flowers, idiot," Flowey scoffs from his pot, rolling his eyes and glaring again.

Sans shrugs. "They can give it a shot," he points out. He looks at Frisk, gives a pointy-toothed smirk. "A-plus on that, by the way. They look great, sweetheart."

Flowey's glaring. Frisk frowns. "Stop," they say quietly, "I know that isn't true." Their hand lifts up briefly, then falls again. "I wasn't trying to rearrange them."

Flowey jumps in his pot, trying to edge closer to Frisk. Sans isn't sure if he should snicker at the sight or if it should make him sad, so instead he sighs softly as he pushes the boot Flowey's stuck a few inches toward Frisk, handwaving away the brief gratitude that flashes in the flower's eyes. Flowey leans his head against Frisk's leg, and their hand instantly goes to reach carefully toward his face. "What were you doing then?" he asks gently.

Frisk sighs, the quiet exhalation making a few of the flower petals flutter. "It's..." Their voice trails off, and they shake their head. "Never mind." They smile then, forcing their lips into a curve that looks very blatantly fake, though Sans can't bring himself to call them out on it. They push themselves to their feet and hold a hand down to Sans, or try to. "Are you ready to try again?"

Their hand is about seven inches too far to the left, but he adjusts himself smoothly and accepts their offer as much as he can without pulling them over. Flowey extends vines up from his boot to hoist himself to Sans's shoulder, and as the plant settles in, Sans looks at Frisk, silently fighting the urge to ask what's eating them before finally, he smiles too, even though they can't see it. He squeezes their flower-covered hand and wonders if they know he did. "Sure thing, sweetheart," he says.

Flowers grow well in the forest where the monsters create their town, he learns.

They settle down in Ebott, few monsters willing to interact just yet with humans, many of them still remembering all that humans have done in the past while conveniently discounting all that monsters have done themselves. Papyrus and Sans don't live together anymore, and they don't talk much either, which suits Sans just fine. He thinks there might have been a time once where he didn't hate his brother and his brother didn't hate him, but if that time ever was real, it isn't anymore. He cares enough to listen when Papyrus's name comes up in conversation, but he never asks about him specifically, and he doesn't know if that means he still loves his brother in some way or if he couldn't give a shit less, and he knows it doesn't matter.

(At one point after they escape, he doesn't know how long, he hears that his brother wound up shacking up with that killer robot from the Hotlands that cost them so many resets. He snorts when he hears the news. They're perfect for each other.)

Sans himself lives in a little house that he refuses to call a cottage, positioned far away from the others in an attempt to avoid letting there be any neighbors readily available when the memory of Frisk's soul in his hands and their body in his arms wakes him up and makes him want to rip every single monster in that goddamn town to pieces until they feel sorry for what they've done. Flowey comes with him, and he accepts the flower's presence because really, he's the only other one who comprehends the extent of the tragedy. Sometimes they rib each other and sometimes they reminisce and sometimes they don't talk at all because there's nothing to say, but it's fine whenever, really. As loath as he is to admit it, he appreciates the company, especially when it turns out that Flowey isn't fond of other plants encroaching on his turf and nods agreement when Sans mentions that he hates the flowers that he can see from the window.

They make a day out of ripping up every single plant that isn't grass, tearing it from the ground and stacking it into a pile. The blossoms blend together, their colours brushing against each other and clashing, and sometimes the wind rips petals off and sends them sparking along in the breeze, but neither Sans nor Flowey pay any attention to the sight. Instead, they work in silence, and by the end of the day, the pile is nearly as tall as Sans is and spans out in a gentle slope over a pretty large portion of the lawn near the doorstep, a humble and bright mountain of wildflowers.

Sans raises his hand to summon a blaster, and he vaporises all of them at once. Flowey doesn't stop him.

When they settle down after escaping Undyne's barrage of spears again (he doesn't know how many times they've been through this cycle, but it has to be at least a dozen), everyone is winded. Flowey's petals are drooping, and one of his leaves seems a little torn up, and Sans can feel exhaustion surging through him alongside the unnecessary breaths that whistle out through his ribcage. Frisk's coughing a bit, choking on air, and they're bleeding from some unspecified wound that makes the golden flowers on their hands look like they're rusting.

After a quick glance at the flower to check on him, Sans turns his attention to Frisk, shifting closer to their side and grabbing their uninjured hand to indicate his presence. "Hey, sweetheart," he greets between breaths, "you doing alright?"

Frisk nods, smiles. He can still hear them breathing heavily. "Yeah," they say, and they cough quietly for a moment. "Yeah, I'm alright. Are you?"

Sans shrugs, though he knows they can't see it. "Nothing lethal," he assures them.

Well aware of how easy it is for an injury to be lethal for Sans, Frisk obviously take his assessment of the situation as a comfort, smiling in relief and slumping a bit. "Good," they breathe, and even their words sound lighter. "Flowey?"

The plant perks up at the sound if his name, looking toward Frisk with concern. "Right here," he reports, and he tries to hop a bit in his boot again before Sans has mercy and moves the makeshift pot nearer Frisk's leg himself. Flowey nudges Frisk lightly, and they smile, brushing their fingertips along his face, leaving a trailing red stain in their wake. "You're bleeding, Frisk," he notes, looking at the smear with concern.

They withdraw their hand immediately. "Sorry," they murmur, "I didn't notice. I didn't get it on you, did I?"

Sans feels something twist uncomfortably in his chest at the comment and he wants to make a remark on the kid's priorities, but he doesn't. Instead, he looks to Flowey, and their eyes meet for a second with an impressive sorrow written heavy in both of their faces. Sans is glad when he manages to keep the pain out of his voice, and he smiles as he squeezes Frisk's hand. "Nah, sweetheart, you're fine," he says. "Why don't you let me see that hand?"

Nobody ever comes to visit Sans in the woods, and that suits him just fine, which is exactly why he's actually almost annoyed when he returns from a walk up the mountain to see someone standing outside his house. It's a woman in a dark dress, with long claws and a certain fierceness to her stance, and the sight of Flowey hiding behind the house and watching her confirms to him even before he sees her face that this is the Queen.

He doesn't care. "Hey," he calls as he approaches from behind, "you lose something here?"

The woman turns around. Sure enough, she's a dead ringer for the woman who once ran away from the crown to go bury herself in grief amidst the ruins of a building as destroyed as she was, and her eyes flash with gold and red. When she speaks, he can see that her mouth is full of fangs. "Are you the skeleton who lives here?"

Sans stops, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "I have a name, old lady. It's Sans. Don't you know how to greet a new pal?" It's the same words he used the first time he killed the kid, the first time he planted flowers in their blood. He wonders what words she used the first time, then decides he doesn't want to know.

She's non-plussed by his bluntness. "You are the one who ran the sentry station outside the ruins, then, are you not?"

Sans shrugs. "Didn't see anyone else taking up the job, sunshine."

He's surprised when he sees that she seems relieved by the indirect confirmation. "Then it is you," she says, and steps forward. He instantly takes a step back and raises a hand as if to ward her off. She holds where she stands, looking at him with gratitude in her eyes, stopping him cold. "You are the one who helped them through the underground."

There's something in the words, something that rings of thankfulness and kindness that rubs him just the wrong way. He clenches his fist. "Kid helped themselves," he says bluntly, and moves forward again toward his house to escape into it. "I just came along for the hell of it."

"But you were there," she says. "Throughout their journey, you were there." He brushes her out of the way as he approaches the door, moves to unlock it. "You were there even at the end."

He freezes, his hand on the door handle. Again, he feels their body in his arms, and he can almost taste the stench of summer and rot like it's a lingering perfume. "Yeah?" he grunts, not looking back to her, keeping his eyes locked on the door. "What about it?"

She's silent so long that he wonders if she left, but eventually she speaks. He thinks he hears tears in her voice, but he's not sure. Whatever is lodged in her vocal cords sounds like it hurts though. It sounds sad. "Were they in pain?"

He wants to scream, wants to kick the queen and pelt her with bones and throw her against a tree with magic again and again and again for asking such a stupid question. He wants to get in her face and ask what she thinks, wants to tell her what those flowers meant and ask how many of them she planted, that the kid had been half-blind or approaching it by the time he planted his first, but she's the first person who's asked about what Frisk felt, so he doesn't do any of those things he wants to do and instead listens to the memory of Frisk speaking to him in the bar, telling him that just because they could be rude didn't mean they had to be, that kindness was always the best method. "Yeah," he says when he finally remembers how to speak, and he's surprised at how torn up his voice sounds. "They were in a lot of pain. It still didn't change them."

The silence returns. Neither party knows what to say, and after a while, Sans stops caring. He goes into his house and locks the door and leaves the queen standing out there alone.

When they settle down in a pleasantly chilled underground labratory, Frisk is wearing Sans's coat and it takes everything he has to not just collapse into the floor beside them and not move for a few weeks. This whole giving-a-shit thing is exhausting, and he's not sure how much more of it can take. Between the stress of little sleep, repeated death, and the golden corruption spreading across Frisk, he's pretty sure that if he wasn't crazy before, he might be now.

Frisk snuggles deeper into his coat before accepting Flowey from Sans and hugging the boot close to themselves. As he sits next to them, he casts them a quiet look of concern and sees Flowey do the same. For as bad as he feels, they look worse, but they never breathe a word of complaint.

Damn kid.

The lighting is dim at best as they lay their head against his shoulder, and he watches them lift a hand to brush their fingers across their face again, petals fluttering under their touch. They've been doing it a lot lately, but any time he asks why, they shrug off the question and change the subject. He trusts their judgment and tells himself he doesn't need to be concerned, but after the seventh subject change, he's starting to wonder.

It never gets him far, but he decides to ask anyway. "Everything okay, sweetheart?"

Like clockwork, their hand falls away. A smile flickers onto their face, a fake one. "Yeah," they say, like they always do. "I'm fine."

With the flowers growing out of their face, he finds that very hard to believe. "You keep doing that," he notes quietly. "Touching the flowers." He pauses. "Do they hurt?"

Frisk freezes for a moment. Their smile falters. They try to replace it with limited success before finally giving it up with a sigh. "A little. Sometimes." A pause. "It's fine."

Flowey curls into Frisk's hand where it rests on the edge of his pot. "Is that why you keep touching them?"

Frisk shake their head. "No, I just-" They bite their lip. "I don't like the way they feel, is all. They don't...they don't feel nice."

Sans frowns, wondering if there's some other flower they'd prefer to be slowly killing them, but he doesn't ask. Instead, he shifts a bit from where he's sitting, lifting up a hand to brush their hair away from the petals, and he doesn't try to tell them the flowers look fine because he knows they won't believe him. "Is there another kind that feels better?"

He doesn't know why he's surprised by them genuinely considering the question, but somehow, he's still caught off guard when Frisk frowns contemplatively. Eventually, they nod, reaching a decision. "I think...I think morning glories would be nice."

Sans raises a skeletal eyebrow, but it's Flowey who voices his thoughts. "I don't think we have those in the underground. What are they like?"

Frisk smiles again, a real one this time. "They're good. They're really good." They shift contentedly as they search for words, then finally find what they're looking for. "They're really soft, and they always feel a little wet, and when you try to smell them, they pull up and stick to your nose. The colours are really pretty too, all these purples and blues and pinks..." Their voice trails off. "They're my favourite."

Flowey looks a bit sad at the wistful note that slips into Frisk's voice at the mention of colours that they'll undoubtedly never see again, and silence threatens to settle in again. Sans stops it before it can, quietly petting Frisk's head in a soothing motion. "They sound great," he concedes, "a lot better than echo-flowers." What he'd give for flowers that weren't exclusively blue, for flowers that knew how to shut up and didn't whisper back violent whispers like lullabies until the words faded to obscurity.

Frisk nestles closer into his side. "When we get to the surface, I'll find some for you, Sans. Promise."

When we get to the surface, Sans thinks. 'When' is an optimistic concept. With all that's against them, 'if' seems far more likely, and even then, the possibility of there being a 'we' is next to none. Still, he doesn't speak those thoughts, instead smiling because he knows that Frisk mentioned once that they could hear when he was smiling and when he wasn't by the tone of his voice. "That sounds good, sweetheart," he says instead. "I'll look forward to it."

A few weeks after that first visit from the queen, Sans finds a different visitor at his doorstep when he returns from his trek up the mountain to sit near Frisk's grave and crack awful puns and miss the feeling of their hand in his. Papyrus is looking well despite the abrupt drop in violence following the barrier's fall, or maybe because of it, and when Sans sees him, he immediately stiffens, not really in the mood to talk to his brother. Papyrus never tends to say anything Sans feels like hearing, and he hasn't for a long time.

Sure enough, the first words out of Papyrus's mouth are a reprimand. "At last," he mutters, "I've been waiting here forever, brother. What on earth distracted you so long?"

Sans shoves his hands in the pockets of his jackets. Like hell if he'll tell the truth. "Had things to do," he answers vaguely, eyes locked on Papyrus's face.

His brother laughs disbelievingly. "I wasn't aware that you did things, Sans, at least not things that don't involve high treason."

Sans shrugs. "My high treason worked out alright, I'd say." He gestures to the world around him, then lets his hand fall. "We've barely cracked the surface of the things we can do now."

Papyrus scowls at the pun. "Letting me kill the human would have been just as effective, if you ask me," he says, and Sans feels his non-existent blood start to boil, "but that's not why I'm here. Too late to change that."

Sans raises a skeletal eyebrow. "Then why are you here? Didn't peg you as the type to be into random visits on Sunday afternoons. Don't you have something to do with that robot of yours?"

"It was his idea that I come here," Papyrus explains with a sort of haughtiness in his tone that scrapes along every one of Sans's last nerves. "He said I should attempt to speak with you and smooth things over, so to speak."

Sans snorts. "And why would you need to do that?"

"Because you're a recluse, Sans." The words are spat out like poison, and they drip of annoyance. "You've barely been into the town since we arrived on the surface, despite the reopening of that wretched restaurant you like so much, and everyone has noticed. How long do you intend to seclude yourself in this exile?"

"Anyone feeling bad yet about what they did?" Sans asks. He looks Papyrus dead in the eyes. "Are you feeling bad?"

Papyrus looks almost offended. "Why would I waste time feeling upset by something I can't change?"

It's answer enough. "I'll be staying out here a while longer then." He gives a smile that doesn't look even remotely happy. "Someone told me once that kindness was the answer, but I don't know that I'm ready for that."

A growl tears its way from Papyrus's throat. "So you intend to mope until you feel we should be forgiven?" He snorts. "That human was bound to die the moment they fell down. It's hardly our fault that they started growing things, and the fact that their death has made you about as effective as dust is pathetic-"

Sans doesn't even know he's mad until he sees Papyrus actually flinch, summoning bones in response to the red magic burning in Sans's eyesocket and the blasters looming threateningly behind his head. "Don't talk to me about pathetic," he hisses, and he can feel the rage coursing through his bones, almost making them shake with the intensity of the emotion. "They forgave all of us for a hell of a lot more than just hunting them, and in the end, what did we do for them? Throw some flowers in our hair and lie about how much they'd be missed?" His eyesocket burns brighter. "You never knew them. You never will."

The silence hangs for a moment, a tense pause where Papyrus is clearly biting back some remark or another, or maybe just fighting the urge to dust his useless brother. Wrong as it may be and unfair as it is to the memory of Frisk, there's a part of Sans that almost wants him to try, but after several seconds, he steps back, lets the blasters disappear. "Tell the town I don't need things smoothed over. I want to be left alone."

Papyrus sneers and Sans ignores him. When he closes the door to his home behind him, he slams it.

Frisk dies the same way they live: quietly, without much fuss.

Sans doesn't hear their last words, but he notices the moment the last breath leaves their body, even before he hears Flowey make some awful noise like he's choking. Frisk has always been a light kid, but very suddenly, they seem incredibly heavy in his arms, so horribly limp that it's incomprehensible. The soul floating outside their chest is bright red and pulsing, and it lingers for a few seconds before starting to flutter weakly, like some kind of dying bird.

For a moment, Sans stares at it. Watches it flutter. How many times has he seen this? How many times have they come back from this? He's lost count.

Frisk's soul flickers weakly.

They're not going to come back from this.

He all but lunges for the soul, feeling warmth surge through his bones when he closes his fingers around it. The echoes of Frisk's life seep into his chest like it's home, and he feels the shift as he absorbs their soul. Through all the sorrow surging through his own heart, something comforting rings out, something quiet and unassuming and undeniably Frisk.

He swallows back the lump in his throat and looks toward Flowey, nodding as he reaches for the next soul, absorbing them one by one. By the time he's done, his chest is full of feelings he doesn't remember and uncertain souls, but the one that stands out most is always the red one, pulsing determination and kindness, and he focuses on the feeling as he reaches out and tears the barrier down.

As soon as it falls, he feels the souls start to leave him again, and the thought sends a horrible, resigned sort of sorrow through him. Woodenly, he picks Frisk up, ignoring the shock on Asgore's face, the words he might be saying, holding tight to Frisk as he carries them up from this underground hell and into the first golden rays of sunlight breaking across the mountaintops.

Their soul is fluttering weakly in his chest, fading quickly. He holds their body closer to himself and pretends the wetness on his cheeks is rain. "You did it, sweetheart," he whispers. "You made it out."

The queen comes back a few times after that first meeting. She never brings anything but herself, and Sans puts up with her visits because of it. He's not entirely sure what it is she's looking for here or what she wants out of him, and he doesn't ask, content to keep conversations limited to ones that she starts. He has other things to concern himself with - pulling rogue flowers, debating with Flowey, fixing dents in the door from where he woke up and tried to blast it away two nights ago - and so he lets her watch over herself, figuring that she should be able to by this point.

Silence is the norm between them usually, but sometimes they talk. The queen will make a comment about some new development among the townspeople or share any announcements he's missed in his attempted self-exile, and he'll grunt out what passes as a response. She'll bring him news of Papyrus, which he acknowledges and files away but never comments on himself. Sometimes, she'll come and ask him questions, and sometimes they're easy ones but sometimes, days like today happen and he's forced to care about the conversation.

"There aren't any flowers here," the queen notes, looking around. "Nothing but grass."

"Yep," Sans acknowledges from where he's lying on the grass and staring at the sky, contemplating the clouds.

When he doesn't say anything else, the queen raises an eyebrow. "There are flowers nearly everywhere else. Do they not grow here?"

Sans shakes his head. "They grow just fine here, sunshine. I just kill 'em." He shrugs at the look she gives him. "Not really a flowery kind of guy."

"Do they not remind you of Frisk?" The question has an unintended sort of impact that makes Sans almost flinch.

He shrugs again. "Not in a way I want to remember them." He shakes his head. "They died because of those damn things. Makes it hard for me to enjoy them."

The queen nods. "I too struggle with that knowledge, though they never told me of the condition which caused the flowers to grow." She frowns, and bitterness seeps into her voice. "Asgore used to garden well, when our children were alive. It is another strike against the practice for me."

He gives a small noise of understanding. It's the same reason he never wants to talk to Papyrus. It's never easy to look at something you once loved and feel yourself drown in hatred or worse, apathy. The thought itself aches, so he chases it off, only for it to be replaced by something worse, a thought that would almost be funny if it wasn't so damn sad. "I don't even know that they liked flowers," he mutters, and he laughs.

The queen seems to understand that it's not humour that drives him to this amusement. "I don't know either," she admits, and looks to him. "Did you like them once?"

He shakes his head. Smiles. "Not a chance."

"Would you like them now, if Frisk had not died from them?"

He pauses for a long time, then shakes his head. "Not those ones," he says, and he frowns. There's a long silence that he spends warring with himself, trying to decide if he feels like saying the next words before deciding that fuck it, he hasn't got anything to lose. "They were going to show me some flowers when we got up here, morning glories or something," he admits. His tone is soft but his voice is rough. "I might have liked those."

They bury Frisk within a few days of their death, as soon as all the monsters have cleared out for the surface and whatever it is they think they'll find there. Sans can't find closure if Frisk is just left somewhere to rot, but he has no idea where home is for them, where they should be buried, so when Flowey suggests the ruins, he doesn't have any reason to protest.

It's five days after the funeral when he realises that if he was looking for closure, he won't find it here. The only other person he's even seen so far who knew Frisk as anything other than the human is Flowey, and he's wrapped up in his own sorrows just as badly as Sans himself is. If grief shared is grief lessened, he never wants to know what it's like to endure this alone. He's pretty sure it might kill him to find out.

Flowey finds him once in Waterfall, resting beneath a sky full of rocks that he once pretended were stars, surrounded by echoflowers that scream the same way he did when he finally lost his temper and started ripping them out of the ground. His hands are stained luminescent blue from the glow of the rocks and the crushed stems of flowers, and when Flowey shows up, he looks at the shredded plants without a word before leaning against Sans. He stiffens for a moment at the contact, but he can't bring himself to pull away.

The quiet is heavy with the sound of echoflowers chattering. Sans has never heard anything so utterly repulsive in his life.

Flowey rests his head against Sans's leg. "I miss them too," he says

Sans nods, looking down at his luminescent hands. "I know," he whispers hoarsely. "I know."