A game of implications

The ceiling of his room stopped being interesting about half an hour ago. The deep, dull ache in his arm too.

After so many years, one would assume the flare ups would become easier to take care of. And in a way, they did. But they never got any less annoying or disruptive. Though, at the very least, the recovery time wasn't as long as before. Even if still unbearable.

Not being able to work in the middle of a project was especially grueling. He was incredibly close this time. A way to redirect residual steam from the CORE throughout Hotland, and taking advantage of it to power transport in the area was just out of reach. Of course, a way to avoid burning the users would be needed, but it was a sound plan. Some kind of heat protection could do the job. Probably.

The now-lukewarm hot compress on top of his stomach made his bones sink deeper into the bed, his right arm laying on top of it, still not faring much better than earlier.

He barely realized he drifted off.

It took until the second doorbell ring to jolt him awake. By the muffled conversation downstairs that followed right after, Sans must have answered it. He could indulge a few more minutes in bed, then.

...The other voice sounded awfully familiar, though.

That was all it took to remove any sort of sluggishness from his body, rushing to the stairs, barely remembering to put his slippers on the way down.

Reaching the first floor, his pace ground to a halt at what his eyes landed on.

Sans. Holding a bouquet.

From Asgore.

— Oh, you're awake. You just missed Asgore. — Sans barely looked back, eyes lazily tracking him. — He came by to give you this, smells nice.

— ...He did?

His eyes landed on the bouquet, still in Sans' hand. It was small, but full of different colors and textures, vivid blue jumping out of the bundle of greenery, and less saturated purple stalks surrounding it. He couldn't tell what all the flowers were at a glance, besides a lone cornflower, but the smell coming from it was unmistakable. Camomile.

— Yup, just gave me and ran off. Looked like he was in a hurry.

That was... unexpected, though not surprising. The beginning of the year was extremely busy in general, but especially in New Home, so it wasn't uncommon for him to not see or hear from Asgore for days, if not weeks at a time. But getting a bouquet delivered had never happened before, in the decades he's known the king.

— You really got yourself quite the romantic one, huh.

His head whipped up so fast his glasses nearly fell off.

— What?

— I think we're getting a stepdad, Paps. — Sans grin only got bigger, announcing it loud and clear to the rest of the house.

— REALLY?? — A scream came from the mezzanine, followed by quick steps on the stairs, as Papyrus hit nearly every creaky spot on his way down. — When?

— Eh, depends on when dad will stop chickening out and ask King Fluffybuns on a date.

— I'm not asking him out! — A hiss escaped between his teeth, soul thumping fast inside his ribcage.

— You're all purp-

— You know very well why this won't happen — Even if he stopped the inevitable change of topic, interrupting Sans still did not keep his face from growing warmer by the second.

Years ago, through a series of very poorly timed incidents, the two sniffed out what he truly felt for the king. Being preteens at the time, it was nothing short of a miracle that both promised and managed to keep it a secret for this long. Not just from Asgore, but from everyone else. As far as he knew.

And hoped.

It was safer this way. Asgore did not seem interested in romance anymore, he knew that much. Troubling him with something so trivial and clearly set up for disappointment was foolish, and risking the stability of their relationship was not worth it.

Asgore was his best friend. Just the company was already more than enough. Through the years, the feelings didn't exactly...fade, but became more manageable, easier to ignore. Spending more time with the king certainly helped with that, no doubt of it, even if it sparked a new life to those feelings more than a few times. The test done in the garden a few weeks ago was just the most recent incident.

Not that he could ever act on them, anyways. Or that it ever stopped his sons from teasing him about it at every opportunity.

— He did say you were a chicken. — Papyrus leaned over Sans' shoulder, taking a look at the bouquet, already surpassing his height, and threatening Gaster's own soon.

— Eh, think he's more of an egg. — Sans winked, bringing the bouquet closer to Papyrus.

Deep breaths. Don't stoop down to their level, be the bigger monster in the situation.

— First of all, I am not a chicken. Second of all, it's not that simple. Even if I were to "ask him out", which I won't, he doesn't feel the same. So it's pointless.

Both teens went quiet, Sans furrowing his brows as he looked at the bouquet.

— You don't know that, and he sent you this. There's a chance.

— I'm not the only one he sends bouquets to!

Asgore had been doing this for as far as Gaster could remember. From the early days of their friendship, he quickly learned that if the king cared about you in some way, you could expect many, many bouquets. But these last two were different. More varied and elaborate, but only because of the test, for the previous one, at least. Was this part of it as well?

...What was the test even for, though?

One idea crossed his mind, but it was too outlandish to consider. Didn't stop his soul from jumping inside his ribcage any less. Nor did it stop Sans' judgmental stare towards him.

— So I guess you don't want it?

— I didn't say that.

Closing the distance, he extended one hand to the bouquet, wordlessly asking for it. The wrapper landed softly in his palm, even if Sans' face didn't reflect that. That annoyingly well known judgemental stare was still plastered on, paired with one raised brow.

— Thank you.

Taking a better look at the flowers, the tension in his body softened up, even though the ache in the base of his wrist tried to steal his attention away from it.

The smell was even stronger now, the camomile overpowering most of the other scents, though a hint of mint still managed to come through. Small purple blossoms adorned the daisy-like flowers of the camomile, along the even tinier clovers, carefully arranged so to not be hidden by the rest of the foliage, though some were clearly crooked, from either the transport to Snowdin or Sans' somewhat careless handling.

Because of that, the mint was lost somewhere in the greenery, as did one side of the mistletoe, leaving it askew. Asgore agonized frequently about the symmetry of the bouquets, so there had definitely been an accident along the way. Not that it detracted much, if at all, from the humble beauty of the arrangement.

What did detract his attention was a lone cornflower in the middle of it all, almost...out of place, in a way.

... The idea of a second test began holding more and more water by the second.

There was a note attached to the small bow tying the bouquet together. One side simply said "Get well soon! - A. D.", in Asgore's simple, but charming handwriting. The other side had a small list of flowers. Mistletoe, camomile, mint, cornflower, clover and heather. Huh. Five out of six. He was improving at it, even if it was mostly with the ones that had more unique shapes. Or the smells, in this case.

— If it's not romantic, then why did he come all the way here just for a bouquet?

Papyrus' upper half now dangled from the back of the armchair, eyeing the flowers in distrust.

— Well, its a get well soon bouquet, and I wasn't at work, so it had to arrive here somehow.

It all seemed very simple in his mind, though experience taught him that it unfortunately wasn't always the case to other monsters. Something always seemed to be lost in translation, even with his children. And the questions collecting at the back of his mind shook up the certainty he once had on what the meaning behind could be.

He had to analyze it better. Remove the foolishly hopeful ideas that wouldn't go anywhere.

— I'll... get this in a proper vase.

He meet the top of the mezzanine faster than the way down a few minutes ago, soul starting to jump around inside his ribs. What was said downstairs was barely caught.

— Oh, okay. Bye again, I guess.

The floriography book was already out on the desk when he set the bouquet down, open in a random page about camellias. It wasn't noticeable before, but the heat coming from inside his sweater was nearly unbearable now. Easy to rile up, it seems. He could only hope it wasn't as obvious to other monsters.

Getting his mind focusing on something else would help. Hopefully.

Like setting the flowers in a proper vase. It was the same teal one from the test in the garden, as the other bouquet had already wilted weeks ago. A shame how they never seemed to last as long as they should, even with the right care. Green thumbs were not something he had anyways, though the cold from Snowdin and lack of proper light in the lab didn't do much to help, either.

Carefully undoing the cord tying the note to the flowers, he placed it near the book, already flipping the page to the nearest one.

Not careful enough, though, as the cornflower fell off the vase from the motion. It was a vibrant blue, brighter than most flowers in the arrangement, bringing attention to itself with barely any effort. Picking it up, he spun it gently, studying its form. A vague grassy scent wafted out of it, nearly unnoticeable, if not for its proximity to his nose.

What was its meaning?

It wasn't too far away from where he had stopped, only a few pages after camellia and camomile.

Cornflower: Hope in love.

... This couldn't be right. It couldn't. There must be a joint meaning, that's why it was there, not for the standalone one.

Soul thumping hard again, his fingers barely caught the paper, impatiently searching the other flowers that were listed.

Camomile, strength amidst adversities.

Clover, "good luck".

Heather, luck, protection.

Mistletoe, the overcoming of difficulties.

Mint, comfort...

... pair with cornflowers to tell a friend that you love them and worry about their well being.

Air escaped his lungs so fast, that it made him lightheaded.

Of course it wouldn't be that. Just...an oversight of how the meanings mingled. Not that it did stop him from wondering about it, about this "what if". Though his mind drew a blank on how things could be. These meanderings never went that far, and since they would never become real, what would be the reason to waste time imagining it? He'd never even been in a relationship before, how did they even work? It was an alien concept, and would stay like so for the rest of his life.

With how withdrawn he was, maybe he wasn't even cut out to be in one.

Legs still weak, he went from the desk to the bed, lying back where he'd been before his nap was interrupted. The cornflower was still in his hand, being twirled every so often, its vibrant blue nearly hypnotic.

"Hope in love"

Its meaning didn't leave his mind.

And the foolish ideas gripped at his heartstrings even tighter now.