Frisk has never been unappreciative of moments spent in silence. They quite prefer them, the times passed in comfort with no need to speak, no need to verbalize. It is in their sealed lips, and the contented slant of their shoulders, lilted down in clear sign of disused motions associated with speech.

Other children have never seemed to understand the sentiment. But Toriel — she understands. From the first moment she holds the child's hand, she understands; a voice is not necessary to convey a message.

Frisk's arms are warm across her back, hands tight at her sides. She can feel the tears against her fur. "Do not worry about me, little one," the monster says, knelt among the blossoms.

Her hands caress the smooth petals with great love, and then the top of the fallen child's head. They are buried here, she knows, her second child, her second hope.

"Someone has to take care of these flowers."


a/n welcome back to the trash ca n