Red, like the salvaged remnants of his parents' pride and joy unearthed like secret treasures from the dirt to be stolen away in the dead of night. Only in the darkness was he bold enough to peer out from under his haphazard haven where he had been left days before in a panicked frenzy near the garden his mother had painstakingly cultivated not one week earlier. He dug around in search of his next meal, as whoever had placed him in hiding clearly did not expect him to survive as long as he did, making a last gift of him the literal fruits of parents' labor, much like flowers on a grave, to ease his troubled conscience.

Tonight, he had been lucky enough to pluck a wayward tomato from its original vine, but his joy ebbed before he could ignore the dull throb in his chest. The fruit pulsated with life and he suddenly felt guilty. Like if he took it for himself, then the last piece of their vitality, this last reminder would be razed with the same ferocity that had destroyed everything his parents tried so hard to give him. Only, his defiance would salt the earth beneath him, dealing a blow to them that they could never take with their bodies.

He cradled the fruit tenderly, as though it were swollen with love itself, its flesh as sweet as the memories it contained. Assisting his mother in her work as she laughed, brighter than the sun itself, like she could grow the plants on her own if she so desired. His father would laugh too, but deeper, more contemplative; it was grounding. Like roots it burrowed into him and settled, fostering a particular fondness that fed and nurtured his soul. They would then chase him around the yard until they became a breathless heap on the grass, and despite the heat or the smell, he remained comfortably between them, close enough to forget the world beyond.

But it hadn't forgotten them.

He stared disdainfully as his stomach grumbled at his solitary finding. Sifting around some more, he made no new discoveries, so he once again turned his attention upon the food in his hands. Did he deserve to eat it? His mother had planted it, his father had watered it. Was it fair of him then, to take this opportunity that had not been offered his parents first? He wilted; all he did was take. He shouldn't take what wasn't his, his mother had always reminded him of that. But…in shielding him until the very end…there had been an unspoken permission relayed through their sacrifice. His stomach growled again, and this time, he did not argue, figuring it was as good as any command from his father.

Even so, he gingerly held it as he retreated back underneath the overturned trough to wait out the next day alone. Savoring it slowly, he supposed he had much to be thankful for. He was thankful for the food, he was thankful for his haven, for his parents and the love they cultivated with the same attention and care as their prized patch, for the stranger who had plucked him from his vine and hastily stored him for safekeeping, who despite everything handled him gently, red on his clothes dripping with the same viscosity as the red of the tomato that painted his chin at present.

Red, like the blood that snaked from his nose, past the mouth that had outgrown him, it seemed, if his brother had seen fit to retaliate in such a violent manner. He hadn't meant to instigate his wrath, though, he supposed at this point he really should have known better than to evoke a recollection of a time more mangled than his face. Nevertheless, he remained stunned enough to ignore the dull throb, staring into Roy's eyes helplessly until his own became clouded with tears.

"Shut UP! You don't know anything, you little-! You know you have no idea what you're even talking about-"

Footsteps interrupted him, attracted by Morton's echoed cry of distress. Roy was many things, of this he knew, but he tucked it all away behind his glasses and stormed off before anything else could spill out, leaving the chaos he invoked behind him.

He was foolish to think after two years he would be safe, too often he chose to ignore Roy's outbursts when another of his siblings inquired too much about his missing family. He was foolish to think he would be immune; in retrospect, the forbidden knowledge he and Roy alone bore between them should have made him feel more like a fugitive in his own mind. He knew he should run off and hide himself somewhere but he was just so tired and disoriented, he was foolish to think it was finally safe enough to rest here. He had been so close to peace, but Roy just looked so utterly hopeless standing off alone as he was increasingly prone to.

He had been foolish to think Roy's family had probably met the same fate as his own, and even more so to voice his thoughts despite himself but he knew he spoke the truth. The same fearful admission that tumbled out of Roy's mouth amidst many prayers and assurances he'd assumed Morton too delirious to understand only the first week they had been together, when he collapsed to his knees there in that forest when Morton could no longer stand. He shielded his body with his own like he had known him all the years of his life, and even in illness Morton knew that his hopelessness rooted him there like a tree bent over itself in desperate search of the sunlight because Roy already knew well what it was to wither away without it.

All Morton had wanted to do was help, but he had gone and made everything worse the minute he opened his mouth.

He was foolish to think…He was confused, Roy had promised him when he had pulled him out of hiding that he would keep him safe, and here he was with a nose bloodied by his own fist. His brother had always been one to show his affection in funny ways, but while he could handle the occasional jab at his intellect or to the ribs, this was the first time he had felt truly attacked, and Morton found himself at a genuine loss.

He didn't understand, but maybe that was what Roy was always getting at. That the world was too complicated a place to try to move through it in a straight, direct, simple line. He had done his best in that regard, but maybe Roy was right. He wasn't smart enough to navigate through it on his own. Until then perhaps it was best to still his tongue until he figured out how to adequately quiet his thoughts.

He wiped the blood from his nose as it gushed and though he vaguely sensed he was being spoken to, the overwhelming metallic scent was all he could focus on. Letting himself be led away, he tried not to dwell on the sickening familiarity of it all.

Red, like the worn book plucked from the shelf he was just tall enough to reach…well, almost. He huffed in indignation as he was set down, but any frustration he may have felt over his literal shortcoming evaporated in the warmth of the good-natured laughter behind him. He whirled around to stick out his tongue but it was useless, instead handing over the book in defeat.

"This one, Pop?"

"…Agronomy, huh? I'm surprised this thing isn't caked in dust…"

Bowser eyed it skeptically, but nonetheless he tucked it under an arm and shrugged his shoulders.

"You know what? If it'll put the 3-year-old to sleep and keep the 15-year-old entertained, the rest of you can use your imagination."

Morton couldn't exactly place when this particular ritual began, it was one of those things that had been sown in time long ago, but every once in a while someone would brush their fingers over it fondly, and it would be uprooted into the foreground again. Such was the feeling he cherished when his brothers and sister would gather together in Junior's room every so often, if for no other reason than to bear witness to whatever brick of dust Bowser had chosen this time to bore his indignant toddler to sleep.

As they entered the groan was immediate, but Bowser ignored them as he handed the book off to Iggy to wrangle his already fussy child into his arms.

He blinked, adjusting his glasses in disbelief as he silently read the title. A grin crawled slowly across his face, as mischievous as it was understanding; a true paradox that Iggy alone could harness.

"A favorite of yours I presume? Must be some cool-lookin' pictures in this one for anyone to want to skim from cover-to-cover, huh Morton?"

He didn't know much, but he knew it was useless to reply as soon as his oldest brother abruptly snapped to attention-surely to answer for him in his defense…again. He tried not to let the occurrence bother him much, though he figured it would bother him much less if Ludwig cared less for the pointed efficiency of his words than whether or not they matched what Morton was thinking. He hadn't even really known whether or not Iggy meant anything by the comment but Bowser was too busy attempting to fish Junior out from under his bed to prevent whatever was about to happen.

"It isn't funny to tease him like that, Iggy. How would you like it if he made fun of you for your eyesight? It isn't something he can help. You know that he struggles with-"

"He can make fun all he likes, because I can take a joke, unlike you. Actually, you know what? Scratch that-this conversation had nothing to do with you in the first place, and you're still taking swings at me? Just get over yourself already-"

"Iggy, please! I wasn't trying to-! I just…I just think it isn't right…you know there wasn't much time to teach him, I don't think it's fair to hold that against him-"

A frustrated grunt from across the room punctuated the argument.

"Hey, y'know for a couple of 'learned, literate scholars', y'all knuckleheads sure don't know how to read the damn room. C'mere, big guy, don't listen to the nerd brigade, okay? Literally no one cares."

Had he been able to fit underneath Bowser Junior's bed he would have gladly hidden there, but Roy's outstretched arms promised such a familiar security that they were better than nothing, so he swallowed his pride and soundlessly plodded over to nestle himself into his old haven.

"So what if he's takin his time? He's tryin, ain't he? If a guy wants to look at the pictures in the meantime, let 'im, pictures are more interesting anyways…He'll learn, he'll get it when he's good and-"

"Y'all ready?" Bowser reappeared with a depleted sigh, having finally just moved the entire bed out of exasperation. Neither him nor the toddler against him seemed too pleased with one another, but Morton envied them, in a weird way he didn't really know how to explain. Maybe it was the way they breathed in sync despite their frustrations because underneath it all was a love that cultivated an understanding he was desperately lacking. Something about the way Junior protested in futility, stumbling over his own words as his resolve wore away, perhaps it was silly but he just couldn't ignore how recognizable the picture was...the way Bowser held him up as he lay limp and breathless in his arms in spite of everything like his own parents had plucked him up all those years ago…he missed them. He felt Roy pull him in a bit but he didn't fit the same anymore.

How is it that he had grown so much yet learned so little? The others were so much better at hiding it than him…

"Hey Morton, you brought this on yourself, you know!" He blinked to meet his sister's irritated glance.

"You picked this one, you don't get to be bored."

He hadn't even realized Bowser started reading…maybe it was better to just let it go. But as he tuned in, he found himself slipping in and out of the images he conjured in his head, words he couldn't even spell sown into his imagination, grown and woven into the memories he carried. There he ran about freely, carelessly home in the endless green of his mind until at last he felt Bowser's voice fade away into silence.

Red, like the gem that gleamed atop the wand it was fixed to. It was dark and angry, swirling about with such an unsettling intensity that Morton could barely look at it. Still, what was done was done, and he was stuck with it for the time being. He stood at a lone window and did his best to admire what little scenery there was out here in the wide expanse of desert, attempting to ignore the chaos he left behind as they rose more rapidly into the arid sky.

It had been fun at the time, and he'd be lying if he didn't feel a morbid sort of satisfaction at the opportunity to vent out his frustrations but…he hated the surge of emotions that came so strongly and stripped everything away as they receded, leaving him sluggish and barren and guilty…what was he doing? Bowser hadn't done much to assuage his uncertainties before he had gone, and even less to answer for the torrid pain in his eyes he didn't even bother to hide anymore; Morton couldn't get himself to move past it.

Who was hurting him so badly? Wouldn't this all just make everything worse? What were they even fighting for? Everything had already been gone for years-were they not enough for him now? They…

"I don't expect you to understand, Morton. And that's fine. I just need you to trust me, okay? I can't do this without you. I wish it could be different, I really do but…sometimes you just gotta make a little bit of noise when no one's listening to you, y'know? We can't afford to be silent now, never again. I promise you kids that. I promise..."

One hand had enclosed his own and Bowser squeezed it with a finality he supposed was meant to be reassuring, but Morton knew better. He always knew better than anyone was willing to give him credit for. Even so, he thought better of returning the wand as they flew away because he loved Bowser as his own, and he knew he couldn't bear to lose what he had finally planted to the howling harsh winds of the desert. The dull ache of the past hardened his resolve, and he was perhaps more comfortable here than he should have been amidst the scathing, furious heat of the sun. The rusty tone of the most distant dunes suited him just fine, so long as no one got hurt.

He only hoped that Bowser knew what he was doing.

Age:

1) 3

2) 5

3-4) 7.5