Work Text:
Flowers were a rarity around these parts.
Sure, they had plenty of plant life living in the caverns, such as the various ferns and grasses that poked through the cracks of the paths. Even more notable were the vibrant leaves sprawled near the start of the pilgrims' way, at the far western side of the crossroads. (they seemed so inviting, the bright colours such a stark contrast to the dull tones of the highways, holding the promise of mystery and intrigue)
But something so complete, so delicate as a flower, seemed almost foreign to the residents of Dirtmouth.
Perhaps that was why Elderbug clutched his so tightly, the petals emanating that soft, pale light often associated with the one who had gifted it to him. Perhaps that was why he whispered of dreams, as if that was what flowers were supposed to inspire, what they were supposed to promise.
Bretta’s dreams, however, often stayed just that: mere figments of her imagination, and no amount of flowers could ever change that. (she bottled it up, of course. who wouldn't have? only her journal would hear those thoughts)
It hadn't started so bad. Just a petal here and there, it was almost charming at first. A nice vibrant pink, they brought some colour to her otherwise drab home. They never really hurt, just a bit of discomfort under her skin, a faint sense of obstruction.
When the blueish-green hue of her hemolymph began to stain the petals, however, the process lost much of its joy. Slowly, they went from single petals, to almost entire flowers, forcing their way out through her spiracles, blooming in their slimy, gorey glory. Much of that sweet pink was lost, the simple five petal flowers darkened and ragged by their journey through her respiratory system.
The most peculiar thing, she supposed, was when the flowers changed. Not that anyone was keeping track. ( she wrote about them every night in her journal. she kept some of them in a small pot hidden by the folds of her curtains. they never lived much longer )
Gone were the strange five petaled flowers, and in its place was a flower even Bretta could recognize. A rose of a familiar deep red shade, elaborate and perfect, as only a rose could be. The darker colour hid the hemolymph better.
Dimly, she was sure there was some sort of poetic meaning to be gained from her body's choice of flora. As an author, she knew this was a scenario that would be positively dripping with symbolism. But as she shuddered and struggled to breathe yet again, she felt it was flying right over her head.
(the pink flower, blooming strong and confident, with love and passion, yet only for a brief period of time. the rose, thorny and rigid, yet soft and beautiful when approached with care)
Perhaps, the changing plant was a sign of how her love itself had changed.
No longer was it simply longing glances, a line in her journal written with a blush and a giggle, a quick prayer for her return. Instead, it was all consuming, the kind of love that fundamentally changed a bug, the kind that eroded you down to your very core, only to build you back up, even more alive than before.
Of course, she never said a word. Not to them, not to the old man, not to her. (she’d smile, though. she’d look her in the eyes and stammer about how grateful she was, knowing she could never say anything more than that)
After all, Bretta never told anyone anything. She was the quiet, shy beetle, who stayed cooped up in her home all day and only ever sat in silence on the one communal bench. She was forgotten, merely another bug to be saved, with a heart too big for her own good. She almost hated it, the bitter irony of quite literally choking on her own feelings. The irony, of the only bug who had brought brightness and colour into her life, lingering as petals with discoloured hues.
What a fool she was.
Still, even a fool could take a strange sort of savage joy from this, she thought as she lay on the floor in a puddle of dark fluid and the newest bout of flowers. A soft touch, a reassuring whisper, a confident and concise call, a streak of red. All those moments, those memories, they flashed and swirled around her mind's eye in an almost overwhelming fashion as she let out a visceral wheeze, still violently shaking.
maybe if she lay here long enough, the flowers growing in her skin would finally drag her down into the ground
What a wonderfully, horribly fitting way to go.
How wonderfully horrible was it, that fateful day she got lost, she finally found herself in another bug again. This was who Bretta was, this was her cursed, caged heart, that would sooner suffocate than be freed. A pathetic beetle, unintentionally caught in the web of an unsuspecting spider.
It was love that could never quite bloom to completion, destructive instead of delicate, foreign and unknown to everyone but her.
Flowers were no rarity around these parts, they grew out of the tracheae of a crushed dream.