Cross-posting from AO3. Will have a relationship between Chara and Asriel that can be interpreted as either romantic or platonic. Notes & potential triggers (also, spoilers?): Pre-canon. Second person POV. Nonbinary Chara. Abusive family. Misgendering. Two separate suicide attempts; both will be labeled, both are heavily implied by canon. Canonical character death.

vit ri ol' ic - adj., bitter, withering; highly caustic or biting

"Love thy neighbor" – isn't that what they used to say? "Love thy neighbor as thyself." You are relieved to be given an out by this old proverb; since you don't love yourself, you didn't have to love anyone else. But you have a hard time believing everyone else in your village hates themselves as much as you do, so they're supposed to love you, right?

Obviously not.

It wouldn't be so hard if it was just one thing. If it was only the village kids or adults, or just your parents, or only your brother. But it's all of them – all of them every single day, because when you're not getting snickered at in the hallways at school, you're being ridiculed and insulted of outside, and when you're not outside, you're being belittled and yelled at in your own house. Your parents don't care about or mind what happens to you when you're around the other kids, and you don't have any friends to ask you why you eat so much at school or always wear the same slightly-stained sweater.

You don't have a brother to defend you, or a mother to comfort you, or a father to teach you how to defend yourself. You have a brother who pushes you away, figuratively and literally; you have a mother who only looks at you with disappointment shining in her eyes and a scowl on her lips; you have a father who simply avoids looking at or interacting with you at all. They all hurt in different ways.

But all the shitty parts of your life fade to the back of your thoughts when you walk up to the beautiful golden flowers. At the far edge of your village, there is a flower patch that's the perfect size for you to lie down in – not that you do. This is where you garden; your love of gardening is seconded by your love of cooking. These interests make your life even more of a hell than it would be otherwise, but you wouldn't give them up for the world. It's one thing to hate it when people call you "boy" or "son" or "little man," but it's another thing entirely when you also have "girly" interests and shoulder-length hair. Everyone thinks that you want to be a girl. The village kids call out your name in high-pitched voices with an "ee" or "a" sound tacked on the end. Most of the time it doesn't really make sense, but that doesn't stop them. Last week, some teenage girls threw an old, tattered dress at you, then ran away laughing with her friends. You have nothing against dresses, really, but you know you could absolutely never wear one.

But now wasn't the time to think about that stuff. You are in your garden, your safe haven. The slowly setting sun makes the golden flowers look even more vibrant. You kneel and begin uprooting any weeds you find. You're so lost in the repetitive but wonderful work that you don't hear the sound of footsteps behind you until a clod of dirt nails you between the shoulder blades.

You stand up and turn, incredulous. They can't know about this place; this is your only place away and they can't know about it. You got called feminine for wanting to garden and you can't even conceive how much worse it will be know that they know about the flower patch. Oh fuck, the flower patch—they might hurt the golden flowers! You make an immediate decision to defend the only bright spot in your life instead of running away like you tend to. The flowers are so vibrant and you won't, can't, stand to see them taken down like you usually are. You decide to deviate from your original pattern. You decide to act.

You decide that acting isn't going to work when you see your twin brother at the head of the gang. He has a sneer on his lips and a stick in his hand. You thought you might be able to lure the other kids away or otherwise convince them to hurt you instead of the only bright spot in your life, but with your brother at the head of the mob (about eight kids total), you know he'll zero in on the obviously tended to patch of beautiful flowers. He'll destroy the garden and then tell your parents. You're dead.

Your brother begins throwing taunts, as he tends to do. "Heya, girly! What've we got here, huh?" He saunters forward.

You tense. Talking never works, but currently it's the only option. "What do you want? Isn't it almost time to go home?"

He raises an eyebrow. A couple of the other kids laugh. "I could ask you the same thing. What're you doing out here, all alone?" He glances around, somehow always managing to look down his nose. He spots the flowers; you can tell the moment his eyes land on them because his lips curl up in a cruel mockery of a smile. He walks around you. You almost make a grab for him but decide against it at the last moment; it would just make him more angry. Maybe he'll only look at the flowers, you hope. "Oh oh oh, I see, I see," he says in a calculating voice. He raises his stick, then brings it down so hard you hear it whistle. He's too fast, or maybe you're too slow - he hits a flower. It bends at an angle that would tell you it was dead, even without the petals falling off.

He just killed one of your bright spots. Everything within you protests. It feels like something inside you is pushing, pushing, pushing - then it snaps.

No. No. NO. This cretin who is only your brother in blood will not touch something as pure and wonderful as these blossoms. You decide that acting isn't doing to work. You decide to fight.

You make a grab for the stick. He sidesteps your efforts easily. He laughs. "Oh, girly, are you gonna fight back, now? This should be fun!" He cracks the stick across your arm. It stings. You ignore it.

You scan the ground for a weapon. You come up empty-handed, but you do get an idea. You see the group of bystanders shuffling awkwardly, not sure if they should intervene or not (they usually don't hurt you the way your brother does - they stick to jeers and embarrassing you). You make a mad dash for the crowd; not used to you fighting back, they scatter. You go after one specifically – a girl who always trips you in the hallways at school. You extend your arms, palms connecting with her shoulders, and push her down. She hits the ground with an oof. As planned, her brother comes after you next. He kicks your left knee, hard, and you fall. His foot is swinging back in preparation of a second attack when you see your brother lay a hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy stills immediately.

"Well, well, well, girly! What d'you think you're doing, attacking innocent bystanders like that? Tut, tut, tu - HEY!" With each condescending tut, he tapped you with the stick. On the third, you made a grab for it. You emerge victorious and slash it across his chest. He stumbles back. You stand and brandish your stick at the crowd, and they run away in two's and three's. You can't imagine the stick is particularly impressive in and of itself, but combined with your wild hair, ripped sweater, the look in your eyes that promises retribution, and the knowledge that you will fight back - well, you're not altogether surprised that they fled.

You're left alone with your brother. He glares at the retreating figures. He stands and brushes the dirt of his clothes. Then he laughs, and you know you're fucked.

"Damn, you really wanna be a bad girly, huh? You know what happens to bad girlies, don't'cha?" He dashes to the flower patch and uproots a handful before you can stop him. You try to hit him again, but he grabs your forearm and twists it. You cry out and drop the stick. He picks it up and brings it down on the side of your head. "Bad girlies don't get gardens! What'll mom say? Huh? Do you think mom's gonna be happy with this?" He swipes the stick across your cheek. It burns horribly, but it doesn't draw blood. You attempt to glare at him, but he only responds with a sneer. "Time to go home, girly."

He marches you through the town, his hand definitely bruising your arm, his nails digging in to your skin, with the bunch of flowers still clutched in his hand. You avoid looking at any of the villagers, knowing you'll see only amusement or irritation directed at your brother and yourself, respectively. All too soon, you've reached your house.

It's a quaint little thing – one floor, three rooms, a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom. You're ridiculously grateful to have your own room. It's not a haven like your garden is – was, goddamn it – but it's better than having to share a room with your brother. He's the only one who has ever repeatedly hit you; some of the kids might get rough, but the worst you usually get is a skinned knee; and sure, sometimes your mother might swing around a cooking spoon or spatula or even her hand, but yelling and sending you to bed without dinner is more her speed; and you're not even sure if your father has even brushed up against you since you were younger than seven; your brother is the main bully in your life.

For most of the children, you feel an intense dislike. For every adult in your life, hate. For your brother, you feel absolute loathing. And never has it been more intense than in this moment, as he's dragging you up the stairs to your house, dead flowers being crushed in his grip as they vainly try to escape his grasp. You've never fought back because you knew you would get hurt worse, and damn, you've never been more irritated at being proven right. Your cheek hurts like hell. You gently bring your hand and touch the welt, but quickly pull away, hissing in pain. Your brother turns and grins at you nastily, and then the door is opening, and your stomach turns, and you catch a glimpse of your mother. Then the words are spilling out of your brother's mouth and you only have a second-long lull before the house is filled with her ungodly screeching.

You batten down the hatches and prepare to weather the storm.