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ask-loveverse · 2 months ago

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you stop me at the door

belated gift for @peach-flavored-cyanide im so sorry im late but the 4k words were fighting me for my life 😭😭😭

loveverse setting, so beware of toxic relationships!! lv polymurderous save me..... save me lv polymurderous.....

H is sick.

It started small – a delayed response here, a squinted look there, a clumsy misstep in-between. At first, he insisted it was nothing to worry about, only a fever. By day three, however, the skeleton can’t even lift up his head, wrapped around in blankets as he stays immobile. Ki and Mur can only watch from the doorway, the former’s face blanking and the latter’s mouth thinning into a line.

Ia doesn’t like it when they’re fragile.

She’s next to the bed, hand hovering over H’s forehead, expression unreadable in the deceptively calm shadows spreading across the room. After an agonizingly long silence, she speaks, voice soft.

“It seems I’ll be gone for a while. There are things I need to find, medicines first and foremost.”

Mur doesn’t react, while Ki only gives a perfunctory nod.

“You two will take care of the house,” Ia continues, not looking at the duo at the door. “Clean. Cook. Keep everything in order. I expect everything to be the same once I return.” Their voice echoes, not just in the small box of a room. They lean down, wiping a handkerchief over H’s sweating forehead. “You’ll be better soon. I promise.”

And then, with a flickering of the overhead lights, Ia is gone. The silence they leave behind rings.

-----

Mur startles awake to the sound of knocking on his door.

“wakey-wakey, sunshine,” Ki calls, voice bright and sing-song, muffled through the wood. “we have chores to do today, remember?”

Mur mentally groans as he rolls on his other side, curling into himself. Blearily, he opens his eyes – the sun hasn’t even shone through the cracks of his blinds just yet. Letting out another annoyed huff as another set of knocks ring, he pulls the blanket over his head, as if it can drown out the chirps.

“come on, do you want to clean the kitchen or the bathroom? if you don’t say anything, i’ll pick one out for you.”

Mur doesn’t move or respond. Another knock comes, followed by a soft creak of the door opening. Mur can feel Ki leaning against the foot of his bed, and he resists the urge to kick at Ki as the blanket over him is tugged incessantly. He just wants to stay in bed and not think about the dreaded day ahead, which has become just another day in this house.

“don’t make me assign you chores,” Ki says, with a mock whine in his voice. “you know how i hate being the bad guy.”

Mur doesn’t give the other skeleton anything, not even a perfunctory glare. The message is loud and clear. He drags himself up, finding Ki’s empty sockets unerringly locked on him. Slowly, he starts dressing himself, trying to ignore the other person in the room. It’s not like Ki can see him, and it’s not like they haven’t been unfamiliar with each other. But still, he turns his back on Ki as he clasps his mask on the lower half of his face – he can never get used to having another person so acutely aware of his weaknesses, no matter if they see it or not.

Ki tilts his head once Mur is done, then claps his hand once. “well then, let’s start with breakfast, shall we?”

The kitchen is warm when Ki drags Mur down the stairs. Ki moves between the stove and the counter, hands tracing the edges, humming an upbeat tune under his breath. Mur follows closely behind, carefully looking at all the equipment that he hasn’t talked in a while. He isn’t usually the one doing the cooking in the house, and he isn’t sure if his skills are still passable in the kitchen. He pulls open the fridge to inspect their meager options for today, while Ki leans against a counter nearby, humming something tuneless.

“been a while since you cooked. don’t worry – i’ll be you’re your humble assistant today.”

Mur makes a scoffing sound in his throat, tossing something onto the counter. As if he would trust Ki around the kitchen. He types something on his device.

“go clean the table.”

“fine, fine.” Ki pouts, raising his hands up in a surrendering pose. “no knives needed, i know. but if you need any…” He smirks, sauntering away from the kitchen area to the dining table. Mur gives an unimpressed glare at his back, though he knows Ki wouldn’t see it.

Together, they move around the space, ready for their day ahead. Ki sets the table while Mur cracks some eggs in the pan. They don’t speak, but it doesn’t feel like silence, not with Ki humming in the background and the sizzling sounds filling the kitchen. Somehow, it doesn’t feel that much different from other days, despite the absence of two other regulars in the house.

This, too, is just routine.

-----

Laundry comes afterwards.

They haul the beddings from the washing machine to the backyard. There are blankets, sheets, pillowcases – all from H’s nausea fits the day before. It is sunny outside, but the air is still cool from the nightly spring breeze. Both skeletons wear their only fur-lined jackets as they step out. The clothesline is strung tight across the yard, shadowed by the two trees it is tied to.

Ki pulls out a bundle of blankets, unfolding them in his hands. Mur helps by shaking and puffing them out, holding one corner and clipping it to the line with practiced ease. He doesn’t hear Ki coming close to his space until he feels something tugging at his shoulder.

A thread.

It pulls taut.

He freezes, slowly turning his head around.

Ki is right behind him, one hand hovering near his shoulder. It lingers for too long. Neither of them moves. The sheets billowing lightly in the wind, brushing against Mur’s jacket as he stands there stupefied, his fingers twitching but otherwise not clawing into the fabric he’s holding.

don’t look don’t look at it there’s no tear it’s fine the jacket’s fine-

Then, Ki chuckles softly.

“you have a bug on your jacket.”

Mur doesn’t dare breath. His grip on the blankets in his arms tightens. The jacket feels lighter suddenly, but his arm feels like lead – as if it was falling apart, the tear echoing in his skull. Or is it? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know. Just the idea of it- The phantom loss- But it might be real-

stop panicking it’s fine it’s fine you’re so pathetic right now don’t cry-

Ki doesn’t say anything else. He just grabs another sheet from the basket and moves away from him.

-----

More laundry. Bathroom cleaning. Living room sweeping. By midday, most of the chores are done. The house is cleaner and quieter than before. It doesn’t make it more livable though.

Mur sets the ingredients for lunch on the counter. Dutifully, Ki washes the vegetables and plucks out the spices. His movements are slow but not clumsy. Mur takes out a chopping board and starts slicing.

The rhythm is soothing in a way. Chop, drop, stir, set the heat. Ki is next to him, his presence silent but his voice not. Every now and then, he bumps elbows with Mur as he navigates in the kitchen, just gently. They don’t talk. They don’t need to, their bodies dancing alongside each other in a familiar dance, years of familiarity having etched into both of them. Mur stands at the stove, waiting for the soup to finish as he stirs the pot. Ki hovers over his shoulders as if looking at what he’s doing. The heat from the other’s SOUL burns, but Mur is used to it – might crave it even, no matter how many times he doesn’t want to think so.

(“you’re always cold, aren’t you?”

A small huff of laugh. An ember in the dark of night. Something to hold on.)

When lunch is ready, they sit across each other. Two bowls on the table. A third one set aside, covered, steam rising faintly from under the lid. It is somewhat strange, having the dining table with only two people present. Mur can’t help stiffening his shoulders as he feels Ki patiently wait for him from across the table. With hesitant hands, he unclasps his mask, and the wave of anxiety rises up to him again. Slowly, he puts the mask down next to him with an audible thump. Ki, enigmatic bastard as ever, tilts his head, a measured smile gracing his face, before picking up his own spoon.

They eat in relative silence, which is an odd scene. Usually, Ia is the one prompting conversations during meals, what’s with them being the only times all of them have to get together in one place. It’s just small talk, discussing the weather and news and asking what they are up to lately, as if none of them were stuck living in the same house all the time. Now, the quiet atmosphere is unusual, but not wholly uncomfortable.

(He can almost prefer this to the regular scene.)

When they finish their respective portions, Ki leans back in his seat, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Mur stands up to collect the dishes, but then Ki speaks.

“no, no, i’ll handle the dishes here. you should bring the soldier his rations.”

Mur tilts his head, fully knowing that Ki cannot see him. But they’re too familiar with each other now – Ki’s smile widens as if knowing what Mur is doing, and maybe he does.

“he’d be wondering why it’s not you.” The empty-eyed skeleton gestures at the third bowl on the table. “besides, he likes your cooking better anyway.”

Mur stands there for a moment before giving a curt nod. He picks up the bowl and places it on a tray. Without a word, he walks towards the hallway, faintly hearing Ki turning the water in the sink. He moves up the stairs, careful not the drop the tray. The walk isn’t long, but it feels like centuries as he nears his destination.

-----

H’s room is dim, curtains drawn tight to keep the light from seeping in. The air is thick with something old and heady. Mur slips in quietly, balancing the tray with both hands as he nudged the door open with his elbow. The bowl of soup steams faintly. A cup of water is placed besides it. He sets it down on the nightstand and pulls the chair close.

H stirs. His eyes open, sluggish but awake enough to track Mur’s movements.

"is it morning already?" he mutters, voice rough and dry. “what do you have for me?”

Mur doesn’t say anything. He picks up the spoon, gives it a gentle stir in the bowl, then lifts it toward H’s mouth.

After a beat, H accepts it gingerly, slurping and chewing slowly. He swallows and exhales. "who’s the chef today? this one might actually be food."

Mur snorts silently, then offers another spoonful.

They fall into an easy rhythm. Spoon, chew, swallow, breathe. H eats more than he has in days, which isn’t saying much. Mur watches him closely, looking for any sign of discomfort or weakness. The silence stretches between them.

"you’re quiet today," H says eventually. Then, after a pause, he adds, "more than usual."

Murder doesn’t respond. His thoughts are louder – more turbulent – than anything he could write down.

After a long moment, H fills the void again. “taking care of me… don’t you have better things to do?”

Mur shakes his head, his fingers lightly trembling as the storm in his mind only grows and grows.

Ia’s gone. Gone. That hasn’t happened in what feels like forever. When was the last time? Months? Years? He never leaves the house. Never leaves them alone. But now? There’s no watching shadow. No low voice echoing through the walls. No prickle of magic on the back of one’s neck.

The door’s still there. Unlocked. Unguarded.

You could leave.

The thought arrives like a tsunami. Ferocious. Unexpected.

Take them. Go.

Another spoonful, another swallow. Mur wipes the corner of H’s mouth with the edge of a napkin. He watches the sick man’s eye droop half-lidded again, exhaustion clear in his body.

Run away, little rabbit. Run.

He pictures it before he can stop himself: the three of them, living somewhere far away from all of this. A rundown house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and cicadas all night. No shadows. No watchful eyes. Just the sky and the dirt and the sound of Ki humming, bundled in layers, listening to whatever on his music player. H on the porch, grilling something delicious while fanning the smoke away from his eye. Mur sitting on the staircases, watching both of them, finally still.

It’s shameful, how often this fantasy returns.

(Even more shameful is the house on the tropical island – fragments of another broken dream, another broken promise. There is something traitorous about it, something mournful – the dream continues, pieces replaced haphazardly without much input from his own logic. The smoke, the red, the warmth – all replaced like a ship from that one tale.

Red. They’re all red, aren’t they? So easily switched in and out. Is that how interchangeable they all are? Just puzzle pieces to be forced into places. Mur feels disquieted with himself, with his thoughts, with his feelings.)

He’s never told them. He never will.

Because it’s not real. It’s not possible.

Not with Ki. Not with how deep he’s sunk into Ia’s tendrils. Mur doesn’t even know if he could trust him long enough to hold open a door without being crushed by it afterwards.

He thinks of H, of the reluctant, sporadic kindness – the acts that have to be squeezed out of him, the gestures that don’t guarantee safety exactly, only a temporary refuge from this hellhole.

He thinks of Ki, of the wide perma-smile – the one that masks everything, the one that never quite echoes in his fake cheerful voice.

The risk feels like a knife twisting under his ribs.

You cannot really trust anyone.

Mur presses a damp, cool cloth to H’s forehead. The bedbound skeleton flinches but doesn’t move away.

“you smell like soap,” H mumbles, his voice thinning. “you cleaned the house, or just paced out your nerves again?”

Mur shrugs, holding the cloth steady as he wipes down H’s scorching heat. H’s hand reaches out, shaky, fingers brushing the other’s wrist. A thank you. Or something like it. He couldn’t tell, despite how long they have been together. How strange.

Mur brushes a knuckle gently over the edge of H’s blanket, watching his chest rise and fall as the sick monster falls asleep. He looks so frail, so breakable. They all are really.

Then he slips out as quietly as he came in, the voices still murmuring behind his ribs.

-----

Dinner can’t come quickly enough.

Ki is humming again, waiting for Mur to spoon out the portions into mismatched bowls. One for him, one for Ki, and one for H. It’s just some simple porridge tonight, a warm, easy meal for H to swallow in his debilitated state. Mur feels Ki hovering near him, the body heat unmistakable in the evening chill. Ki takes a bowl from him with a grin and a casual brush of fingers against his knuckle.

“i’ll deliver it to the prince this time,” Ki says, smiling wide. “you should clean the mess.” He gestures vaguely towards the direction of the pile of dirty pans on the stove. “don’t want him to think we’re slackers.”

Mur pauses, a half-thought-out plan rapidly running through his mind.

This is the opportunity he needs.

So, he waits.

Waits until Ki’s voice echoes on his way upstairs, his soft and off-key singing filling the silence of the house. Waits until the hum of hot water and clanking dishes masks the shift of his feet on the creaking floorboards. Waits until he distinctly hears the sound of a door opening then closing, Ki’s cheery voice disappearing into the space behind it.

Then, he moves.

Quietly. Quickly. Through the spaces he’s familiar with. The cabinets in the kitchen hold some dry rations, flints, and matches. The cupboard in the living room has a first aid kit that he swipes quickly. The closet near the staircase hides away an old satchel with some gold coins and fake IDs they used to use to go to certain places. Near the hearth, under a particular loose floorboard, lie a Swiss knife and a couple of phone contacts and expired train tickets – stuff he hid months, or years, ago, when he first started thinking about maybe’s.

(Memorabilia of a lost time, a lost opportunity, a lost promise.)

His hands shake, and he’s unsure if it’s from fear or anticipation. He cannot stop now. Not when the taste of escape is so tantalizing on his bitten tongue.

-----

Midnight comes.

Mur lies in bed, eyes wide open, listening to the house breathing its quiet. Slowly, he pushes the blankets off himself and sits up. The old wooden floorboards creak, and he winces, pausing, waiting. When no sound comes, he reaches under the bed, where the packed backpack is.

His feet touch the floor soundlessly as he yanks the bag up. Quickly, he dons his jacket and slides the door open, just a tiny crack. The hallway stretches ahead of him, long and cold. There’s no light but the source of his magic eyelights.

Carefully, he creeps along the hallway – not too fast, not too slow. He doesn’t glance at Ki’s room as he passes it, though he feels the urge tug at him like gravity. Maybe Ki’s eyes are already on his back. Maybe he already knows. But no footsteps follow him, so he continues to trek.

He arrives at H’s door and pauses. Hand against the frame. Fingers hovering over the knob. Listening. Inside there’s only the unsteady rise and fall of a ragged breath.

The door opens under his hand.

He sees H stir and curl further into his bundle of blankets. He must have been sleeping, and Mur almost feels bad for waking him up. He closes the door behind him with an audible click. H’s pale face glows faint in the moonlight through the curtains. One arm is folded across his chest, and the other twitches slightly when Mur comes closer.

Mur doesn’t say anything – it’s not like he can. He crouches beside the bed. Horror looks at him blearily, and blinks. He doesn’t try to sit up. Mur holds one of his hands, absentmindedly tracing the rough fingers. The silence envelops them before H speaks up.

“what are you doing at this time?” His voice is soft, somewhat short-winded. The fever is not doing him any good. Mur has a feeling where this conversation will go, but he can’t just not try.

He points at himself. Then at the door. Then at H. A question. An invitation.

H looks at him. His expression doesn’t shift, or maybe it’s just the darkness that hides it away. “… you’re really stupid,” he says at last. “you know that right?”

Mur would chuckle at that if he could. Instead, he just stares, the bags under his eyes crinkled into an ironic smile.

H shakes his head, the movement slow and tired. “they’ll find you. you’ll never be far enough. you’ll never outrun them.”

Mur taps his fingers against H’s knuckle, once, twice, then three times. The rhythm is hypnotic, soothing to his brain. He doesn’t refute H’s statement, just hanging his head low, sensing the gaze on the back of his neck.

Then, a softer yet more crushing reply follows. “i can’t go with you.”

Mur stays kneeling by the bed. He doesn't flinch, doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. The silence is too big for the room. H’s fingers brush his shaky hand. They’re warm, clammy.

“i’m sorry,” he says, even though it doesn’t sound like an apology.

Mur squeezes his eyes shut.

And for a second, he’s there in the dream. Where there’s a little house, with chickens running around all day. Where they all share the household chores, bickering over who gets to do what. Where Mur will fall asleep in some unconventional place, lulled by the seaside winds and cicada calls.

But then he opens his eyes.

It’s still this dark room. It’s still this house – too big, too small, too quiet, too loud. Never right.

He stays stuck on the floor. If he leaves, he’ll have to abandon them. What does it say about him, someone who has never claimed to love?

(Never. Never again.

He’ll never love again.)

Shakily, he clasps H’s hand in both of his own and brings it to his forehead, like a silent apology – a wordless prayer from the before-times, a habit he cannot seem to break. H doesn’t say anything, the air of regret and reverence blanketing over them.

Eventually, Mur stands up. H watches him leave without a word.

There is nothing more to say.

-----

Mur creeps softly down the hallway, bag slung low on his shoulder. The air is cold even through his jacket. The darkness is almost reassuring, as if the house didn’t realize a piece of it is missing just yet.

He reaches for the lock.

“late walk?”

A voice echoes from the side.

Mur freezes.

Ki sits on the bench by the shoe rack, legs drawn up as he rests his cheek on his knees. He doesn’t turn towards Mur – his eyes can’t follow, but he doesn’t need to see. The eye sockets are dripping black again, staining the already cracked bones. Ki never needs eyes to know what happens, as if the house told him – as if he had become part of it. As if he could sense the air shifted the moment Mur stepped out of bed.

But Ki doesn’t move to stop him. Instead, he just hums.

“you could’ve waited until morning. little rude to sneak off without saying anything.”

There is no accusatory tone in his voice. But Mur doesn’t dare move.

Ki yawns. “i mean, i’m not judging. it’s just a bit cold, is all. not a very nice time to go on a walk.” He shrugs. “but you know what they say: fresh air is good for you.”

Mur turns slightly. Enough to half-face the other skeleton.

Ki smiles to no one. “just… if you go, remember the second fence post leans right. you’ll trip if you’re not careful.” After a beat, he continues, his smile wobbling imperceptibly at the corner. “and, remember to bring back the detergent. we’re running low by the way.”

Mur’s grip on the door handle eases. Just a little.

Ki stands up slowly, stretching his arms with a quiet groan. “mm... anyway, i’m heading to the kitchen. figured i’ll make some tea. If you want some when you get back, just say so.”

He walks past Mur, his shoulder brushing lightly against the other’s as he disappears into the kitchen.

No resistance. No force.

Just that unbearable familiarity. That ghost of warmth.

Mur doesn’t answer. He just stands there, staring at Ki’s back, the door forgotten.

One beat. Then two. Then three.

His hand lowers from the handle. He shakes off his boots and puts them back on the shoe rack.

The door stays closed behind him.

-----

Mur is already awake when the front door creaks open at the crack of dawn.

He’s sitting on the couch, his jacket in his lap. His bag is gone. So are the matches, the maps, the little notes he scrawled for himself in the dark.

“I’m home.”

Mur doesn’t look up.

Footsteps approach, then stop just behind the couch.

“I brought back what Horror needs.” The voice is warm. “He’ll be fine soon.”

Mur nods once, the motion small, almost mechanical.

Ia moves to the kitchen. Ki appears a moment later, like a dog greeting its master, soft-footed and cheery-voiced, like nothing happened. He reaches out and clasps Mur’s shoulder with a brief and familiar squeeze.

“you did good,” he murmurs, like he means it.

Mur says nothing. He just stares ahead.

There is nothing more to say.

#cant believe i forgot to reblog this #loveverse #lv fanwork #love this

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ask-loveverse · 3 months ago

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manual on maintaining your plants

i love doomed dustard can you tell....... especially canon doomed dustard of someone else's 'verse teehee :3

loveverse belongs to @peach-flavored-cyanide thank you for letting me write doomed cymur into existence <3

While cypress vine technically only lasts one season, its self-seeding ability allows it to regrow year after year without much intervention.

The jacket hangs on you, limp, threadbare, a patchwork of days and months teetering into years – years of repeating the same thing again and again expecting something else to change. But you never get used to it.

The seasons change in this place. Thick humidity in the summer, brittle frost in the winter. Yet, despite the stark differences, they all feel the same to you. You always feel cold.

You sit on the back porch, flicking a cigarette between your stiff fingers. The ember flares, dancing close to the worn fabric of your sleeves. The taste burns, and it’s not the same brand Cypress used to smoke. Close, but never close enough. Warm, but never sustaining.

You exhale. The smoke curls-

-mixing with your frigid breath in the chilly air. The snow had stopped falling, covering the ground in vast white. You sat, half-submerged in the layer of snow, back pressed against a tree, head heavy. It was cold, relentlessly so. You were used to it.

Cypress found you easily enough. “Dumbass,” he muttered, his breath warm with tobacco. “You’re just gonna sit there and freeze to death?”

You didn’t pull away when he draped his jacket over you, slightly oversized and way bulkier than your own. It smelled of cigarette, of grease, of coal – something real, something worn-in, something his.

(Smelled of death.)

His arm was a solid weight around your shoulders as he lifted you up. You felt the steady rise and fall of his ribcage against you as he grumbled about the cold, about your terrible luck, about how you needed to find a better way to live than this. Despite your cold, he didn’t pull away. And you savored the warmth so rarely given.

It always felt less cold with him around.

Cypress vine needs full sun to bloom. It can withstand extreme heats but will quickly wither in cold temperatures.

Cypress had always liked booze and cigarettes. Simple vices. Simple indulgences. You both shared the same inclinations for recreation, and it was easy to bond over them.

So many memories. Hazy. Broken. Mismatched.

A laugh here. A voice there.

You remember tilting a bottle of something between you. It was a dare, you think. The burn in your throat was hot, and Cypress’ resounding chuckles rang in your skull accompanied with drags of smoke.

“Fucking lightweight,” he laughed, watching you cough through another shot. “Maybe if you ate more, this shit wouldn’t be so bad on your nonexistent stomach.”

Cypress had always been strange like that, caring about a nobody like you. It made something in you itch – a hunger you hadn’t felt in so long. You never acted upon it, just observing, recording, memorizing everything you could have.

The nights were long, filled with half-thought plans and dreams neither of you fully believed in – or at least you hoped so. Cypress was there, and you let yourself get drunk off more than just the cheap liquor. The warmth, the company – it had all been so intoxicating.

And you realized, he had somehow become another vice of yours.

You barely touch alcohol anymore. You miss it, like an itch you cannot scratch, a hunger you cannot sate. Yet, you fear. That if you let the burn flow down your throat, it won’t stay. The warmth will die out too fast, swallowed by the coldness that refuse to go away.

You keep smoking, already pulling out another cigarette to savor right after you finish this one. You keep your eyes forward, looking at the garden that has become the latest passion project of your boss. So many species, and yet there is no cypress vine in this lustrous garden. A shift behind you. A presence. Unspoken but heavy. You don’t turn around. You ignore the burning gaze at the back of your neck. If you speak, if you look back, they’ll drag you back inside. Tell you you’ve had enough.

But it’s never enough.

It will never be.

Cypress vine poses a moderate threat of toxicity to humans and some other animals. It is also considered an invasive weed in some regions. If they latch on other plants accidentally, they could overtake them.

Deheading the flowers will prevent seed production and spread.

You should have known how this thing would end.

“Ya know?” Cypress mused as he looked at your ragged frame one fateful day. It had been a while since you last met. You had been busy with your new situation, and he- You didn’t know what he had been up to. You never knew, but the uncertainty never ate at you like you thought it would. “We should go somewhere warm. A tropical resort. Bet you’d like that.”

You snorted, an ugly sound. “Ia wouldn’t like that.”

“Well, respectfully, fuck them.” He gave you a look that you couldn’t really decipher. His head hang low, the soft candlelit lights in the bar catching the shadows on his face. “What do you want – that’s the only thing that matters here.”

“I don’t care.”

“Uh yeah, you do. You just don’t know yet.”

(You don’t remember how the conversation continued, only memories of affect, slowly melting away through the cracks of your hands. You remember arguing with him. You remember telling him the false reassurances and promises. You remember holding onto his jacket, never relenting your death grip. You remember saying as long as he was here, it didn’t matter where you would go.

You remember your fabulations, your degraded recollection, your shameful wishful thoughts. You don’t remember how this last meal with him went. You’re glad. You’re so glad.)

You remember his dust spreading over you, a cold land where the flowers of his namesake will never grow again.

Summer without you is as cold as winter. Winter without you is even colder.

- Lemony Snicket

p.s: cypress vine info and care instructions taken from the spruce

#loveverse #lv reblogs #lv fanwork #lv spoilers #(technically)#VERY GOOD go follow

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