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Clover limply lays against Flowey's chest. He stays still, unmoving, only slight tears dripping from his eyes. The thin blue shirt Flowey wears is stained with the drops, cloth turning dark.Flowey rubs his back. Holding him close as he works. The gentle clack of his laptop keyboard filling the room with the only noise.Flowey holds him tightly, even if he's so sick that none of the parts that make him human work. The hold is tender and warm, and so unfamiliar it burns his chest with nausea.He should be alone, he should be suffering by himself through his pain. Not in the lap of the first person to treat him as more than a ragdoll. He shouldn't be pampered like this. If anything he should be shunned and punished, so he can learn his lesson.Yet, the first time he ever mentioned such a possibility. Flowey laughed at him. Just to be hit with something as sweet as a no. He didn't know that a no could be so addicting and taste so good.Clover's heart still beats too fast, and his lungs heave with pain. Even if he's being held and desired. It doesn't change that just an hour prior he was throwing up the contents of his stomach, once again taken over by the demons who pull at his throat and squeeze his stomach. Killing him from the inside out.He can't even recall how he got here.He can't ever recall anything. Just a blur of pain. Then laying next to Flowey like a little ragdoll, with the way he carries him around and talks to him. He may as well be.Flowey called this something. Dissocation? Something like that.Shame echos through Clover's small and weak corps. He feels like a little ragdoll. Flowey shouldn't be caring for him like this, shouldn't be wasting his time. Yet he always has an arm around them, always pulling his little ragdoll tight.Who cares that he's sick? He has to take care of himself because someday he'll be all alone. The words echoing through his head once echoing through an empty house.Holding yourself up when sick is normal, no one's going to follow you for the rest of your life. No one will let you use them as a crutch when your legs don't work so you better fix them.And sometimes that same someone who ingrained your core values will stare down at you while your legs don't work and you can't breathe telling you you're a disgrace for heaving it all up even if your nose is filled with acid."You're shaking,"The arms around him grip tighter, a tight comfort he hasn't felt since he was a little kid. Scratch that, heard about as a little kid. A warm comfort he's never felt.It's too much, being looked at like he's worth something, anything. Clover just wants to cry again. Maybe Flowey is as fucking terrible as everyone he knows tells him but Flowey loves him. No one's ever loved him like this before so who cares that he's 3 years older and mean because he's not mean to him. And he's the only thing that mattersJust the "it's not your fault," is everything.Clover wants to feel the guilt, embody it, embrace it. The guilt he has been told he must feel for living with the sick that's plagued him as a child.He doesn't, he doesn't let himself. Because what did he do wrong other than live?And maybe the relief that came with "I'll help you" or "Use me as your crutch" wasn't greed. Maybe he isn't greedy.A thumb wipes away his hot tears. And again, and again, and again.Instinct tells him the warm hand will eventually pull away, away from his burning tears. Away like it scared off anyone else. Maybe he is cruel for leaning in even if he knows his tears will only burn him further.Flowey's hand only pulls closer, hand running across Clover's face. He looks at him with admiration. Clover's emotion doesn't fuel any flame, if anything. He shines, he shines with adoration and love and a sense of I'm looking right at you he's never felt this strongly."Oh look, they've finally stopped" he notes, voice calm and sweet. Clover nods shakily, he has stopped crying.He waits, for apprehension, for shame, for guilt. Any of the above, any emotion that's familiar.The warm adoration that fills him is stark contrast, he shouldn't be so happy. He wasted time, he caused problems, he only caused more strife and misery."Are you any better?" Clover nods, and the peaceful silence redevelops. It's lonely inside of his own skin. The isolation of existence tearing at him like hands to paper. But Flowey's gripping him so tightly, as if his hands are the glue to his reality. He lays contently, maybe it's okay to be a loved little ragdoll.