The Garden of Love (Star Sans Poly Week 2024)

i. Stars

Hello all! I come bearing a new fic for a new ship week. This one (created by me) is for the Star Sans Poly ship! It's so fun to explore how much they mean to one another, and I thought about doing a ship week for them a few years back, but only got the courage and motivation to start it last year. So sorry about not posting anything for that one--I honestly just didn't get anything written. But this year I have!

The ship week itself is already done (took place August 25th to 31st), but if you're reading this and want to write/draw something, by all means do it! This fic is proof that I'll still be working on my fic, probably till the next ship week.

Without a further ado, happy reading!!

~oOo~

I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen:

***

The tree was always Dream's favorite place to watch the stars. Nothing beat climbing up to the furthest branch, using skills built upon centuries of practice to get up with the ease and grace as a nimble forest animal would naturally have, using the same skills to balance there on a branch that would've cracked had he been anyone else.

Being so high up got him so close to the sky, so close he could almost feel the twinkling lights kissing him. He could spend hours there, crouched in the tree, staring up at the wonder most didn't think twice of.

Correction: he has spent hours there. He often got so lost in the beauty of things that he forgot to return home, and so his brother would be forced to come and retrieve him. Though he's often said to Nightmare to just let him be, and though his brother often agrees to do so, forever annoyed at having to leave their house for any reason, he is often going back on his word, there at the base of the tree to call him home before sunrise without fail, every night.

Tonight, it's still early enough that he knows he has time to watch. He settles in, leaning against the trunk, eyes searching the sky for anything and nothing at the same time. If he were an artist, his fingers would itch with a drawing. If he were a writer, it would be a story or poem instead. He is neither, however, so instead all he does is look.

That is enough to content him.

Mostly.

He does sometimes wish he were more creative. Sure, he can sketch something and have it end up half-resembling the original idea, and he can string together a short story with a simple theme, but they both end up crude and childish. That's not a bad thing overall, it just leaves him unsatisfied, forever envious of those who can do them.

It's funny, really, that in all the centuries he's been alive, he has never mastered the art of art. So many other things he can do with his eyes closed. Never art. The closest thing to it is baking, maybe gardening, both things he can do well enough. Healing might be considered an art in itself, but it's not paint and words and colours and metaphors. It's not something people will look at for years with awe, not something people will hang up on their walls or in galleries. It's simply a skill to help others, as is his duty and job-the only thing he is ever frustrated by.

He doesn't hate doing his job. No, he does enjoy helping people. It makes him smile when he can dry a child's tears with some warm magic on the knee, or when he grants a miracle to a family who now needn't worry about the cost of a funeral for someone so young. In fact, he prides himself on doing good, spreading laughter across the world. He loves the stories told of him, the kind way they portray him in artwork, and he's flattered by the statues of him in temples. It's all something he enjoys.