Can I talk about one line I especially appreciate in Undertale?
On it’s own, this line is a huge wham line of feelings on its own. It’s one of the pinnacles of the Pacifist run. It’s a single sentence basically summing up the morals used through said run, and it’s pretty heavy. But it also has a personal meaning to me, and I’d like to talk about the way the lowercase ‘love’ is used.
Throughout the game of Undertale there is no direct romance involving Frisk. (They’re a child, first of all, and that’s just not the focus of the game in general), yet, this term is used.
‘Love’. In media you never really hear that outside of sexual and/or romantic relationships. You only hear the term ‘love’ when kisses or romantic partners are being described. And as an Aromantic it’s almost alienating to me. You can’t ‘love’ your friends in media. You’re ‘best friends’. Or you ‘Care about each other’. And in familial relationships only young children tend to say they ‘love’ each other. It’s never used like that. It’s as if media treats those two types of love as somehow less real.
But they’re not. They’re just as, if not more, important as romantic ‘love’. And frankly I love that this one line throws that idea down the drain.
For Day 4 of @tazladyweek, Canon Divergence. Don’t get me wrong, I love NO3113 as a member of Team Sweet Flips, but I really want her to be able to go home and chill with her family as well, maybe have some fun being an auntie?
Don’t think about Remus Lupin wrapping his arms around himself as he stares out the window of his cold, lonely apartment. Don’t think about the t-shirt he’s wearing; of course it’s Sirius’. Don’t think about him staring at that one star in the sky. The one that Sirius pointed out to him every time they could see it. Don’t think about shared cigarettes on window seats in the common room, Sirius pointing to Orions Belt and saying, “That bright one, right there. That’s me. That’s Sirius”. Don’t think about Remus staring at the bright dog star, alone, clinging on to Sirius’ old t-shirt with everything he has. Don’t think about the tear that he lets slip down his scarred cheek when he whispers “Pads”.
Don’t think about Sirius Black, staring at the moon. It’s almost full, and he feels sick that another month will go by where he isn’t there with his Moony. His Moony with no one to protect him from himself, with no one to brush his hair back the morning after as he opens his amber eyes, the colour of sunlight and whiskey. No one to tell him he’ll be okay. Don’t think about Sirius, sitting in a cold cell, knowing that he didn’t kill his best friends, but feeling like he deserves to be there anyway. Don’t think about him running his hand over one of his scars, just above his heart, and staring at the waxing moon. Don’t think about fingernails that dig into his scar to ground him as he mutters “Moony” repeatedly under his breath.