He who the flowers follow.
Pairingâ Chris Redfield x Piers Nivans (Resident Evil)
The field does not exist on any map.
It exists the way memory doesâfractured, golden, and full of ghosts that still hum with warmth. A half-forgotten Eden, grown not from seed but from sorrow. It unfurls with riotous sunflowers, each a flame arrested in bloom, all of them craning toward a single constant in the sky.
But the sun is not in the sky.
It stands in the center of the field, its name still shaped like Piers in Chrisâ mouth.
Chris walks into that field the way a moth throws itself into a candle. Knowing. Wanting. Unwilling to stop burning.
The air tastes like hallelujahs never sung, like prayers that caught in the throat and curdled into silence. He doesnât need to call out. Piers knows. The way a shadow knows the one casting it.
He stands with his back to Chris, his profile carved from war and aftermath. His mutated arm gleams like a serpent made of moonlight, curled but not striking. The rest of him is sunlight left too long on the windowsillâfaded at the edges, but still warm enough to hurt.
âYou always come when the flowers bloom,â Piers says, voice like rusted hinges on a chapel door.
Chris swallows the ache in his chest and pretends it isnât shaped like forgiveness. âThey only bloom because youâre here.â
The sunflowers sway as if agreeing. They lean in, greedy, hungry for the boy who once carried the ocean inside his lungs and didnât drown. The boy who is no longer boy, no longer soldier, no longer human, but something beyondâand still, still Chris would follow him into hell if only he asked.
âI brought you something,â Chris says.
He offers a single sunflower. Not plucked. Not cut. Uprootedâroots exposed, raw, still dripping with earth like a wound. A gesture both violent and tender.
Piers takes it in his human hand, careful, as though afraid to bruise it with the weight of who he is. The flower droops slightly, not from fear, but reverence.
âItâll die,â he says. âEverything I touch forgets how to live.â
Chris steps forward, until the breath between them feels sacred. âThen let me be the one thing that remembers.â
The words land between them like a vow carved into wet bark. Irrevocable.
The flower leans. It does not wilt. It bowsâto him.
The field shifts. One by one, the sunflowers begin to turn. Not toward the sun. Not toward the sky.
Toward Piers.
Because he is not the monster they feared. He is the miracle they waited for.
And Chris?
Chris watches the whole world bend for him, and thinks:
I would grow roots in his name. I would split myself open just to be the soil he stands on.
I LOVE THIS SO MUCH
