Pursuit of Diligence Chapter 1: A Matter of Pride

It's not a matter of diligence as much as it's a matter of pride. For all that Temple's horns are a textbook example of greed, he's by no means unfamiliar with vice and sin in many different forms. And this, oh, this? There was no way he was going to let this slide.

 

"So you can't," Primrose repeats, his tone as flat as his expression. He hasn't moved from his station behind the Heavenly Embassy's counter, back straight as a ruler and arms crossed over his chest. Temple can't see his feet, obscured by the counter's carved hardwood front, but he can imagine the cherubun's foot tapping impatiently, ready for Temple to get out of his hair. He arches one perfectly-shaped eyebrow, and Temple can just about taste the condescention from how thickly it hangs in the air. "Will that be all?"

 

"No," Temple snaps, crossing his arms in a mirror of Primrose, though the succubun's posture is far more blatantly antagonistic. Primrose at least has the decorum to pretend to be civil; Temple has no such reservations. "I never said that. I said I don't want to take care of your stupid garden, not that I can't. You missing your hearing as well as your horns?"

 

Primrose sniffs, but doesn't rise to the bait. Temple's frown deepens into a scowl, but before he can even open his mouth, the cherubun cuts him off.

 

"Won't or can't, it makes no difference. The flowers have been growing slower than expected, so we can't spare any to harvest for ambrosia. Unless you decide to lend assistance in growing more, there won't be any ambrosia for the foreseeable future; we're not risking irrevocably damaging the flower population for one bun's greed. Now, if you're not here to offer assistance, kindly allow me to return to my work."

 

It's not even that Temple can drink the ambrosia- no, as a succubun, it would burn his throat the same way Burrowgatory's drinks would burn a cherubun's.

 

But it's the aesthetic.

 

He'd seen Otome's Floral Ambrosia bottle in his apartment, the first time Temple had visited. Even filled with just plain water filling it, its contents long since drunk, the bottle had practically glowed, drawing Temple's attention immediately. He'd demanded to know just what it was, where had Otome gotten it, how much was it, can Temple have it-

 

Otome had cut him off there. "It's ambrosia. It's from the Heavenly Embassay. More carats than you have to spare right now. No, you can't have it."

 

"Besides," Otome had continued, plucking the bottle from its perch to cradle it in his hands, gently thumbing over the vines and petals decorating the outside. "I think Bitter Ambrosia would suit you far better."

 

"...there's more than one type??"

 

It had thrown Temple, usually fond of libraries simply for the atmosphere and less for their contents, into a studying frenzy. 'Greed' for Temple had always led to obsession, all-encompassing until he can own the object of his desires, can hold it in his hands and add it to his collections, perfectly curated to a gothic ideal.

 

The information hadn't been hidden, not really, Temple had just not really cared about the intricacies of cherubun society and history. They fell from above or something, and now they're here; that's about all Temple cared to learn until this point. Why bother with something that didn't affect him directly?

 

Except now, now it affects him. Because Otome was right. That Bitter Ambrosia? With the ominous skull stopped and dull purple hue?

 

He needs it.

 

But of course, it would never be that easy, because by the time Temple convinced himself to part with 400 of his hoard of carats, lo and behold... they're out of stock.

 

Temple's shoulders raise defensively, and his tail whips back and forth behind him, agitated. Primrose's eyes dart towards the movement for a moment, before returning their unimpressed stare to Temple's face.

 

"Are you going to stand there all day?" Primrose asks icily, his patience clearly starting to thin. "Like I said, if you can't-"

 

"Fine," Temple cuts in, throwing his hands up in exasperation. His perfectly manicured hands, which rarely have to see any kind of manual labor, let alone become covered in dirt. Disgusting. "I'll help you grow your damn flowers."

 

Primrose got what he wanted, and yet somehow, he looks even more displeased.

 

"...please refrain from blaspheming in the halls of the embassay."

 

Temple just can't win today.

 

---

 

"Come on. On your knees." Primrose gestures impatiently to the space beside him, already down on the ground, not caring of the dirt no doubt staining the knees of his pants. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and beside him sit a small sack of seeds, something that looks like a miniature rake, and an equally tiny shovel.

 

"Oh you'd like that wouldn't you," Temple can't help but mutter, but the heat in his voice is clearly halfhearted. The jab is weak enough that Primrose doesn't even flush. 

 

Temple shifts back and forth, before acquiesing to the order, though not without a lot of whining and grumbling, making it clear how much he dislikes this and how grateful Primrose should be that Temple is lending his support. ...ignore that this is all in pursuit of Temple's own selfish desires, please.

 

Soil digs in to his flesh knee, and sneaks into the crevices of his ball-jointed knee; he'll be digging little bits of dirt out for hours later, he's sure... but once he's down on the ground, it's... not too bad. The greenhouse is warm, but not too warm, and he can admit that being surrounded by all the plant growth gives the building a pleasant atmosphere.

 

"Now, first we till the soil," Primrose instructs, taking the rake-looking tool and digging in to the dirt, deeper than Temple thinks is necessary. "Use the cultivator like this. You need to go down as far as you can, so even the deepest roots can still breathe." The cherubun agitates the soil for a few moments, before pulling back and offering the tool- cultivator, apparently- to Temple. The succubun takes it reluctantly, grimacing at the motes of dirt clinging to the handle and to Primrose's hand. "Do it just as I did."

 

Temple obeys, though not without a few quiet curses to Primrose and his family line muttered under his breath. Primrose doesn't chastise Temple this time, meaning either he's given up, or he's decided that it's not worth wasting his breath.

 

Tilling is harder than it looks- Temple is slower than Primrose, and it's not long before his forearms are burning, his muscles unused to the motion.

 

He ends up so focused he doesn't realize Primrose got up until he returns, a bucket full of... more soil, apparently, in his hand. "Keep going. I'm going to add this as you go. We need to continually add new organics and fertilizer each year, so the soil doesn't become barren."

 

The new soil gets mixed in, Temple's awkward motions slow but eventually effective. Primrose scoots them over a foot at a time, until the whole flowerbed is thoroughly mixed and fertilized.

 

"Good," the cherubun says, though it sounds less like praise and more like a quarterly evaluation assessing Temple as barely passing. The sky is beginning to dim outside, and Temple's forehead is drenched in sweat, but Primrose looks barely worse for wear, the only evidence of his own work small patches of dirt on his knees and hands covered in a fine layer of soil. He drops the now-empty bucket off to the side, before crouching down beside Temple once more.

 

"Now, use the trowel- or your hands, though... hm, no, just use the trowel. Use the trowel to dig a hole, about two inches deep." He demonstrates as he speaks, making a perfect divot in the tilled loam. "Put one seed in, and cover it up. Do not pack the soil down, leave it light and airy. Do the next one six inches apart, and when you finish the row, make sure to stagger the next one to avoid crowding. Got it?"

 

Temple nods, before pausing. Six inches.... but that's....

 

"...wait, that means- I'll be here all night planting these??"

 

Primrose gives Temple a flat look. "No, the Embassay closes at six. I'll come get you. And then, you'll be back tomorrow."

 

Temple opens his mouth, another protest on his tongue, but Primrose cuts him off.

 

"You'll be back tomorrow, right?"

 

This is humiliating, being talked down to like this. Temple is no stranger to being degraded while on his knees, but usually it's a lot more fun, and involves about 110% less dirt.

 

It's for the aesthetic, he tells himself. He'll be getting that Bitter Ambrosia. Temple never loses out on something he wants. And, at this point, Primrose's condescending attitude needs to be checked; Temple can do this, will do this.

 

"Right," Temple says, offering a sacchrine smile that does a horrible job of concealing his bitterness. "I'll be back tomorrow, then."