hadriel | video; what's gonna be left of the world if you're not in it

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video; what's gonna be left of the world if you're not in it

[Sans has something in his hands. It's a bolt of fabric that he runs between his metacarpals with a distant, unfocused precision, something to idly turn between his phalanges as he speaks. Might take a moment to realize that the backdrop to his video ain't the typical one. It's not his room he's sitting in, after all. He's reclining atop a racecar bed. The sheets are perfectly made, as though the owner were planning on returning at some point. On the bedside table, there's a small stack of belongings that clash rather astutely with the layout of the place. A snowglobe, a binder, an ECHOcomm, and at the very far right of the frame, a folded-up sweater vest.

He dropped in to visit some pals of his, you see. Only to find they ain't around anymore.]

For those of you who knew 'em, seems the docs've gone home. You know the ones. Newt and Hermann. [A pause.] Dr. Gottlieb.

[Being a pain in the coccyx suddenly gets to be less funny when there ain't anybody to yell at you about it, huh?]

Hope it's home they went, and not, uh...wherever it was before they got here. Yao know what I'm talkin' about.

[He folds up the cloth in his hands and stands up, grinning at the camera without a lick of despair. Maybe there's somethin' a bit tired to the whole facade, but who can say? He's always tired.]

I hate to tell ya, but it looks like my bro might'a been the guy to slack off for once. Funny, right? Takin' that hard-earned title from yours truly. Here I thought I was supposed to be the guy who nips off without a word.

[Those with sharp eyes might pick up that the cloth ain't just any old thing. It's Papyrus's sash delineating him as an official member of the City Guard - twice torn, twice mended, and now without an owner. Like hell Sans is cut out to wear a thing like this.]

'Pologies to the Guard. Looks like you're one member short. 'Fraid I can't help ya there either; Papyrus, he's got some big shoes to fill.

[He winks at the lens before reaching for the communicator and then, almost as an afterthought, adds:]

Someone ought'a take care of the lab the docs built. Lotta their stuff's still in there, too, and lyin' around my place. Figure it should go to the people who knew 'em best.

[Y'know, whoever that is. But you all know who you are, don't ya?

Yeah. He'd think so.

He cuts the feed.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[............

Another text follows the first fairly quickly. Where's spellchecker when you need it?]

Knock knock.

[He, uh.

He kinda didn't even realize there was a typo at all until they followed up with a second text, seemingly exactly the same as the first. Until...nah, they made a mistake, he sees now. The lights in his eyesockets swing between the two with a distant, weary amusement.

It's nice of 'em to stick to text. That way he don't feel obligated to laugh when he ain't feelin' much like laughing.]

who's there

[It's not as if they'd know what to say anyway. At least with a text, they have some time to think, juggling their thoughts, and- other things.]

Full.

[Text is easier. For a lotta reasons. For him and for Chara both. And, it turns out, for Frisk too.

It's easier. He won't contest that.]

full who

My h

[...Oh, this really isn't working out.]

My hands are full canyou let me in pleas

[Again, the message sends before they've finished typing it. Okay, fine. It's readable. That'll do.

Typing on the phone is a little too hard when they can't really balance this in one hand.]

[Uh.

What?

He could, conceivably, get up. Shamble his way to the door. And then - along the stairs, across the living room, haul his coccyx all the way to the door and then, in a sequence that requires more effort than he's got to him, reach a hand to the knob and open it.

He takes a shortcut instead.

Leans the crown of his skull up against the door for a moment. If he'd the lungs to do it, he'd be takin' the moment to breathe. As it is, he's just gotta brace himself mentally, shoulders drawin' up to his temples and then down again, fluidly.

Wasn't plannin' on facing the world today, but looks like the world came and knocked on his door instead.]

[Open the door, and smile. Typing is hard when your hands are full. But a joke's a joke. You don't leave it hangin' incomplete.]

Full who?

[He smiles at a box. Just kind of a- worn, tired looking cardboard box, with writing (they don't know the language) scribbled across the sides and the top. It adds at least a good foot to Frisk's height- until they peer around the box, at least, shrugging in compensation for the fact that, yknow.

Can't uh. Can't wave, buddy.]

My arms are full, can you let me in please?

[And since that joke falls a little flat-]

I'll get board if you don't.

[Takes him a second, but he - yeah, all right, no, that's...that's good. He laughs, even if it's a vague little spurt of sound, and shuffles back to let 'em inside.

Plenty of room to spread out. The floor's still clean, for however long that'll last until he and Alphys muck the place up again. With no one to clean it up, it'll go downhill pretty quick.]

Guess you're thinkin' outside the box, huh?

[It's appreciated, really. They nod in answer, waddling (for lack of a better word as to what one does, when carrying a box that probably weighs just as much as them) over to the couch, carefully lowering their load. Their sigh of relief is quiet, but it's- there.

They carried that thing to a lot of different places, today. Feels good, to be at it's final destination. A hand waves Sans over, pointing at the couch. Park your keister, meister.]

It's working out sofa.

...Got you some stuff.

[The couch is -

It's not dusty. It's well-used, well-worn. Papyrus arranged the pillows and cushions tastefully in the optimal formation for collapsing atop the couch after a long day of boondoggling, lollygagging, and general nothing-doing. And each piece he disturbs is another piece of his brother he'll never get back. He'll coat every inch of this place in a patina of dust and garbage, and every lovingly polished and cleaned and well-cared for surface will evaporate into nothing, like he weren't ever here.

Sans obliges, dropping onto the couch without complaint.]

Aw, gee, kid. [He runs a hand over the ridge of one rounded edge of his skull that approximates a cheek, diggin' in with the palm of his heel.] You didn't have to.

Wanted to.

[And that's all there is to it. They watch him as he settles in, makes sure he's comfortable before nodding, just a little, straightening their shoulders, taking in a little breath.

They

Well. It's all they've got.]

[So here goes nothing. Usually, when you bring someone a present, you're supposed to let them open it. But it's Sans, so Frisk doesn't offer. It's better if they do it for him, carefully lifting the flap closet to him just enough to reach in, but not enough that he can peek.

Obvious stuff for starters. Obvious being the obvious word, when they pull out a bottle of tomato sauce- and another. And... another. And three more after that one. They line them up carefully on the carpet next to them, and for the most part they seem to be the same brand.

There's also, uh.

They didn't go looking for it, but they couldn't just leave it, either.]

[It becomes readily apparent as to why Frisk was having so much trouble when the books are pulled out, next. Most of the day had gone to pilfering through the library, digging out as many joke books as they could find (eight, just eight), and whatever else looked good. Two books of constellations, even if one was probably illegible, and only good for the charts. Guinness Book Of World Records, 2002. It has some cool stuff in it. Books are good.

But wait.

There's more.]

[The very last thing...is a chance find. Hard to get in their box, harder to get out. They try pulling at it for a few moments, eventually giving in and carefully tipping the box on it's side, pulling it out that way.

They happen to think it's beautiful.]

Um-

[That's it. That's what they're supposed to say here, pushing the box out of the way, letting Sans take things in as he wants to. But they're no good with words, and they know (in that horrible, childish understanding of what it feels like, when you do wrong. And your stomach twists, your shoulders tense, in preparation for the worst) it doesn't fix anything. Doesn't bring people or dogs back. But

But what else are they supposed to do?]

Maybe we can make hot dogs...tomato.

[Sorry.

They tried.]

[They. Wow.

That's the last thing he could'a possibly expected. It's not just - it's not some kinda elaborate set-up for a joke, it's an actual - gift. It's somethin' they put together with him in mind. Joke books, books on stars, and his SOUL twinges painfully in his rib cage, a bittersweet closing of a fist around the memory of stories told to kids and skeletons, about stars and galaxies.

It doesn't fix anything. It doesn't bring people or dogs back.

For a moment, he puts a hand to his face, and can't think of a thing to say.

It's a care package. They made it. They made it to help, and he - he can't rightly say, but it might be one of the most legitimately thoughtful things anyone's ever done for him.

The hand drops and reaches carefully, steadily, in an open palm - an invitation, hesitant.]

C'mere, kid.

[He's a shaky history with hugs. Hugs for kids in particular. But if he's lucky - hell, maybe they won't mind. Don't want 'em feelin' obligated, like they should on his behalf.

Just that words can't rightly cut it at the moment, he don't think.]

[Is that good?

They don't know. They don't know; never done this before. Most of the time (all the time, always) they didn't have the resources to do anything or make anything or- give anything. They tried, once. They never tried again.

People don't really like to be bothered when they're sad. Except Sans reached out to everyone first, and they know he spent time sharing jokes with Chara, and they know he spoke to other people, too. Maybe the way he responded was Okay, but... he did respond. He wasn't mad.

They have to trust he isn't mad here either. So they get up, taking a few steps forwards. Take the hand that's offered. Just as hesitant.]

[It's slow. Gives 'em every chance to retreat, back away, say no. And it's fine. It's fine if they - it's fine. He's got no right. He gets shakily to his feet, hand cupped carefully 'round theirs.]

I'm gonna...

[He's never done this before. Never had to ask. But he should ask. Should make sure it's okay before you do something like this to a kid who might have unkind memories of being - well, it's like the them that wasn't them said: he's an adult. They got reason to be weary.]

D'you want, uh - [For a guy who's all about gettin' to the point, he sure is being infuriatingly vague, ain't he? Clear that nonexistent throat of his and try again:] Is a hug maybe...okay?

[It's not his fault if they tense, just a little. When he stands up. Not his fault, and they try not to let it be apparent, or a big deal, because they've sat next to Sans before (leaned on him, or let him lean on them. Let him use them as a prop when he was at his most dangerous, and he gave them their jacket. Didn't hurt them once) and they know- they think they know, they

They hope he wouldn't. Wouldn't pretend it was all okay if it wasn't. They let him fumble a bit with his words, and when the actual question is out, they look up. Quickly, and the shock is clear enough. That he's asking, for one. That he wants to?

That he wants to. That he wants to hug them. Their lips part for a moment, a whisper of a noise that doesn't do anything, before they just offer a nod, hasty and fast because yeah, okay, yeah.

Yeah, says the way they bring their other arm up. Yeah. I'd like that too.]

[They tense, just a little. It's purely reactionary, and he can't blame 'em for that. He's an adult. He's given 'em plenty of reason to be wary, and he don't wanna overstep his bounds yet again. He can do a little bit better, can't he? He can try.

They don't manage a verbal answer, but there's a nod, and their arm comes up. The shock on their features, the sheer unexpected nature of the thing - they'd never assume he'd think a thing like that, let alone ask, huh? Can he blame 'em?

Not as such, no.

He goes slow. Moves slow. Keeps giving 'em an out if they require it. Bringing one arm up and then the other and then careful, easy, the rounded bottom of skull that comprises his chin lifting to rest over that tangle of brown hair.]

I, uh...

[Don't hold too close, too tight. Papyrus could take it, but he knew to expect it, and he never flinched because Sans made a motion to stand or backed away or looked at him, nervous. Don't ruin this now.]

Thank you. For...all of this.

[Toriel's hug was always tight and warm. She hugged them like she didn't want to let go, like she never expected to see them again- and she was right, wasn't she? She never saw them again, she just...met them, again. All over again.

And Chara; back when things were bad. Two kids with their LOVE fluxing all over the place, when Frisk could barely stand- worse than they had been the past week, much worse than they are now, with bruises that have steadily faded to yellows and uncomfortable purpley-greens; breathing in deeply doesn't hurt anymore. Chara had held them up. Collapsed on Frisk's bed and stayed with them, for the most part. They held hands; like Asriel had held their hand, and

And that was it, wasn't it.

So he moves slow and careful, and they don't complain. Try not to think and compare all too much, because his jacket might be thick, but he's still all bones. Warm. Smells- he doesn't smell all that great, honestly. They think again about how Alphys says his clothes never get washed.

He says thank you. Lets his chin rest on the top of their head, nice and and careful, and Frisk- eventually moves, as well. Unfreezes to move their own arms round his back, let their fingers grip the fabric there.
so, so tightly. they hold onto his jacket tightly, let all their nervous energy go there. pretend that if they hold tight enough, they'll never have to let go.
Another nod, against his sternum. They'd say something, but the impulsive sorry gets stuck in their throat, and stays there. Probably better that it does.]

Edited 2017-02-05 00:25 (UTC)

[Can't imagine he's what you'd call comfortable, when it comes to hugs. He probably clings too tight or not enough, as slack and lazy as he is on the daily. All bone, padded out with a jacket and a roundness that don't make much sense considering he's all skeletal the way he is, but hey - magic don't make much sense, do it? It's what he is: big-boned.

Takes 'em a minute, but they get there soon enough. And their fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket and they cling, and he don't wanna hold on too tightly.]

I'm glad you're here. Not just now, but -

[That'd be the point where he'd break off to make a looping, equivocal gesture with one hand.

But, uh, funny thing.

He don't want to let go.]

Y'know. In the city.

[Like it or not, there's a way thing's've played out. He ain't free, he's realized; he's been touched by their SOUL, and they've touched his in turn. Made their way in there regardless of his intention.

Well, hell.

Objectivity is overrated anyway.

[Validation.

They don't really know that word. It's not one Chara's told them about, not something they'd picked up Before. The word means nothing, though at their age, they could break it down a little. Valid. To validate something. To feel wanted, like you've done something good.

They don't know the word, but the feeling exists, all the same. Takes a moment to breathe again, with eyes uncomfortably warm- don't really want to let it be more than that. Don't want to ruin anything.]

Me too.

[Small and croaky; they're glad- that he's here, too. If it can't be the happiest end, if he had nothing left to go back to, they're glad he has something. Something is always better than nothing. Something means Okay can become something meaningful, one day, even if it's just in little ways. Like joke books and stars.

Even if they fight. Even if he asks things sometimes, or says things that hurt- in this moment, and every moment. With all of their being, they hope that this moment, surrounded by this warm feeling, helps SAVE him, even a little bit.

They've never had the objectivity not to care. Another word they don't know.

Perhaps Frisk should brush up on their dictionary.]

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