![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
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.]
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.]
no subject
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.
1/???
[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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
But wait.
There's more.]
no subject
They happen to think it's beautiful.]
Um-
Done
But what else are they supposed to do?]
Maybe we can make hot dogs...tomato.
[Sorry.
They tried.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
"We'll never get to use these icons" we said
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.]
we were young and foolish
There's a list of things he should'a started off with instead of the interrogatory tone he's taken with 'em this whole time, that caution and that Judgment he'd fired at 'em darkly with an icy grin.
Things he should'a done and never did.
Story of his life. When's he gonna learn, huh?]
You deserve more than I've given ya. And I don't -
[The part where they want to die isn't your fault...mostly.
The part where they think they're a huge joke?
That's you.]
I don't think you're a joke, kid. Never did.
[Never should'a turned any of their deaths, their words, their pain - never should'a made those things into jokes, like they could all laugh and laugh and move on, unhurt.]
kill me dead i am Done
In a way, they don't, really. But they can imagine, what kind of things- what they could have said, if they didn't care anymore. If the strongest feeling they had left was just...being mad. They can imagine.
Don't even need to imagine. They know.
And they don't know what to do with his words. Not only due to the usual difficulty they have with formulating a sentence, but part of them (small, and angry, and terrified) whispers that he's not telling the truth. That he's still making sure they don't turn into that, what they were before. They can't blame him.
They never did.]
I forgive you.
[Remember?]
1/2 and i hope you die
And it's like gettin' one of Undyne's spear to his chest. Feels like the biggest lie in the world - rote, ridiculous, stupid, trotted out 'cause it's The Right Thing To Do and not for much else, not for any reason like you deserve it.
Is that the cynicism talking?
He believed that he could, Papyrus. Believed anyone could be a good person, if they just tried. Do a little bit better, he said. He believes you can do a little bit better. He should. He should do better but it's so hard.
It ends with me, he told the thing wearing Chara's face in a sneer, even as they gloated, lording their permanence over him. It ends with me. So it's time - for the kid's sake, for all their sakes, for everybody's damn sake, for Papyrus's because it's what he would've wanted - to do better.
So, try.
Don't grip too tight.
Don't cling too tight to things you might lose.
Once you care, you're fucked.
He ain't Papyrus. Never was. He can't be Papyrus because no one can be Papyrus. No one else can fill that bright spot he is, fill that hole his dispersal left, the dissolution of his body into dust and then - into nothing.
Once you care, you're fucked.
What right's he got, huh? What right's he got to drop something like this on them, like it'll make a difference and if it all comes down to nothing then it'll be like none of it fucking mattered and he can't - he can't live with this, he can't live with this, this weight on him and on his SOUL and they've ended up in there. Get the hell away from my kid he growled, and he'd - goddamn this and goddamn him, he'd meant it.
So, try.
So.
Try.]
i hope we both die
[It's not...
It's what he needs. What they need, both of 'em, to maybe - begin again, right? To start anew. To stop living with the weight of someone else's sins crawling on their back, someone else's unearned guilt poisoning the well, and try.
So try.]
Frisk.
[It's hard.
Maybe the hardest thing he's ever done. Eyesockets slitted closed, hoping to hell he ain't gripping them tight enough to hurt, skull bowed and resting atop their head as they hug him like they're scared to take too much. Scared to hurt him or scare him away if they grip too hard.
Couple of porcelain dolls, the two of 'em, yeah?
He can't
He can't
He can't. But because he can't, he -
has to.
It's time to begin again.]
I -
[The word's barely more than a whisper. It's hard. It's hard and he has to try and he'll try and he'll try and he - he owes it to them. He owes it to them and to Chara and Asriel and he'll Try.]
Forgive you.
1/3 I am drowning, there is no sign of land
He doesn't forgive himself, that's all. That's why they need to be the one to do it for him. Make sure they keep listening, no matter what, to catch him in those times when he thinks he's messed up, and thinks he should stop trying.
That's why they need to listen. He needs someone to listen, because Frisk has Chara, but he doesn't have anybody. And remembering when no one else does.
It's hard.]
you are coming down with me
I forgive you.
They react, recoiling, shoulders drawing up as they seek to become smaller- and not let go. Don't let go. They won't let go.
I forgive you.]
...Sorry.
hand in unlovable hand.
[They're sorry Papyrus is gone. They're sorry his friends are gone. They're sorry all they can do is bring him some things and hope that it'll help, even just a little bit. They're sorry he had to ask if he could hug them.]
I'm sorry. I'm-
[And they're sorry they weren't good enough. They're sorry they never figured it out. They're sorry they snapped at him, sorry that there's a lot of rumors, about a mountain like that. Sorry they fell. Sorry falling didn't do what it was supposed to.
Sorry for causing him and everyone else so much trouble. Sorry he had to remember. Sorry he was alone. They're sorry for being scared and sorry for not knowing how to SAVE people, they're sorry they couldn't fix it all. They're sorry they're scared of Asriel, they're sorry they tried hurting people. Sorry that they got tired of being hurt. That they weren't happy with sitting in a bar with good food and bad laughs.
They have so many things to be sorry for. The word becomes a litany, and their voice breaks. Stops being soft and withdrawn and contained because they're sorry, they're so sorry, and they couldn't SAVE him here either, or Chara, or Asriel, just like they couldn't SAVE anyone before. Their mom, Papyrus, Asgore.
They're so sorry.]
and i hope you blink before i do
The reaction is immediate, and painful. A breathless chain of apologies and for what he can't say. Everything, most like. Everything he's ever made 'em feel like garbage about, and everything they've felt like garbage about on their own, and everything he's driven into their head like it's the most important thing in the world. And all he can do is hold on to them like a lifeline and they don't let go.
It's like they just - break. Like everything breaks. Sorry after sorry after sorry after sorry and he's - did he do this too? Or is he too selfish in makin' that assumption?
He's an adult. And they got reason to be weary.]
I forgive you. I forgive you, okay?
[Because Papyrus -
Because Papyrus would'a wanted it.
And 'cause if he can actually do a damn thing to honor his brother, honor his memory, honor something about him, then he can do this.
The kid deserves a break. From the world, and from him. And he's the wrong guy for this, for all of this, but he said it - he said it ends with me. You say something like that to someone who won't forget it...almost makes it a promise, maybe. Almost. Not quite. But near enough for him to know - it's the first step. It ain't much, maybe. It's something. Not near enough to mend everything he's done and watched be done and contributed to being done.
So.
It's time to do a little better.]
and I hope when you think of me years down the line, you can't find one good thing to say
Doesn't make it any easier to calm down.
What does is the loud voice that reminds them; they're here to comfort him, that this is selfish, that he doesn't want his shirt dirtied because they acted out, and soon after, they're working on catching their breath. Tiny jerks and quivers run through their body from chocked back sobs, and they try- they try to lose that tension. Try to loosen the grip of their fingers, prepare for the fact that he's not going to want to hold onto them after this.
In a voice thick from the turbulence of dealing with their own- dealing with themself, again, they default. Go back to what they're supposed to, like a good child would. Like Frisk does. Because it's not just about them.]
Sorry. I'm- Are-
you're okay?
and i hope if i have the strength to walk out
They withdraw almost immediately. He did something wrong again. Did something...
Maybe it just takes time. He wouldn't know. Time is still an utterly alien thing to him, to them, to damn near everyone from home. Adjustment. A foreign concept, still, even now.
A quiet chuckle escapes him, like a balloon deflating, metacarpals going gently to the back of their head.]
I'm fine, kiddo. I'm...
[He's "fine." He's always just - "fine," ain't he?
Another lie of his. He keeps throwin' those damn things up like firewalls.]
Well, uh. Maybe I will be.
[Maybe he will be. "Okay" is a distant, bizarre concept, the same way "fine" eventually came to translate to "not actively feeling like garbage at the moment." So maybe he ain't all the way there yet. 'Specially not now. It's hard for "okay" to be anywhere in the vicinity of somebody who's lost someone as great as Papyrus.]
...you okay?
you'll stay the hell out of my way
Mostly because they're trying to keep it quiet. That's a much more difficult feat, when their nose is blocked and they're forced to attempt soft breaths through their mouth. Bone against the back of their head; no memories to compare it to. Frisk can't say they're against the motion, no matter how new it seems to be.]
Will be.
[It's the sort of trust they gave Chara, and it's the sort of trust they're giving him now. They will be okay; because they have to be. That's all there is to it.
But maybe it's alright if they aren't, for the moment. They let go with one hand, carefully pulling their arm up between them, rubbing at their nose. And as stupid as it is, they have to laugh; shoulders shaking in quiet humor.
They're supposed to be making him feel better.]
You smell like hot dogs.
[That's probably not helping.]
i HoPe our few remaining friends
give up on trying to SAVE us
i hope we come up with a failsafe plot
to piss off the dumb few that forgave us
i hope the fences we mended
fall down beneath their own weight