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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.]
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.]
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
It's...something. Not a promise, but maybe - hell, maybe better than a promise, 'cause it ain't an obligation. It's something he wants, maybe. Something he genuinely wants for himself and, fuck it, for them, for Asriel, for Chara, for Alphys. He don't even want to be livin' in sunshine and rainbows and absolute ecstasy. He just wants to wake up one morning and not feel the weight of several lifetimes of sins shackled to his back, yoked atop his ribcage, the bleak emptiness of nothing tellin' him to just keep sleeping it off, 'cause it ain't ever gonna get better.
He just wants to wake up and feel - okay. Not great, not ecstatic, just - okay.
He wants Frisk to wake up and not want to die.
He wants Chara to wake up and not feel they're better off never existing.
He wants Asriel to wake up and feel like there's something worth waking up to.
He laughs, faintly. Glances over to the little hot dog cart the kid brought, must've scavenged from the shops.]
I, uh. Yeah. I need to do some laundry 'round here sometime.
[That's a joke, and it ain't even all that funny. Papyrus always did the laundry. Always reminded him that things needed washing and just general doing around here.
He already misses him.]
give up on trying to SAVE us
[They'll take care of it.
Him and Alphys- they'll. Take care of it. Come over more. Spend time with them. And maybe, if they're quiet, they can help around the house a little, make sure things don't get too bad. It's something they can do; something they're good at, since sometimes Chara's more pedantic than their- than anyone else they've met.
Doesn't really fix things, but it's one more reason to get up. Any reason at all is enough. Knowing they can do something to help out, it-
Fills them, in the usual way.
Right now, though. They should really let go. Can't hold on forever. One first (and last) squeeze of their arms- no matter the smell or the hard edges, they'd hug tighter if they could- and Frisk starts to pull away, rubbing their face on their sleeve, trying to keep their sniffs quiet. Blocked noses. They're not fun.
There's a smile on their face, once they're done. Small, but it's not going anywhere. So maybe that's just as good as a hug.]
i hope we come up with a failsafe plot
It's not much. They let go, and he lets them.]
Heh. Yeah, okay.
[Instead of pushing back at every impulse they have, maybe it's the time to let 'em...be for a little bit. Let Frisk be Frisk. Let Frisk live their life. Let them feel like they can think and say and do as they will without his every word being a criticism.
Just let them - be.
Little snuffles, quiet sounds, and...cripes, he's forgotten humans are so damn leaky. He casts about for a second, digging 'round in his pockets that always happen to have exactly what he needs in 'em. And he comes up with a little wrinkly, rustly ball of what must've been a handkerchief at some point, screwed up into a hot dog-smelling little wad.
He shakes it out.
And, uh...offers it to them, his grin going slightly lopsided, almost apologetic.]
'S okay.
to piss off the dumb few that forgave us
Smells like Grillbys.
They'd give it back, too, but-- Frisk looks down at the crumpled fabric, bottom lip tucking under their teeth as they stow it away; just for cleaning, that's all. He'll get it back.]
...Can I stay?
[Does he want them to, right now? Or does he need to be alone? Time to think is good; they like it too. Is it imposing, to do the exact opposite of what you need, when you're not doing well?
Probably.]
i hope the fences we mended
Yeah. He'll find something in the laundry. A clean handkerchief, or somethin' along those lines. A washing machine that works, that he'll have to figure out since he never rightly bothered to work out the finer points of the mechanics on his own. That was more Newt's area. Hermann's.
Papyrus's.
They ask like it's an imposition on him, like they're an obstacle, somethin' to tolerate. Like this ain't a too-empty house that he can't bear to be in alone.]
'Course you can.
[He crashed on their couch, didn't he? Figures he should leave the door open for 'em, just the same. He's gotta lot to make up for. But maybe payin' back what he owes is a way to start, some.]
Stay as long as you need, kiddo.
fall down beneath their own weight
[Not so much what they need. What he needs.
But they don't push. Pushing- pushing is something they both do a little too much, Frisk thinks. They don't spend a lot of time just being, and maybe there's something for that. Just being, in a silence that's comfortable, where there's no pressure to talk.
The first thing they can do for him is collect up the ketchup bottles, take them into the kitchen. Put them in their proper place; in the cupboard, or the fridge, make sure the dishes are done. If he wants them to be, then all Frisk intends is a quiet imposition; a figure in his periphery, there but unobtrusive.
It's enough, just to be there.]