hadriel | 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.]

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[Whole mess of things well up in his head that he don't put words into. They don't have to. Don't have to bother, don't have to try - not when he's given 'em no reason to bother one way or another. But maybe trying is just...what they do. What they are as a form of comfort, or somethin' along those lines. It's their equivalent of Alphys's long hours watching the same episodes of the same show she's seen a dozen times over. Recharge.

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.

[Seems like he's okay with it. That, more than a crumpled (and greasy, but they don't tell him that as they fumble with the fabric to find a clean spot) hankie, is worth the world. Eventually, they blow their nose, wiping their face on their sleeve soon after.

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.]

[Eh, he can find something in the laundry, maybe. The last load Papyrus did before he, uh

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.

Okay.

[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.]

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

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