Jup, I'm painfully aware of the fact that I do have multiple stories in dire need of an update (I'm looking at you Babysteps). But I got hit with Violinist!Papyrus headcanons... and this happened.
It was supposed to be a quick drabble. It turned into a three-shot. I hate my muse sometimes...
He keeps the violin in a wooden box somewhere in his closet.
Buried in the back, behind neatly stacked clothing he barely wears anymore and mismatched socks he has given up on pairing long ago, getting it out can be quite a hassle. Which is something he can use as an excuse when people ask him why he doesn't play more frequently.
But in truth, the instrument comes out a lot more often than they know. Papyrus just prefers it when nobody is there to hear.
When he gets nervous, panicked, jittery, he pulls it out. His hands tremble as he carefully cradles the smooth case, bare finger bones gliding over the polished wood with a soft scraping sound. Dark and seamless, like the violin itself.
He always takes of his gloves for this.
His head swims with thoughts, refusing to line up into any semblance of order. Were he in need of oxygen, he would be hyperventilating by now.
But when the clasps come undone, his tensed frame relaxes. Finding rosin in the Underground can be a challenge. Papyrus usually has to go as far as New Home to actually get some. He takes out the block, other hand cradling the bow gently, and he starts working.
The movements are slow, methodical, and they put his mind at ease. It is a rhythm he can get lost in. Just for the time being, he doesn't need to think about anything.
He doesn't need to think about his brother's vacant expression. About waking up to the exact same day countless times again. He doesn't need to think about meeting death or being the only one left alive.
He doesn't need to think about knives or flowers or timelines or dust-
Just the motion, up and down, up and down, up and down, running smoothly along the hairs.
By the time his hands are steady again, the work is done. Carefully, he replaces the bow in its appropriate place. He doesn't play then, but he knows the strings will be ready when he next needs them.
When he gets sad, depressed, melancholic, he pulls it out. He sits on his bed, putting the shoulder and chin rests into place first, before picking up a tune.
It doesn't even form into a full song. His hand is in perfect position, holding the strings accordingly to produce a single, clear note.
The sound fills the room, but Papyrus allows it to fully blossom, and to die out again, before he plays another. They come without thought, and he names them in the lingering silence between. Lets the pace pick up until the pauses become shorter and there's a constant stream of soft tones, barely a proper song.
It sounds just like he feels. Something fit to be played at a dusting ceremony.
But just as the notes are extracted from the instrument, hair scratching delicately over string, so too does he feel the negative emotions leave him, as if the music somehow pulls them from him.
It gives them a voice.
Where words fail Papyrus, the violin can compensate. And when he's done, he smiles, not remembering why he was feeling so down in the first place.
When he gets angry, upset, scared, he pulls it out. Hastily, strewing garments across the floor, case open and forgotten on the ground.
Papyrus plays fast, barely allowing the notes to form before he's snuffing them out again. More often then not, they weren't even in tune to begin with.
It's an ugly noise, scratching and grating. His angle is off, the pressure all wrong, his glissandos are slipping, his martelé comes out false. It makes his head ache, and drowns out all else.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is not healthy for the instrument. Surely he'll have time to regret his carelessness later, when he's smoothing a soft cloth over the worn wood. Observes the little dents and cracks. The way he has abused it, to produce such a horrible cacophony of tortured sounds.
But right now, there are no thoughts to spare for future remorse.
Right now, the racket swells and grows, fast-paced tempo steadily building to a head. But the notes sound clearer again. They take the form of a defined tremolo. He strikes the wood hard, col legno, and feels it reverberate all the way to his bones.
It sounds like music. Chaotic, passionate, all over the place. Much like the storm wreaking havoc in his skull.
But somehow also beautiful.
When he's truly desperate, the violin is not enough.
No melody in the world will muffle the voices in his head then. The insistent sound of his own failure.
They think you're stupid. They think you're ignorant. They think you're annoying.
Papyrus clenches the bow so hard, it might just snap clean through. Like the snapping of bones under the pressure of ruthless veins.
You can't protect them. You can't save them. You can't even save yourself.
The strings slide easily. Like a knife through butter. Or through a spine.
You're too weak. You're too oblivious. You're too naïve.
The sound keeps coming, but they are not chords. Just white noise.
Useless. Selfish. Forgettable.
Papyrus tries harder, but it's all in vain. Every tone just clogging the air, already heavy with inadequacy.
This will never stop. There is no end. Why do you still believe?
It's better to just give up.
His eyes are clenched shut, everything hurts, and when his hands close around neck of the instrument he slams it against the wall.
Wood splinters everywhere, scratch against his bones, and even this is not enough to stop the pain.
When his sockets open, he's sitting among ruined pieces of dark wood and detached strings. He feels empty. The kind of void that even his music can't fill.
There is nobody in the Underground who knows how to repair a human violin.
For once, Papyrus is relieved when things are finally reset.
When he's joyful, content, at peace, the box remains in his closet. Happily tucked away in its shelter of abandoned clothing.
It is a backwards kind of logic, Papyrus realizes, but it works for him. There are plenty of other things he can do on good days.
In the end, the violin still comes out more often than not. But only when nobody is around to hear.
Just the way Papyrus prefers it.
Let me know what you think?
