—

tenses: past, present

songs: fear of the water, syml; where's my love, syml; oh well oh well, mayday parade

—

Sans knows he loves her, because, really, who in their right mind wouldn't? And, maybe, back then (—back when Time is dead and Death is but a child's game—), loving her was never deemed possible nor likely. She was twelve, and his age is not existent anymore, so why should he think of her as anything more than a child?

Then, she saved all of them (—for real, no turning back, I'm sorry—), and he's given the chance to be free from the Underground and all its violent memories. Of course, they both know that would never happen—neither of them are stupid, and neither held any hope of the Underground leaving them—but, they could try.

And, try he did.

(He never really wondered if she had too, because he had been so sure she had.)

It had never been easy. The first year? The second—third? He hated having to sleep at night, so he doesn't. (He could hear that demon under his bed. He could see their grinning face in the shadows. He knows they are there. He knows—) He hated the sun and the days, so he shuts them away. (This isn't real. This is temporary. The kid will get bored. The kid will—) He hated trying, so he gave up. ("just give up. i did.")

Sans blamed her for who he had become, because wasn't she the reason for his torment? For his constant encounters between delusions and reality?

"i hate you," he had told her when she had finally took the courage to visit him. Evening and at winter—it reminded him of Snowdin. Her reply? "I know. I hate me, too." She was smiling, and so had the scars on her skin. How can someone say that so genuinely? Sans doesn't know. (He does know.) He doesn't want to know. She had left soon, anyway, so it doesn't matter.

Frisk had been sixteen, but she's still a kid to him—compared to him. He doesn't understand why he always had to bring that up, until after the fourth—fifth, sixth, seventh year on the Surface and he's finally got his shit back together, and ah. Frisk loves him. Ah.

She had never told Sans, and he was embarrassed to say that it took him much more time to notice something so obvious, moreso than the indiscernible mist in the early hours of the morning he usually watched swirl and dance, and he knew he wouldn't have known if Toriel hadn't innocently asked about it. ("what." "Oh, forgive me. My child never takes any suitor seriously, so I had assumed…")

What was with her? Doesn't she know she could have anyone—could have done better than him?

"I don't know. It just felt wrong to try and love someone that isn't you," she had told him when he asked. Frisk had been smiling. He hadn't liked that smile, so he kissed her. It was a small bump on the lips, but still a horrible decision, because they both know it didn't mean anything to him other than an irrational spur of the moment. Frisk didn't stop smiling. It's better though, and he found himself smiling back at her.

Wait—no. No. She's still a kid to him—compared to him, and this is just wrong—

"I'm twenty, Sans. I'm not a child anymore."

Oh. Right.

(And, everything he'd always told himself went down the drain.)

Sans had wondered if he should confide … whatever this was with someone, but he just laughed it off, because he's Sans and Sans hates begging for help on things that should not concern other people. If it's his problem and only his, then it would be better to rot along with it.

(He's just a big lazy sack of bones, so what's there to rot?)

He had ended up going to Alphys, after all. She's an over-enthusiastic romantic, so why not?

"So, what's stopping you?"

(She's still a kid to him—compared to him—and, this just sounds so redundant. He really should stop this line of reasoning, since it doesn't actually answer anything anymore. It's becoming pathetic.)

"… i don't know."

"Sans, you know Frisk. She's content just having you as a friend, so it's fine if you don't love her in the way she does you. Don't worry."

He's worrying, because, of course he was, and he wasn't sure why. He doesn't know how to tell that to Alphys, so he had thanked her and left to sort his thoughts in a more organized manner.

Ha! Organized.

It had become more chaotic, after a few more minutes of pondering. He had wondered if this was what Pap felt like every time he sees Sans' room. Too bad Sans can't shout "DANG IT SANS, GET YOUR LIFE BACK TOGETHER OR ELSE—" without replying sarcastically back at himself. He is hilarious—miserable, yes, but hilarious.

Frisk is twenty-two when he finally—finally—has his mind together, and god. He's back where he started—back to the beginning of the story—legs dangling from the edge of his bed as he stares at her with searching eyes. The door is locked, and is this not deemed scandalous in the eyes of human society? He doesn't really know. The human society is too complicated for anyone to comprehend, and (—gosh—) does it need its own hobby.

The smile on her face is alluring, and he touches her cheek just to look at it better. She tells him the tips of his fingers are cold. "It's fine," she whispers quickly when he frantically moves away, her voice soft and small. Sans knows she's trying not to break. Her trembling lips say that much.

(He had never seen lips tremble so much before …)

"you're not fine." Well, of course she isn't, and he tries not to wince at his lack of tact. The mattress groans as she moves, legs no longer dangling and face no longer smiling. It's pensive and solemn—private. He knows he shouldn't have seen it.

And, like a teasing parrot, she replies, "you're not fine."

Well—of course. He's not fine. They're not fine. Well, of course; what the heck's new?

Four hours: that is the length of their contemplative silence, picking at the right words and the right thoughts until they're sour in their minds. She is quiet, still perusing over the appropriate things to say in her head, when Sans finally gives in, so very tiny in his too empty room and too large bed and too long distance from her:

"i love you."

Its parting from his mouth is graceful like water, and he is left mystified at the warmth shining through his shirt like the gentle glow of the sun.

"Do you—do you mean it?"

(Her expression is vacant, a blank sheet of canvas. He nods.)

"i do."

(And, all her words—mountains of calculated syllables and measured wordings—erupt in a single sob of uninhibited relief.)

The night is cold, and so are his fingertips, but this new sensation is warm and she is warm, and they both sleep, smiling.

(They're not fine, not by a long shot, but it's a great time to start, right?)

News spreads quite fast. Sans had been expecting it, really. Humans have the annoying habit of sticking their noses in businesses that shouldn't be any of their concern and dish out unwanted opinions, like okay Barbara, shut the hell up, we know you think monsters are nothing but dirt but that doesn't mean you have to shove it in every-fucking-one's faces when they're not asking for it, dammit.

So, really, he isn't all that surprised at the murmurs and whispers and pointed stares and disgusted faces three weeks after. (Huh. Time moves a lot faster when there isn't anyone RESETTI—Sans, stop it. Stop it. She's not like that anymore. Stop it. Stop it stop it stop it sto—)

(Eh. This is still a work in progress anyway.)

Sans isn't all that bitter, but, he thinks firmly, as he looks at Frisk's rather broken self: society could have been a lot nicer. And, if not for him (—that one skeleton guy who's always at that one burger joint; that short thing that barely went up to her chin; that freaky monster who—), then at least for her.

(Undyne tells him to ignore them, Asgore muses at humankind's consistent fear of the unknown and unconventional even after so many centuries, Papyrus offers a small smile of sympathy—and, wait, hadn't he confessed once, in the not-so-earlier years Aboveground, where Sans had finally gotten his shit together and started working for the Observatory per recommendation of Alphys, under starry skies and on dewy grass, that he had fallen in love with Frisk? "Brother, I … I wonder if someday the Human would fall in love with me, too," he had whispered, full of hope and wonder—and, oh my god, Sans, you screwed up.)

("It is fine, Sans." Fine—that's a word he's been getting to know too well lately. He hates it.)

(What the fuck is "fine" anyway?)

"come on, sweetheart." He knocks on the bathroom door—locked—as he gazes at his flimsy slippers. He could hear the water gushing out of the faucet and the rain-like music of a switched on showerhead. "you've been there for over an hour. i'm getting kind of worried over here."

(He could hear her crying.)

"I'll—I'll be out in a minute."

(He knows what she's doing with sharp things with sharps ends. He could hear it from the other side of the door. His hand is shaking over the knob, and he could just turn it destroy the door—come on, just destroy the door—but, she hadn't told him about this, and he doesn't know what to do. He's frozen. He doesn't know what to do.)

"okay. dinner's spaghetti, by the way."

"Y—Yeah?"

"… yeah."

(And, he's retreating then, slow and lethargic, while praying: "don't die—please, don't die".)

She emerges from the room after five minutes instead of one, right as the kettle whistles. He shuts the stove off, and smiles at her easily. "coffee?"

Frisk smiles as easily. "You know me too well."

(Neither of them have the heart to tell that she lied—or, maybe she hadn't, and Sans actually did know her too well. So very well.)

(He doesn't know which one is worse.)

Three: the number of hours that had passed before he ended up crying, blue drips of magic falling heavily down his face. "the fuck is with this world?"

(Absentmindedly, he thinks of seven-year olds and bruises on their faces, nine-year olds with callused knuckles and broken soles, eleven-year olds and eleven jutting ribs, twelve-year olds and what would it feel like if I fell down this hole, I wonder? He knows her too well—so very well.)

The edges of his vision blur with grey fog, and he gasps, his breath stuck somewhere. Sans collapses to the floor, choking (—i can't breathe i can't breathe i can't—), and why are the walls moving in? Panic. He's panicking. There's a sharp noise stuck in his head, and he wants it to get out get out get out—

("i'm better, paps, don't worry. i don't have them anymore.")

He doesn't remember sleeping, but he does remember his room—spiralling, closing in, caving—

"Hey," Frisk greets, tired and exhausted. She's curled right beside him, hair of bronze splayed about like some kind of sick halo, shining from sweat. Her eyes are red with dried tears, but, now that he thinks about it, when weren't they?

San's blinks. "hey," he says back, raspy. "what time is it?" He could easily just turn over his side and look at the clock propped against the table beside his bed, but—nope, it's not easy. He wants to vomit. He could imagine it now: rough and slimy, a mixture of half-dissolved decent food and rotting magic that—

"Sans!"

Oh, so it wasn't just his imagination?

(Oh, no. It's much worse—it tastes like sin.)

"j—just give me—" he spits out in between heaving breaths and heaving disgusting things, "—just give me a—moment!" He feels it, evil, crawling down his back. Fuck. Or, maybe that's just her hand rubbing circles on his back. Sans doesn't know what to make of that, nor does he have the time.

(Papyrus shouldn't know about this. Spaghetti sauce looks like blood for some reason—Papyrus should never know about this.)

It ends with a final lurch, and the waste dissipates like it had never been there, drip by drip fading. The sheets are wet though, he grimaces. He wonders if there's an extra set in his cabinet.

"Let me get them," she mumbles as she moves away from the bed. "Don't—don't move, okay?"

It's seventeen minutes after three, and perhaps it's too early for anything, but he thinks he should at least remove the dirty sheets before Frisk gets back. His spine gives out a painful whine when he stands up. Sans sucks it up, snaps his fingers and lets his magic do the job.

It is the second time he falls to his knees. He pants, ribs quivering under his thin clothes. His sight darkens, and he slumps forward, his skull on the border of the mattress.

"I told you not to move."

"'m sorry," he says. (He's not though, because he would be damned if he would let her do everything alone.)

(The look on her face is heart-breaking.)

"Chara hates humans."

"yeah?"

It's now twenty-eight minutes after three, and the plush smells like mothballs and closets, with the undertone of lemon and soap. Her fingers are laced together, placed on top of her stomach, while he's on his side, staring with half-lidded eyes. They can't sleep now, because, really, who would want to sleep after such a horrid display of guts? Heh.

"They sometimes tell me about their life before the Underground," she swallows, "it isn't very happy."

He wonders if it would be a good idea to tell her that he doesn't give a crap about that demon-child, and he decides that maybe it is worth a try to convince her to stop talking about them.

Frisk laughs instead. "I guess you're right. They don't really like being talked about anyway." A pause. She swallows again. He is suddenly fascinated at her jaw, the sharp line that had been absent a lifetime ago. She is not a child anymore, after all. "But, I can't help but think that they're right at one thing."

Against better judgement, he asks: "and, what is that?"

"That humans are selfish," she starts, quiet and gentle. "And, humans will always be selfish, and that it's this selfishness that makes us humans."

(He doesn't like that. He really doesn't.)

"the beach," he coughs, "let's go to the beach tomorrow."

(He rather likes the gasp of wonderment she breathes out, her eyes glittering with a happiness he hasn't seen since a lifetime ago.)

He hates the beach, he quickly remembers. It's too sticky and slimy, and the grains of sand stuck between his bones—a very revolting feeling— is difficult to remove. The sun is glaring, hot and cutting, and he wonders if death will come quite soon this year. (There's a faint inkling, somewhere. He could taste it in the salt drifting in the wind and dust in the air. It tastes horrible.)

No. Sans, stop.

Frisk is happy—a slip of a figure amongst the waves of the water, basking in the light in blissful stillness.

She is content, and Sans thinks he could live with scrubbing away his whole being if he could bring at least some semblance of tranquillity back in her soul.

"This," she starts when she gets back. Her lashes stick to her skin. "This is nice."

"speak for yourself." Sans is kidding. (Or, maybe he's not. Who knows?)

Frisk laughs. "Oh, come on. You enjoyed the food."

Pfft—yeah, oh gosh, she's good at bantering, he can't believe he forgot. He laughs, a little too loud and a little too wide, and she's fretting when he starts crying, because, really, she's perfect and he's a stupid idiot to even think she is. (And, little things his notice has missed comes in tides, overwhelming him until it's clear that he really is a stupid idiot for missing it. He must be crazy—surely he must be—because he's not even sure what made him so overcome with emotions in the first place.) This—is this what he has spent years worrying about?

"oh my god, i really do love you." He grins, and when the sun becomes too harsh and the water becomes too cold, he takes her hand. "let's go?"

She smiles.

(The ocean gave her happiness; he should have known the tide had taken something in exchange. Better—he should have known better.)

The Embassy calls for a meeting scheduled to happen in a week's time, and Sans wants to go. Frisk shoots him down quickly with a tight-lipped smile. "No."

("what the fuck, Frisk?")

Japan is so far away, and so is next Wednesday, an airplane ticket back home.

(He wished he had gone with her.)

"I—" her voice is so quiet when she silently sits on the couch, and he thinks the world is purposefully abuzz with so much noise in the cold afternoon, because it loves hearing her words, her heart, her being crack more and more. Sans wants to touch her, but her eyes are dark, so so dark, and he fears if his fingers caress her skin, she would shatter.

"The Embassy thinks I am not—I can't—handle the responsibility," and she doesn't cry when she continues, "They think personal issues may turn me bias—but, it's alright! The—Melissa is a good person, and—"

Sans feels himself floating, sharp and high, because Melissa, really? "that fucking embassy." And, god, he really wishes he went with her, if only to kill those motherfu—

"Stop. Please." He does, lowering his gaze until it reaches her bare feet on the carpet, her ankles glistening in a strange silver glow—he does not want to stop, of course, but he does. "It's—it's done now, and Melissa is—good—and, the Embassy really just wants me to take a break—which was nice of them, really—and—" she continues rambling, her fingers fretting over the small button sewn on the breast-pocket of her jacket. Sans lets her, because he knows the reassurance is more for her than him. (Lying against his mind isn't his strongest suit.) His hands do a constant thrum against a kneecap.

"let's go to the beach."

(Something in his bones sing, melancholic and pitying. He doesn't like it, and he clenches his jaws tight when a trombone croons mockingly at the slowly tightening smile on her face.)

They don't go until Sunday, that tiny square on the calendar crossed out with a yellow pen of some sorts he had found lying on his bedroom floor. It's fine with Sans, really, and he's glad Papyrus had caught wind of the plan from just a few ambiguous text messages and had invited all their friends. Frisk just joyously laughs out a gasp when she sees everyone she loves, everyone that loves her, and he knows he's finally done something worth being proud of.

"Brother, I am happy for you," Papyrus taps his shoulder when the sun is on its highest peak above the sky and the smell of smoke and food has finally settled on the air. Sans doesn't speak, because he's happy and wanting the earth to swallow him whole for being selfish. "I am happy for the both of you." Papyrus leaves him with a puzzlingly blank smile then, before launching into a nonsensical documentary about an equally nonsensical television show about aliens and ninjas while watching the mismatched chicken fight involving Undyne and Asgore. (Asgore wins, naturally. Undyne harrumphs, but she's grinning like an idiot.)

("you love her. i would've been happy for you." "BUT, THEN JESSICA TELLS DIANTHA TO GO HOME BECAUSE DAVIS IS THERE AND SO IS ROYCE AND—it does not matter now, brother.")

"This is nice," she whispers when they get home and they're both bundled in thin blankets, watching the stars through the window while blowing hot breath on the glass. There's an image of a giant slice of pie on the middle. Sans doesn't say anything when she traces a lost forgotten father's face, thin streaks lining above and below drooping eyes.

"you say that like you're a romantic."

She snorts, and shoves him playfully. "I am."

"i'm no prince charming, ya know." Frisk rolls her eyes, and he's grinning, because they're both past the levels of uncomfortable and had transcended from a state of sarcasm that it's actually genuine now. "no blonde hair. No white, trusty steed."

"No, but you have blue shining lights in your eye-sockets, and that's close enough, I think," she chuckles. "My prince."

"yeah, leave out the important adjective, why don't you." He rubs on the ceramic of a mug he's filled half-heartedly with water, and stares at Cassiopeia. "and, by the way, you have a weird taste in princes."

"Well, it's not the first time I've had a weird preference in something," Frisk mutters, tracing unnamed constellations with her eyes. "And, by the way, 'charming' wasn't the important adjective."

It takes him eleven seconds to process her teasing but sincere words and—"my prince"—oh. Oh. "you're such a dork, your highness." (It's funny, 'cuz she really is a Royalty.)

—

"Hey," she mumbles into his side as her fingers dig dangerously through the soft fabric of his shirt, settling somewhere on his ribs. His eyes are closed but he could tell whenever her eyes would flutter to stare meaninglessly at anything that caught her attention, if only through the feeling of her lashes brushing on his humerus.

"mm?" No one can blame him for giving an unintelligent response at such an unholy hour (assumed). Frisk laughs breathlessly before shifting closer to him. He opens his eyes then.

"I love you." Sans rolls his eyes, because her voice is dreadfully small and dreadfully tired.

He pulls her blanket higher and weaves a hand through her hair. "love ya, too." She blinks at him. He kisses her temple. "don't ever doubt it."

Somehow, he realizes, that had been the only time she'd ever tell him that. He thinks these are the times human internal and emotional weight would loosen or vanish, but something in him tightens instead.

"don't ever doubt it."

—

On the day of her death (—it would be on the afternoon, he would come to find later on—), he has gone back to work on the premise that he would be back by dinner. He hasn't swung by for a long while now, and though he is technically on leave, there are files he still needs to look through. Alphys is there, and though it's quite surprising to see her outside of her station, she's a welcome distraction from his thoughts. (He doesn't rely on her though, because he's afraid of jinxing it—not that he believes in things like those, but he's not certain why the thought of saying anything gives him a sense of dread.)

They both talk about mundane things (—"how's undyne?" "She's good. She's recently promoted to being a VIP gym coach." "oh yeah? tell her cong—achoo! … e-scoach me."—), and their idle chatter fills the air.

The folder marked 'Andromeda Hull-XXVII' is stacked atop reference books and other papers, and he reaches for it easily. Skimming over the pages quickly turns into reading and analysing, and when five hours is up, he's actually done something productive for once (—well, okay, he's understating his worth there, and, really, he shouldn't be bringing himself down like that, especially when he's been working Observatory quite religiously—). He's proud when he settles the file down on the table, each page filled with new notes and drafts and graphs, and he hands it to Alphys for consultation.

"high-ups might want to see the initial drafts before revision, but that's the gist of project hull for now," he casually lets off.

Her claws fly over the current page, he notes in mild interest, when she glances at him blankly, "Project Hull isn't until next month." Alphys returns her focus on his assignment. "Any particular reason as to why?"

And, really, can anyone blame him for flushing when he confesses, with the ring he had bought earlier that day clutched tightly between his hand, "i'm thinking of proposing then."

Alphys happily shrieks.

—

The police say a family on a fishing trip had found her body floating about some fifty meters off shore, pale and far too gone. Asphyxiation. Drowning. Head trauma on frontal skull. Dead.

When he arrives home, Sans doesn't really know why they had been there at the first place nor who they had been referring to that had died, until he realizes Toriel is crying and Papyrus is giving him a hug, and oh.

Oh.

(Dinner is supposed to be spaghetti, and he isn't supposed to be chanting: "live. please, live.")

—

They said it had been an accident and that the numbers of people who had drowned increased at high tides, and that rocks and rock formations have proved to be a killer (he puns) these past months. Frisk had just been another victim of circumstance, and Sans teleports himself to his room and shouts, because he knows he knows she could have swam and clawed and goddammit tried to save herself from dying but she never did and fuck does he want to tear his skull apart because he knows he knows he knows he knows.

He knows her. He knows her. (He thinks of twenty-three year olds, her fingers trembling as she gazes at her reflection on the water that pooled around her feet, pink and swirling: "I want to die.")

He knows her and he knows that she had deliberately drowned herself to death.

—

(Correction: he knew her.)

—

The seagulls caw at his still figure, shoulders set in frozen resolve to stay in that same position and angle, sharp and unbending. The water laps at his feet, making it seem to disappear below the white foams and unnamed colours of the ocean before receding back to its place. He stares at it all with unseeing eyes as he envisions her pulled by the tide and toppled over by waves (—and there's really nothing but water and she can't breathe she can't scream she can't she can't Sans help me please someone hel—).

"i hate you."

(—I'm sorry I'm sorry Sans I'm sorry I can't take this anymore I—)

"your funeral was shit, by the way." He turns away and shoves his hand through a pocket. "everyone was crying."

The casing is hard, weighted and air-tight, and he tosses it as far as it could go. The diamond glints before its pushed and had sunk down, and he sighs. It's lost to the sound of crashing waves and flying birds and faceless voices. "i fucking hate you."

And, for a moment, he thinks that he sounds believable. "wait for me?"

The metal band on his left ring phalanx is cold, but he looks at it and smiles. She was a mermaid who lived for the ocean and faded with the waves, and he is the fool that's left to pick up her shattered remains.

Sans cries.

—

a/n: the part one of my "quickly finish every draft ive done to publish" line. gosh this is such a doozy, like it started back in august last year and the build up of this piece of crap is sooo… ah, sporadic? is that the right word? that its become so difficult to end it on proper terms. urgh. meh, either way, this has been like one of my biggest projects to finish, and im so so glad to be finally off it, and flickerdoodle, i know this was a pain but i'll still miss it.

anyway, yea, if you look closely (or not), you can notice how the writing style changes a lot, especially at that [the day of her death] paragraph. the time ive been writing that and all the other paragraphs after it (which was actually a couple of weeks ago, im sorry, editing was a butt) was just after some sort of exam and i think it was the consequence of my sudden enjoyment in math. ugh. also, i was really too lazy to think of more creative shtuffs and got tired so i just cut if off there. going back, that paragraph[s] differs from the rest before it, since lets just say, that's my more volatile self speaking. i wanna punch the me of then for making tbis really really difficult

yes i know every character here is ooc, but who really currs by this point. i might revise this, but that all depends on whether or not i'll remember

to laysan (guest): thank you for asking me:) i'm open to others translating my work, however i'd rather want a deeper discussion about it before i'd give the go. hopefully, you can reach me and we can talk about it :)

feedback and constructive criticism is very much appreciated