Grillby didn't speak often. Many monsters chalked this up to the fact he didn't ever speak English, the language of most monsters that inhabited the Underground. He could understand it just fine, but with the way he crackled and hissed his speech, being able to comprehend it was almost impossible on the listener's part. Listening was easy, but talking was the problem.
He knew someone like that once.
Sure, he had Zuzu, his translator, but even still, he didn't speak all that much. The bartender was certainly a demure one, preferring to listen to the chatter at the tables and the enjoy camaraderie within his bar. It was quiet some days and rowdy during others, but he'd have it no other way. He enjoyed his life as it was now. He had a nice cozy home within Snowdin and a beautiful daughter he loved more than anything, even if she could be a bit of a brat at times. He counted himself as lucky for being in his position, doing something he loved with people he enjoyed being around. Patrons ranged from all shapes and sizes, each of them with their own stories to tell and friendly greetings to everyone.
Still, there was someone missing, and yet always there.
One of his favorite patrons was Sans, and though the smaller monster had enough debt to sink an entire economy, he was still a good friend nonetheless. Sans was always the one to do the talking, making jokes and occasionally buying a drink and playing a prank. His favorite one had to be where Grillby would be distracted with grabbing a glass. Sans would always be quick to grab his drink and take a swig, immediately spitting out a short stream and onto Grillby's flame, causing it to flare up wildly. The bartender would then turn around just in time to see the skeleton falling out of his chair as he died from laughter. As insufferable as he was, Grillby would admit that it was rather amusing. It wouldn't be long, though, before Papyrus would inevitably come in and make a fuss about Sans spending all his time there. The smaller one would make a joke and the larger would get peeved and stomp his foot before leaving with Sans tucked under his arm. The cook always wondered how the two even lived together when they seemed to far apart personality wise. One was messy and playful while the other was kind and serious about his work. Still, it seemed to fit together in a familiar way.
It was like someone he used to know.
But he just couldn't remember who.
There was another reason why Grillby didn't speak much; he didn't have much to talk about. Whenever he thought back, he could only see a blur that used to be his past. He could remember where he came from and his home, but as the memories went further, they seemed to muddle together and blur like watercolor whenever he thought back to those days. It confused him to no end, but over time, he had learned to ignore it. Still, it didn't help whenever the patrons got a bit chatty.
"So Grillby, what brought you to Snowdin of all places? Isn't that, like, the opposite of where fire monsters are supposed to be?" a customer would ask.
"He says that Waterfall is probably the real opposite," Zuzu would reply for him.
"Yo Grillby! Where'd you end up learning English so well, anyways?" another curious drinker would ask.
"He says from someone who knows English," Zuzu would shrug.
"Hey Grillbz, is there anyone else who can understand that crackling thing you do?" Sans has asked. "I'm sure they don't think you're too hot to handle."
"He said that's like the sixth time you've made that joke, Sans," Zuzu had replied. "If you say it again, he'll kick you out."
Grillby didn't enjoy having to avoid all these questions, but he really didn't know how else to answer them. He found it easier for it just to not be said.
Still, he couldn't help but snag onto those fragments of memories.
He used to talk, and he used to talk freely and as much as he liked, that much he knew. He would crackle out his laughter and lay back as he listened and spoke, but with who, he just didn't know. It wasn't that he was constantly being reminded, but that something wouldn't let him forget.
During silent nights at the bar, as he was closing up, he couldn't help but shiver whenever he felt a chill. He would look up and towards the window, and if he was fast enough, he could catch a glimpse of gray, maybe even a bit of black. He would move towards the window and look out, expecting to see a monster or two walking about, but it would stay silent and still. And so he would go back to setting up the bar silently, perhaps hum a tune to himself over the crackling of his own fire until he would eventually go home.
Sometimes he felt as though something was always waiting for him to come back. It was a silly thought, he knew, and so he preferred to keep it to himself.
That's why Grillby didn't speak much.