sometimes you pick at your bones. not enough to damage your tiny amount of hp, but enough to give you relief, enough to calm down the rapid motions of your limbs, enough to remind you that you're here, you're real. the chips in your bones that you leave are gone with every reset, though. every time you wake up staring at your off white, dusty ceiling (you hate the dust. it reminds you of scarves and snow and knives that shouldn't be deadly but are anyway) your bones are as good as new – uh, as good as they can be (you prefer not to think about it). it somewhat irks you yet makes you happy simultaneously. all your hard work set back to zero, but then, you have more places to pick at.
sometimes when you wake up to the dusty ceiling, the self-sustaining trash tornado, the sock collection, snowdin, you simply roll onto your side, pick at your arms, and think (wow, paps would be proud). you think about an assortment of different topics, though it always comes back to one in particular [reset.] why wouldn't they stop? were they not happy enough? were the monsters not good enough for them? what more could they want? (you're just a doll in their dollhouse, you think. they think they're above consequences. now that, you know.)
on some days, you're quieter than usual. your thoughts go at either a million miles a minute or slow as a snail (you think of tori, how she always had a snail fact to break an awkward silence. you think of how she stopped responding to your jokes. you stamp out the thoughts) and you can't pun properly, you can't keep up with your brother's monologues, and you just want to sit down and fade away (maybe then you'll get a bit of peace. maybe then paps won't have his lazybones brother weighing him down). papyrus always notices. he notices the look on your face when you glance at him, looking like you're seeing a ghost. he notices how your smile is strained when you think no one is watching, how your eyes scrunch up and your breathing speeds up. he's worried, and you hate worrying him. you wish you could just fall apart. sure, he might be sad at first, but he'd get over it soon enough. (as he should, you worthless piece of trash.)
it's thoughts like that that convince you to lock yourself in your room when the world resets. you lie on your back, staring into nothing with a blank gaze, taking comfort in the familiar sound of bone scratching against bone. you don't think you're going to follow the script this time. maybe you'll stay in your room all day. you're so insignificant, you doubt not being there would irreversibly change the timeline (ha, nothing is irreversible. if they don't like it, they [reset]). papyrus is concerned, you can hear it in his voice (didn't you say you wouldn't do that?). he tries to get into your room so many times, and when that doesn't work out, he begs you to let him in. he just wants to help you. (you don't think he can.) you drift off, the scritch of bone against bone lulling you into slumber.
(dusty hands, clutching a toy knife like a lifeline. a cold gaze, mouth set in stone, but occasionally lifting into a cruel smirk.
they don't laugh at your jokes. they don't do paps' puzzles. they startle when you warn them, though. they grow confused when you took that shortcut. it fills you with a little pride that you were able to evoke real reactions.
you arrive to see them stomp on his head, cutting off anything more he had to say. the head dissolves, and they smile giddily at the exp. they didn't get any more LOVE. how disappointing.
you walk over to the battle body lying in the snow once you're sure they're gone. it's dusty. you grab the scarf and hold it to your chest, letting a few tears fall as a haunting laugh escapes you. that dirty brother killer.
...it ends with a knife slashing across your chest.)
you wake up to cries, then you realize that you're the one crying. you can year papyrus' heavy footsteps as he rushes to your room. he tries to come in, forgetting that the door's locked. you have no plans of letting him in. oh, instead he let himself in. okay then, guess you'll replace that door later. he runs to your side as you're curled into yourself, tears running in thick globs from your eyesockets down to your jawbone. his hands take hold of your cheeks, thumbs wiping the tears from your skull. the tears don't stop coming, and it's getting hard to breathe. you're taking so much air in and not letting enough out, swallowing down saliva and bile every once and again. he's cooing to you, slightly unsure of what else to do in this situation. he's never seen you cry before (has he? the timelines have really screwed up your memory) and he's probably panicking, but then he brings you into his arms and holds you tightly, pressing your skull into his shirt. he seems to get that you can't calm down as easy as that, and he holds you through the whole thing.
your tears have run dry and your stuttering breath is slowing to a regular pace, and your eyes droop. you wrap your arms around him, and he squeezes you in response. you're drifting back into sleep when you hear him say something, quieter than usual.
"I love you, Sans," he breathes out. you're not certain if there's any other way you could respond other than this.
"i love you too, bro."