Frisk and Asgore's chats over tea are slowly becoming a regular activity. Mom still refuses to talk to him, but she doesn't forbid Frisk from biking to his little cottage almost every week. It's a bit of a long ride, but it feels good. The sunshine makes the exercise more than tolerable. And of course, Asgore's tea and quiet, understanding company doesn't hurt.

Frisk fiddles with the handle of the dainty little teacup, running their thumb up and down the delicate thing, struggling to say something. They're still struggling to make conversation as casually and effortlessly as others, but Asgore is patient, not minding the silence.

"Frisk, if it's alright for me to ask," there's a small pause, and for once it's Asgore's voice sounding unsure, "why did you do that to your arm? It looks like it would have been a bit painful. I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

It was eight days ago that Frisk had confessed to hurting themselves to Asgore. Only eight days ago, and they were still loathe to have it mentioned again. Their grasp on the handle gets a little too tight, and they let go of the teacup entirely for fear of breaking it. They decide to clasp their hands together tightly instead, as if in prayer.

They realize they haven't been to church in a long time. Definitely longer than eight days. Did monsters even have church? They'd have to ask about that later.

"It's...it's hard to explain. If. If you do it right, it doesn't hurt. It feels kind of," the human pauses, unsure if they should say it. "It feels good. I know it sounds weird, but it feels good. It makes me feel less nervous, like everything will be alright later. And," they pause again, deciding to take a long sip of tea so they can gather their thoughts. As always, Asgore waits silently and patiently.

"it also makes me feel like I'm actually alive. Sometimes I feel. Sometimes I feel fake, like I'm not really alive. Seeing the blood come out lets me know that I'm really a person." It's a fucked up thing to say, but it's the truth. They're still not used to not being punished for telling the truth.

Frisk looks up to sneak a peek of Asgore, curious. Is he angry? Disappointed? Disturbed? He looks sad, more anything else. He's trying to hide his frown, but it's still painfully visible. It makes Frisk wish they hadn't said anything.

"Sorry," they say, feeling small and pathetic. They shouldn't have said anything about it. The only people that really understood were the strangers on the internet. Faceless strangers they'd never meet. People physically incapable of reaching through the computer screen to backhand them. Again, they feel tears welling up.

Again, giant furry hands overlap Frisk's.

And again, it finally feels for once that Frisk might actually end up okay.