It's on one of those difficult nights, waking from a half-memory, half-nightmare, tossing and turning under the covers that Frisk suddenly realizes how quickly time is passing by. How long ago had they'd started their journey up Mount Ebott? After they fell past the barrier, their entire life had changed quickly and irreversibly. There'd been so many new places to see, new friends to make, and so little time to properly process exactly what was happening. And now, they're back above ground, settling in with their new mother in a tiny cottage on the outskirts of a tiny town, and time is finally starting to slow down to a normal pace again.
They stare up at the ceiling, forcing deep breaths and willing their racing heart to slow. The room has been decorated with hundreds of little cheap glow in the dark stars. They glow softly, just bright enough to make the room feel cozy without being too bright. They're perfect for giving Frisk something to focus on after waking up from yet another nightmare. It's soothing to lie in bed and count each and every tiny shining night-light, smiling at the memory of pasting them to the ceiling together with their new family. The nightmares are coming less often lately, but they're still a problem. If Frisk was younger, they might be tempted to go to Mom's room and ask to sleep in her bed. But Frisk is twelve, and that's way too old to bother her with something as silly as a bad dream.
Actually, now that they stop to think about it, their family, all they can picture is Toriel - Mom - and other monsters. It hasn't been very long, but already their human family feels distant, the memories as faded as a nightmare the morning after. It suits them just fine, really. Living with them had often felt like living in a bad dream, a life they threw themselves into a mountain pit to escape.
Frisk frowns, realizing they've counted the same star three times now. They sit up and turn around, adjusting their pillow in an attempt to make it more comfortable. Now that everyone from the underground has mostly settled in, less busy with the moving chores, Frisk has time to think, their mind busy bugging them with memories to let them sleep. They settle back into the bed anyway.
Frisk can vividly picture the look of shock and despair on Toriel's face on that first day they had arrived at the ruins, when she had raised her paw to stroke the child's cheek and they flinched back, braced for violence. For a second, she looked like she was about to cry. At the time, the human had been baffled. Irritated, even. Why did this woman have the nerve to look surprised and upset? She had been the one reaching her hand out to their face so quickly. Of course they expected her to hit them. That had been the usual result of a hand coming towards their face. What kind of game was she playing, pretending not to know that?
Now, though, sprawling out on a soft bed, in a room of their very own, Toriel's pained expression and sad eyes make a lot more sense. Apparently hitting isn't normal. Even now, and Frisk feels guilty for thinking it, they still half expect Toriel to eventually drop the act, to scream and hit and berate Frisk for some trivial mistake. Intellectually, they know there's no act for her to drop. Emotionally, they're still waiting for it to all come crashing down.
The human rolls over, throwing the covers off. Too hot. Too heavy. It's probably summer now, or just about. They make a mental note to find a calendar sometime soon. They usually dread this time of year, sweating under their long sleeved shirts and sweaters and wishing they had had the foresight to hurt themselves somewhere more discreet than their left wrist. This year, though, things are already feeling less dire. The last group of angry slashes are healing well, already faded from a startling red to a softer pink. The urge hasn't completely gone away in the last couple months, and Frisk doesn't think it will ever leave them. But that's alright, they think. They don't plan on telling very many monsters, but the few they have told have been gentle and comforting, despite the shock. They don't understand, and they probably won't ever, but they make an honest effort, and Frisk loves them all the more for it.
They always hid them, and hid them well, anticipating people to react poorly. On the rare occasion Frisk lapsed in diligence, unthinkingly rolling up the wrong sleeve, the reactions had been worse than they'd expected. Usually confusion and judgement led the charge of questions and accusations in a neck-and-neck race, but disgust was almost always next. Mock betrayal right after. Anger, finally. One of the worst beatings that their old mother had dished out was in response seeing what Frisk had done to their arm.
That was probably what the nightmare was about, actually.
Finally, with a sound somewhere between a tired groan and a bitter sigh, they half heartedly crawl out of bed, giving up on sleeping any more tonight. They shuffle to the lightswitch, flick it on. The soft neon green glow from the stars vanishes, replaced by a hard, artificial white.
There's not much in the small bedroom, but aside from the bed, there is a little pine desk, matching chair, and cheap dresser. From the dresser, Frisk retrieves their colored pencil set (a gift from Asgore) and a sheet of paper. They're too old to color with crayons, but the pencils feel serious and grown-up enough.
They drop the supplies on the desk before seating themselves and taking a moment to center the paper. What to draw? They remove a soft pink pencil from the tin, forcing themselves not to chew on it. They briefly consider drawing the nightmare, but decide against it quickly. Best not to dwell on it. There's a happier memory to recapture. Setting the pink pencil aside, they fish out some more colors: orange, red, yellow, green.
They're not sure where to start, but the sunset seems like a good starting point.
Mom had asked, after the barrier had been broken, if they wanted to stay with her. Frisk had still been getting used to speaking so much, but this time they spoke without hesitation, the words tumbling out of their mouth easily.
"Of course I do. You're my mom."
"Do you not have a family to return home to?" She'd frowned as she asked. There was something knowing in her eyes, a sadness even she couldn't mask.
"No," Frisk had said, decisively.
"I see. Well then!" All traces of sadness gone, she reached down to take Frisk's hand. They didn't flinch.
"We had better get going."
Frisk ends up falling asleep at the desk before they can put the final touches on the drawing, but this time they're smiling faintly while they sleep, undisturbed by nightmares.