And then Papyrus gets up and pulls himself together.
He doesn't want to. He wants nothing more than to break down and scream and cry and tell somebody that he's not going to deal with this alone. That he needs help to pick up the pieces this time.
But old habits just die hard, he guesses.
It's like slipping back into a familiar pair of shoes, comfortable and worn and maybe you know you shouldn't wear them anymore, because there's stitching letting loose on the soles, sharp rocks poking into the delicate underside of your feet. But you do anyway.
He brushes the broken shard of glass together, hates the way they look like fallen stars against their tile floor and how that reminds him of Sans.
Sans who always wanted to see the stars and now that he has that opportunity doesn't dare look at them for fear of losing sight again.
He leaves a note on the fridge then, passive-aggressive maybe, but it avoids them having to get into an awkward post-fight conversation anytime soon.
"Out with Alphys. Will be back by noon. Don't go out."
Don't go out 'please', an inner voice chides (his own, mercifully) but for some reason his hand refuses to cooperate and add this courtesy. His arm feels too stiff for his body.
Papyrus rotates it slowly, deliberately, trying to get it to feel like a part of his physical manifestation again.
It doesn't really work, considering his entire body feels like somebody else's. Almost as if he's only viewing it through a mirror, a casual observer getting a peek into some other poor skeleton's life.
He shakes his heads, flaps his hands in front of himself until he feels real again.
Wouldn't you like that?
The park isn't usually too crowded on a weekday morning, instead radiating an odd sense of tranquility.
Papyrus likes it because Alphys likes it.
While her sense of confidence and self-worth has certainly approved with time, and he does like to think he has had some part in that, crowds still make her nervous.
They run along their usual route, not really talking except for a few comments regarding the weather here and there. Papyrus keeps drifting off somehow, not noticing his increased pace until he hears Alphys huffing to keep up with him.
More and more it's like autopilot is taking over while he gets lost in thought, static.
So hopelessly lost
He dreamt something last night. He knows he did and it's in the corner of his consciousness, a black spot mocking his vision.
Wasn't he supposed to ask Alphys something important?
Better claw through the mess in your mind too sometimes
He blinks and they're sitting on a bench, Alphys breathing heavily besides him but still able to throw a concerned glance his way. So he smiles, though it might be more of a grimace.
"Are you okay, Papyrus?"
the question echoes inside him with the rust of a hundred similar ones before it. And the answer too is clogged up from over usage.
"No." He says. "Not really."
Her face scrunches up, but she stays silent. Maybe she thinks she's imposing, shouldn't ask, shouldn't bother him.
There's so many things she doesn't believe she deservers, aren't there?
"Can I ask you something?" He says.
"S-sure." Hands clenched together a little too tightly, her eyes linger on the flowers surrounding them, gold and bright under the peaking spring sun.
Papyrus wonder what his best friend is up to these days.
Do you really think he ever cared?
"Do you and Undyne ever fight?"
It isn't the thing. The important thing he forgot about, which still eludes him, but it's something maybe even more critical right now.
Something he needs to hear so badly it hurts.
Alphys stumbles, her face grows as red as the lava pits back in Hotland he so detests. Maybe asking something like that was rude of him.
She probably hates you now
With every passing second the former royal scientist doesn't answer he wants to die a little more. This wasn't what he wanted to say and it slipped out and now he fucked up again.
He's such an idiot sometimes.
"It's fine, Papyrus." Her hand is on his wrist, claws clicking against his bones and he realizes he was scratching his arms, trying to feel something, to ground himself firmly into reality.
She definitely hates you
"Is this about Sans?" She asks and he nods, tightly, tries to look at a couple of children conquering the slide on the other side of the path but his vision is blurry.
"We fight." It comes out so quietly, small. He has hurt her, surely. "Of course we do."
She has pulled he hands back into her lap, but she's looking at him and he looks back and tries to concentrate on the yellowish-green shade of her eyes instead.
"It isn't always easy, especially not up here. Undyne, she's... a lot. A whole lot. You know she is. And I don't think I'm nearly enough in comparison."
He hopes she won't start crying. Couldn't bear it if she did. But she looks calm, steadfast.
"She doesn't like it very much when I say stuff like that though..."
He doesn't know what to say. Is it even appropriate for him to say anything for that matter?
"Sans and me started fighting a lot more after we-" Maybe changing the subject will help but also it's infinitely worse. "I'm so tired of it. I just want things to go back to normal."
You think they ever were?
"But if you're trying, isn't that enough?" Alphys says, looking away and he's not sure if she's talking about his situation or her own, perhaps both.
"I guess."
Enough is not the same it was before
He takes the long way home, going through the busier part of town in the hopes that the distraction will keep him from losing track of his thoughts again.
Papyrus isn't too bothered by humans anymore, and they don't seem to stare as much as they used to anyway. It's mostly children now, pointing with big eyes and weird little smiles and he waves back at them, feeling almost as famous as he used to dream of being.
Maybe he should get a new glass on his way home?
Or is he just considering that to postpone getting there and talking to Sans. Mostly he just wants to apologize. He was a lot snarkier than usual and his brother didn't deserve to catch the brunt of his bad mood just because it's convenient and the two of them don't always get along.
Things haven't been as bad as Papyrus makes them out to be. They're a lot better than they used to before, at least.
But is enough still enough
Perhaps it was just time to accept that the two of them have outgrown each other. It's a bleak thought, Papyrus can't remember a time without Sans at his side, but maybe that's exactly the problem. You can cling to a life line all you like, if you're putting too much pressure on it, it will break eventually.
And you'll sink sink sink
He's on the curb, waiting for the light to turn green so he can cross and maybe it would be ok. If he just apologizes, explain to Sans what's going on and then they can find a solution together.
And ask Alphys the thing. What thing?
The broken basement machine.
He steps forward, down, onto the street as the though hits him, hurls into him with the speed of a truck.
Except it's not the thought that hits him, is it?
The world turns upside down with a sickening lurch, Papyrus has just enough time to realize that's not normal before the pain blinds him.
It skitters up his limbs with sharp little claws, until it hurts to move his legs, though that would be impossible anyway because he's not on the ground anymore.
He's somewhere in the air, somewhere weightless and scary, with everything moving erratically and then he's on the asphalt, the sound of twigs snapping all around him through the static.
Excepts it's his bones that have snapped. He can't see them, face turned upward, the sky is cloudless and blue but he knows it's his bones that have broken. Somebody screams.
The truck that has hit him is swerving down the street, brakes screeching loudly but it's already too late for any of that. The damage is done.
There's a breeze and the air is full of dust, some human that came closer to help covers their mouth and coughs, chokes on his dissipating body.
Their eyes tell Papyrus everything he needs to know.
He opens his jaw, tries to force something out, but it won't budge.
Sans. What will Sans do without him?
It's the last thing that crosses his mind, and if that isn't bitter-sweet irony he doesn't know what is.
Nothing he would do nothing he would do nothing
He closes his eyes then, slowly, and when he opens them again he's standing on the curb, waiting for the light to turn green.
Or it already has, though he hadn't noticed. A man in a long coat grumbles and bumps into him to pass, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
There's a truck, patiently waiting for Papyrus to cross the street but he can't move. His legs are whole, unbroken, undusted, but he can't move and then the light blinks to red once more and the cars start driving again.
He wants to puke just thinking about how real that felt.
What a pretty picture it would make though
He stands there, petrified, for what must be minutes, hours, days- No. Just a couple of seconds, then. So he turns around and takes another way home.
Sans isn't there.
Papyrus knows as soon as he enters, even before he has wiped his feet at the door and his legs are still shaking, barely able to properly carry his weight.
But they're still there. Nothing happened.
Nothing
His note is crumbled in the trash, a clear sign that his brother isn't planning to just let this go.
Papyrus sighs at the thought of what that means. All energy has left him. All desire to sit down and talk about what's happening and how to fix them.
He just wants it to stop.
I'm sure we can make it stop
The mail is lying on the table, so at least there's that. Sans has sorted the letters neatly, most of them for himself as he's the one that takes care of the bills and stuff.
Another remainder of their Snowdin life they never quite got rid of.
But there's also the newspaper and Papyrus sits down heavily, ignoring the way every bone of his body aches as if he was hit by a truck.
He definitely, certainly wasn't. He would know if he was.
It just kind of hurts like he was.
He flips straight to the crossword puzzle, because what's the point of newspapers besides the puzzles. Well, there's the comics, but today just wasn't a very 'comic' day.
God, even Sans would cringe at that one.
But it's nice, letting himself drift away in an endless cycle of numbers and letter blocks, raking his vocabulary for the right answers and it's fine. He can just sit at his kitchen table and solve crosswords for the rest of his days.
Or at least for the next few hours. And then Sans will come home and sit across from him and they'll talk. They'll talk about everything and laugh at how silly they have been and it will be fine.
It will be enough.
Who's fooling who here?
Except every single answer is wrong, complete nonsense. He cringes, the pen drop from his grip and rolls along the table, off the edge, clatters against the floor but he's staring at the crossword as if it has betrayed him.
If he can't solve a stupid puzzle, then what use is he even?
Slaughter, End, Throne
Under, Sickness
Fidelity, Reign, Expire, Excess
He rips it apart, clenches his teeth until his head hurts and the static quiets down, replaced by the dull throbbing of pain. Harder, still.
Like a plaster on a wound that leaks blood
"Shut up." He hisses, his voice breaking the silence unceremoniously, echoing against the walls.
They don't answer him.
Sans does.
"Geez bro, I haven't even said anything." He mutters from the doorway, eyes caught on the floor, the pen. Not looking at Papyrus.
He isn't wearing his slippers or his coat, so maybe he was home all along.
"Sans." Papyrus can only say that one word. That one name. Everything is spinning, detached, and when the chair topples out from under him he hits the floor with a dull crack that resonates against his skull.
You will listen
Thanks for the comments dears 3
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