It happens in small ways. A mug of hot coffee waiting in the morning, already fixed exactly the way it should be. A cigarette lit and handed over without a single word exchanged. A door held open, a window shut. Falling asleep pressed against each other's side, the nightmares driven away for another night.
But sometimes they fall fast, like a fledgling taking that first hop to flight—the weightless moment, the sudden drop, that odd feeling of plummeting to doom only to even out and find it wasn't so bad as it looked. Always following that dizzying moment is that soft breath released, pure relief, although whether joy or fear follow after is left to the whims of chance.
All the same, they always tumble, head over heels.
For the first time in a week, there's no nightmares tonight. Frisk isn't lucid enough to appreciate that entirely, but they're aware enough to note that it's a nice change of pace. The dream they're having is a silly one—while Frisk has never had a dream where they flew, they've had plenty where they can jump clear to the stratosphere before drifting safely back down, over and over. It's nearly as good as flight and it's an old favorite of theirs.
Then something shifts below them and they are falling faster and faster, but they aren't not yet afraid, and then
Frisk opens their eyes and frowns up into the dim light. Judging by the quality of the light, not even Papyrus is awake. Here in New Home, the city lights brighten as dawn approaches, but right now they are a faint charcoal gray light that means they still have hours left before they need to wake up. They are just about to wonder what woke them when something shifts just below their cheek.
They raise their head and wince at the terrible pain in their neck from where they'd slept at a poor angle. Frisk rubs the side and pauses when they realize they're still in the clothes they'd worn yesterday—they try not to wear their work clothes to bed, but somehow there they are. They put the confusion out of their mind so they can inspect what was moving below them.
Looking down reveals the source instantly. Well, they think, I think it's been a few months since I woke to find a bedmate that stayed the night. (Actually, that was a lie of sorts—Asriel and Chara both had terrible nightmares and ever since the two of them woke Frisk one night, Frisk had told them to just come wake them up if they needed company. Since then, they'd woken up to find Asriel curled against their side. But this was not the young monster smashed up against them now.)
Frisk considers the curve of the skull below them before glancing further downward. They both still have their clothes on—how boring, a mischievous voice in the back of their mind speaks, prompting a wry smile.
So, he must have conked out too, they muse as they let one hand rest against the side of Sans' skull—he slept unusually peacefully aside from a few twitches. Probably just too tired to drag his ass to his own bed.
Well, speaking of being too tired to get up. With a soft sigh, they wriggle away from him so they could settle into a more comfortable position. Beside them, they hear him start to shift again as well—perhaps they woke him up in all their moving. As if to apologize, they rest their head against his thigh, pressing the back of their head against his stomach—they still don't understand how his magic seems to fill his clothes, but that was a mystery they'd never been able to figure out, so it wasn't a new. "Sleep" they mean to say, but instead they say "sleepy" and pat his leg before their body starts to feel heavy again, dragging them back down into unconsciousness.
Just before they fall asleep entirely, they feel a hand rest on shoulder. They smile to themselves and sink down.
In their dreams, they're back to jumping. This time they rocket past the stratosphere until gravity loses its grip on them and they float among the stars. They wonder idly if this is like flying and let themselves drift on, weightless.
Every weekday morning, the household has the same routine. Papyrus wakes up at six o'clock and starts his day, meaning that by six thirty he is downstairs. He starts making lunches for himself and Asriel—as long as he doesn't use actual machines like the stove, oven, microwave, or toaster, he can usually handle a meal. It means a lot of sandwiches and cold snacks, but that's really the best anyone could expect out of him. By seven, Asriel and Chara are awake and join him for breakfast—thankfully, both children are fairly reliable with cooking devices, so they can be trusted to make their own breakfast. By seven thirty, Papyrus starts a pot of coffee going. Their coffee machine is an ancient, unreliable thing that splutters and protests, but still gets the job done by eight.
At eight, Frisk drags themselves out of bed to go beg Papyrus for a cup of coffee. Really, he hates the stuff, but still Frisk still pleads mostly because they know it amuses the kids and flatters him. Eventually, he hands a cup over and lets them doctor it up—caramel syrup, creamer, and sugar until it's less coffee and more like funny tasting hot chocolate. For a while, the three chatter to each other while Frisk slowly wakes up.
Sans is never awake before nine and so he usually misses saying goodbye to his brother and their ward. He slinks into the kitchen, steals the rest of the coffee, pours a liberal amount of rum into it, and then Frisk watches in amusement as he tries to wake himself up before they have to leave around ten o'clock. Usually, he wakes up enough by nine twenty to get back up and go get dressed with them; his clothes are still kept in his sham of a bedroom, so he stays downstairs while they go up to change. They meet back up at the bottom of the stairs before they leave for the Castle.
Today, though, they both pause, him looking up at them, they looking down at him. They both frown.
"Okay, we can't go to work like this," they announce, reaching up to tug on the lapel of their red shirt. Even their shirts are the exact same hue along with the fact they're both in black slacks and black jackets—this world's color palette is inescapable and very confining.
He glances down at the cuff of his jacket. Wait, did their socks match as well? Damn if they hadn't done that too. "Anyone who sees us like this will eat us alive."
They nod. "One of us has to go change."
Quickly, he shoves his hands into his pockets and grins up at them. "I nominate you."
They frown. "Why me? Your room is right there. I'd have to go back up the stairs."
"Because if you make me go get out of these clothes, I'm not going to put new ones on."
They raise an eyebrow and grin. "Are you saying I'm going to have to drag you to work half dressed?"
"And punish the whole Castle?"
They scoff and press a hand playfully to their chest. "It wouldn't be a punishment for me."
He snorts. "Pass."
Amusingly, they just sigh. "Goddamnit. Gimme five minutes." Quickly, they turn and walk up the stairs; he tilts his head to the side and enjoys the view until they disappear into their room. A few minutes later, they reemerge—they ditched the jacket entirely and swapped their shirt out for a black shirt with white pinstripes, adding a black vest and a thin red tie instead. "Acceptable?" they ask, as they come back down.
They're looking vain, but he still admires the neat lines of their pant legs—the tailor might not be able to do much for him, but the guy went into fits of joy when he got to work with Frisk's long lines. The pants showed off their legs, even if it meant that Frisk complained about tiny pockets.
"You'll break hearts, babe."
"Flatterer," they chuckle and loop arms with him as they pull him towards the front door. "Continue."
As it turns out, monster alcohol might have some recovery magic in it, but mostly it acts the exact same way human alcohol does. Frisk made a terrible mistake and now they are paying for it. Their head is toilet bowl, hacking and groaning. From past experiences, they know they are not a pretty sight—snot is probably running down their nose and their eyes are bloodshot. The foul taste of the bile from the human food they'd eaten with the alcohol in hopes of keeping their stomach settled is burning their mouth, twisting their lips in weird shapes.
The only comfort they have is the coolness of the sides of the toilet bowl and Sans holding their hair out of their face. They hadn't asked him to come—they'd barely had time to bolt to the bathroom before dinner made a reappearance. He follows a few minutes later, perhaps to keep a low profile, perhaps because he doesn't want to hear the awful retching noises, but he pauses outside the stall door before he casually pushes it open.
"Well, on the bright side, at least you managed to get sick in one of the three places in the entire Underground that actually has toilets in them," he offers, almost cheerful as he squeezes in behind them.
They have to chuckle at that, even as their stomach finds new ways to twist itself into knots. "Lucky me." It turned out that when Chara had been alive, a few places in the Underground had been equipped with toilets, almost entirely for their use. Now that some human goods could be brought in easier, including human food, the toilets were being used not as novelty pieces but at the functioning fixtures. That was half the reason they'd come to this place in the first place.
"I should think so." Finally, he cleared his throat and tapped their boot with his foot. "You need something or should I leave you to puke your guts up in peace?"
"Since when have you ever given anyone a moment's peace?" they manage before another wave hits and they're reacquainting themselves with their lunch. They try to shove the hair out of their face, but it's all they can do to maintain the death grip they have on the toilet seat.
He must have seen the aborted attempt to get their hair out of the face, because they feel his phalanges card the hair out of the way until he can pull it all into a messy ponytail. It's something of a surprise since he almost never touches their hair, let alone run his fingers through it—too easy to get his finger bones tangled and they can hear him now, grumbling as he tries free himself from a knot already.
It's a small mercy, to not have to worry about their hair being coated in gunk. They'd thank him, but they're too busy emptying out their guts at the moment. Once they finally catch their breath, they try to not wipe their snot onto the back of their glove before they can grab some paper. "Ah, fuck, I feel like I'm eighteen again," they say as they finally blow their nose.
"You often blew chunks in toilets when you were eighteen?" he asks idly and they're a little surprised he's still pulling their hair back. They aren't complaining though—there's a bit of a breeze now on the back of their neck that feels wonderful.
"Ugh. No parental supervision. I ran fucking wild."
He chuckles and presses his cold knuckles against the knobs of their spin on the back of their neck—he must have chilled them against the metal walls of the stall. "Sounds like you have some stories you should tell me sometime."
They coo in appreciation at the chill, but all too soon his bones are warmed by their skin, so they pull away and put their face against the side of the toilet bowl—they are delighted to note it's by far the cleanest toilet bowl they ever pressed their face against. "Another time. God, I love you."
There's a stilted silence followed by a forced chuckle. "Yeah, well, you better."
They smile and don't have the heart to tell him that they were actually talking to the toilet bowl.
It is winter in New Home, the first one Sans or Papyrus or Frisk has ever seen. Both Asriel and Chara had seen it, but that was ages ago and practically another world. His brother is a little annoyed to escape Snowdin only to get hit by more snow again, but at least it's weather they both know how to deal with. Papyrus and Asriel could run around naked and be fine in the snow, but Sans has to bundle up or the chill will creep into his bones. Frisk just likes to keep cranking the heat up, despite Papyrus and Asriel's complaints. He doesn't snitch on them when he catches them in the act, just shakes his head at their guilty grin and walks away as they turn the heat up again.
Frisk mostly loses the war with the thermostat, but Asriel and Papyrus are both late today and Frisk and Sans didn't have to work for once, so the house is toasty warm. He doesn't even need his sweater for now, so he's splayed out on the couch, content up until he hears Frisk start to curse.
"Where is my goddamn—Sans! Have you seen my coat?" they call, poking their head out kitchen.
It's in the wash—he'd accidentally spilled some mustard on it, but rather than own up to it, he just shoved it into the washer before Frisk found out. It probably needs to be moved over to the dryer now. Still, he's not going to say as much right now. "I dunno. Check your room?"
"I'd never put my coat in my room," they drawl and he knows that's true. Their coat stays by the peg on the wall, next to the door. Their habit of leaving shit lying around is as bad as his sometimes, but the coat is always by the door.
He shrugs and tosses one arm over his eyes as if to block out the lights. "Then just take someone else's."
They make a clicking noise with their tongue that lets him know they're amused and exasperated with him. Better not to annoy them much longer though. "Well, yours is the only one here right now. Can I borrow it?"
He lifts his arm up to glance at them. "What do you even need a coat for anyway?"
"It's trash day tomorrow. I told Papyrus I'd have most of the trash taken care tonight."
He shrugs again and lets his arm fall back down to cover his face. "Whatever. Knock yourself out."
"Fan-tastic," they chirp and disappear for a moment go collect the trash bags before they reappear and head to the door. As they arrange the bags, he pulls his arm aside to watch them slip the coat on.
He's far heavier set than them, but they're taller than him by a good head, so the coat doesn't look entirely ridiculous on them. Their arms are long enough to poke out of the sleeves at least and rather than waste time fiddling with the zipper that's missing two teeth, they just swaddle the coat to them. They look… better than they should, all things considered.
"Be right back," they call, collecting the bags and squeezing out the door.
While they're busy out there, he should get up and run to toss their coat over into the dryer. And he will, in just a moment. Right now, he's trying to decide what to do about the sudden, fluttering heat in his chest as the sight of them in his coat burns itself into his brain.
It's July and only three days have passed since it was officially decided that monsters were now mostly safe to rejoin the Surface world of humans. It'd taken months of reeducation and some stern limits on the monster side of things and months of meetings and preparation on the human side before things were settled. Frisk and the others had been ready to move into their new house that first day—they'd picked it out ages ago and everyone was quite pleased with the idea that they didn't have to worry about the floors rotting out from under them anymore.
But, tonight it seems like the new house has set off something. Despite everyone's agreement that it's a vast improvement over the Ambassador's House in New Home, the change in environment has finally hit Sans as he slept. Or at least that's what Frisk assumes as they wake to the faint rattle of bones against their side. They blink into the darkness of their room and realize it can't have been that long since they just laid down, tossing their papers aside in favor of slumber, and yet Sans has already fallen into a nightmare. From the sounds of his grunts and the hitches in his breath, it must be a nasty one.
Frisk considers their options then slides their hand—gloved even now, but fingerless gloves this time since they miss the feeling of running their fingertips over things—under his shirt, lace their fingers into his ribcage, palm to sternum, and shakes it hard enough that they hear his bones rattle.
He wakes up with a startled "guh!", mostly because their fingers are uncomfortably close to his soul, although they're careful not to actually brush against it. They'd yet to meet a skeleton who didn't flinch at the idea of someone physically touch their soul. Still, he's awake and that's the important thing.
"Sans," they call, "you were having a nightmare."
"Fuck," he whispers into the darkness, shivering, his hand flying up to grab theirs. He doesn't pull it away, more like dropping his weight against it to try and pin their hand there. "Yeah—uh—fuck, I was."
Rather than remove their hand, they reach with their other hand to press the back of their fingers to his cheek, making him turn his head to them. They frown to see there's only one light in his sockets, the battle ready left eye glowing like a red lamp in the dark. "You're awake now."
He nods, but behind his one red iris they aren't sure he believes them just yet.
Giving up their own hope for a swift return to sleep, they pull their hand from his face and instead work their whole arm under his head and neck to circle him, to push the nightmare further away. "Just breathe, love," they say, just as they would to Asriel when he comes to them, shivering.
He draws breath like he'd forgotten how to do it properly, his ribcage expanding while his hand pressed theirs down. Almost as if he was still trying to make sure if they were truly there or not.
They watch him, waiting for his breathing to calm, but even as it slows, they can tell it's only because he forcing himself to. His eye remains battle ready. Biting back a sigh, they run their thumb over his cheekbone, putting all the tenderness they can into the gesture. "Do you want to talk about it?"
From the way he glances at their hand suddenly before flickering back to their face, they know what he's been dreaming about—or rather, who. "No," he says, firmly and he closes his eyes rather than let them see that he's still prepared for a fight.
Frisk frowns; they also occasionally have nightmares of the chilling figure in the void, but from the few choked answers he's managed since then, they know he has far more to dream about than them. They have little in the way that they can do to comfort him, so they pull him close to rest their foreheads together. "I am here. You are here. We are all here. But he is not."
He shudders, eyes still closed, and leans into them. "He is not." Slowly, he pulls his arm out from where it'd been pinned between them and grasps Frisk arm, the one holding his ribcage. When he opens his eyes, it's gone back to two smaller dots. "But you are here?"
They wonder if he's actually asking for the other Frisk, but only for a moment. Instead, they pull back and press a kiss to his brow, before bracing their forehead back against his. "I am here."
He takes another shuddering breath and closes his eyes. Tomorrow morning, they'll both be tired and sore from the awkward positions they fell asleep in, but for now they are too busy keeping fear away to care for such petty problems.
"Beautiful," someone says besides him, and Sans smile turns wry as he leans against the rail just above the dance floor.
Beautiful? Maybe—no, yes. Frisk is beautiful, but not in a classic sort of way that most humans prized. Frisk twisting their words about with a cheery smile until they left the other side confused but charmed is beautiful. Frisk swaying as their fingers danced over piano keys with Chara, or guitar strings with Asriel, carefree and bright, is beautiful. Frisk dodging and weaving between bullets—Frisk living—is beautiful. Frisk is at their most beautiful when they are an object in motion. Out on the dance floor like tonight they certainly are a thing of beauty, but right now there is a pause between songs and Frisk is busy laughing with their latest dance partner—Mettaton—so they are mostly still at the moment. But they're still glowing with exertion from their night of dancing and there's mirth dancing in their eyes, so he can still see the point. "Yeah, you could say that."
There is a startled giggle next to him, making him pause. "I, um, wasn't talking about the ambassador."
He blinks and turns to really look at who's speaking to him. It's another monster, some young, girlish being of green fire who is gazing at him so pointedly that he realizes two things very quickly.
One, the girl is talking about him. And really, wham, the girl's already struck out. Him? Beautiful? Even Frisk at their kindest wouldn't say such a bold face lie—maybe at their most mischievous, but that's another matter all together. The poor girl's obviously deluded.
Two, the girl looks familiar because there was a picture of her standing next to her father pinned up to the back wall of Grillby's for years because, oh fuck, this is Fukufire and Grillby is going to fucking kill him.
(Also, she's probably fifteen at the most and he's got some goddamn standards, that aren't so easily met as some people he could name.)
"Uh," he tries diplomatically, and he's doomed already. Any moment now, Grillby is going to swoop down and roast him until his bones crack and pop open. He looks around the room in a panic. "Well now."
Fukufire doesn't have much of a mouth, takes after daddy that way he thought in sheer terror, but as she leans forward, she seems to be smiling coyly. "Do you dance, Mister Sans?"
Suddenly, like an angel from a prophecy, Frisk hops up to the little ledge of the raised floor they're on and tosses their arm over the hand rail to grab Sans by his shoulders. They beam at Fukufire, all sweetness as they drag him over the side. "Sorry, honey, but our Sans' dance card is full tonight."
Before either he or Fukufire could protest, Frisk yanks him over the railing and pulls him onto the dance floor. He looks up at them, tension fall off like deadweight. "Bless you, babe, I think you saved my life."
They shoot him a grin. "You trying to get yourself killed? Grillby was literally ten seconds away from reaching you."
Stupidly, he glances back to see Fukufire pouting at them while Grillby is literally simmering behind his daughter, glaring dead at him. He tightens his grip on Frisk's arms as they keep dragging him away. "Fuck. What say you we skip out early so I can live to see another day?"
Suddenly, their smile is all mischief and if he had a stomach, it would be knotting. "Leave? Oh, no no no, my friend. Remember?" And then, one of their hands are at his side, the other is clasping his hand and they've already pulling him into a waltz. "I said your dance card is full. Don't make me a liar now."
He grimaces and bites back a laugh. "You lie all the time! You're a politician, babe."
"Shameless flatterer," they purr and away they go. In a bit, Frisk will take pity on him—he really, honestly cannot waltz to save his life—and pull him away so they can sneak back home. But for now the two of them are a whirl of motion and as the world spins, Sans thinks back to before and thinks beautiful.
This is just embarrassing. He turns over and then has to kick the sheets off because they're binding his legs in their twists. He cannot lie still tonight and he cannot find a single place in the goddamn bed that is remotely comfortable which is baffling because it's his bed. Or rather, it's Frisk's, but seeing as he sleeps there so much, it's pretty much half his already.
All this moving has made him hot; glaring up at the ceiling like its fault he can't get comfortable, he kicks off the blankets as well. He considers getting up for a moment, so that he can adjust the air conditioner to a more comfortable setting, but then dismisses it out of hand. He is not getting out of this bed; tonight, he will not surrender.
It's entirely a matter of principle at this point. He isn't going to get out of that bed, because he hasthe damning suspicion that if he did, he'd find some excuse to not get back to it. Maybe in the morning he'll claim it was his insomnia making a dreaded return for the first time in nearly a year. Right now, he's more concerned with not giving in.
Because if he gives in, he knows that he'll have to figure out why he can't sleep—and he already knows why he can't sleep. He'd just rather pull his own teeth out with a rusty pair of pliers than admit.
Because it's embarrassing. Because the truth is that he can't sleep because Frisk is gone. Gone on a business trip—unfortunately, conflicting schedules meant that the only times two important politicians would have been available was at the same time, and one refused to do the meeting unless it was in person.
Frankly, Sans got the better end of the deal—he got to stay home and deal with the someone who he'd already known, a national politician with a pleasant enough demeanor and a quirky sense of humor that made him hard to insult. Frisk, on the other hand, has to go deal with the more temperamental politician, and honestly it is probably best Sans isn't going to be there for that meeting because he probably would have ended up ruining the meeting on purpose after a few minutes of exposure to the other politician.
Still, the bottom line is Frisk is gone—Frisk who somehow always knew the perfect temperature to set the room at, unlike Sans who'd obviously set it too high, who was always warm so even it was cold outside the blankets, at least it was cozy inside. Frisk, whose steady heartbeat could lull him to sleep faster than any other noise he'd known yet—he didn't even have a heartbeat of his own to listen to, not that it would have compared. Because nothing—nothing—compared to the steady sets of thumps. Human heartbeats meant at least one thing: life. When the nightmares got bad, when he woke up tasting blood, at least he could chase the memories away with the sound of their breathing and their constant heartbeat. And when he dreamed older dreams, of another, frailer Frisk, he would press his skull to their chest and try to breath. Thump-thump; he hadn't failed. Thump-thump; they were alive and he wasn't alone again.
There is not heartbeat tonight, no gentle rise and fall of breathing, no easy warmth to seep heat into his bones, chasing out the cold.
(Tomorrow night, Frisk will be home early. They will all be happy to be reunited, but no more so than Frisk, who looks like something one of Papyrus' cats dragged in. When asked, they will answer that they got done early mostly by pulling out all their charm because they had no intention of sleeping in a hotel room for two nights in a row, mainly because they hadn't slept at all on the first night. When they go to bed that night, Frisk won't even try to pretend to want to work, just instantly announce they want to sleep. Sans will be happy to oblige, even if they spend five minutes arguing over who's elbowing who in the side while neither one bothers to move an inch.)
Looking up at the ceiling, Sans settles in for a long night and turns over onto his side again with a growl.
It starts around their eleventh month into their—stay? Residence?—of living in this strange new world. It starts small, just an idle thought during a meeting. While the monster world was drastically different than their world, the human side of things seemed pretty identical. But what if it isn't? What if Rome or Mexico City or Tokyo are different in some weird ways?
They don't think much of such thoughts at first. But then those thoughts begin to mutate and creep into situations where they have no right to be bored—at dinner, they take a bite of Papyrus's typically burnt pasta and think of eating falafel in middle of an Egyptian street. During a lesson with Chara, they hit a sour note on the keyboard and Frisk's fingers twitch at the memory of dancing in a crowd in Budapest. Sometimes they are only walking down a sidewalk with Sans, the two of them smiling and Frisk's mind whispers run.
Their fingers start to twitch; they pull them into fists to try and hide it. Sounds begin to irritate, so they begin to enjoy the silence of the balcony as much as they can. Their eyes drift to the horizon though, and there is no stopping.
Eleven months. They have not stayed in one place so long since before they turned nineteen. Since a few months after their Sans—their Original's Sans—cracked their world open and tossed them into reality. After that, even after they came home, they couldn't bear to remain in one place for more than two months. And yet, they've somehow managed eleven here; they hadn't even thought about it until the thoughts began to intrude. It's wearing on Frisk's soul to be honest—they are needed, wanted here. There is no reason to go.
And yet a voice whispers not forever, you won't be. Run. Get while the getting's good.
They know the others are starting to notice. All these thoughts and twitches and pulling back, they're starting to notice the silence. In a way, Frisk is trying to send out the warning signals. They wonder if anyone will actually recognize them for what they are.
And then it happens. It is Friday and for once the weekend is theirs alone—no meetings, no plans. Asriel and Chara have a project they're working on for school and Papyrus has already agreed to do whatever he can to help them. Sans had been looking forward to slacking off. Frisk didn't plan anything because by then the itch had set in and they know it's inevitable. They are ready have the exit plan—they will announce they're going to pick up some cigarettes, grab their motorcycle, and just go.
Where to, they have no idea. But it most likely just end in the middle of a road—they plan to drive as far as they can then turn around because they plan to be back by Monday. They are still needed, but not for this weekend. And hopefully this will satiate the itch for now. But they must go soon—they're losing daylight and it's taking everything Frisk has not to just walk out the building and start walking as far as their shoes will let them before they blister Frisk's toes.
And then Sans speaks, gathering up the papers they'd been going over and shoving them haphazardly into Frisk's briefcase since he refuses to care one. "Do you want to just go?"
They blink at him. "Well, yeah, I mean, it's not like we have anything else after this-"
"No," he interrupts with a wave of his hand. "I mean, do you just want to go?"
Frisk feels a chill spread in their chest and they don't even know why. "…like, to dinner or a bar?"
He shoots them a flat look, but his smile is twitching in amusement; some of the chill recedes. "No, babe. I mean, I've been here four goddamn months and I've barely seen anything of this place. I'm asking do you want to get out of this fucking town and go somewhere?"
Vacation? Their brain suggests and it makes their heart lurch. They haven't had an actual vacation in… well. Technically, they have had vacations, or at least they'd said they had, but in truth, those times where just like now—just them running because if they'd stay, something in them would snap. But a vacation with other people? For some reason that sounded—wonderful.
They start to smile and then pause. "What about the kids and Papyrus?"
He waves them off again. "They'll live without us for a weekend. So, do you want to?"
Frisk is already smiling.
(They go home, change clothes, leave a note for Papyrus and the kids, and then climb onto Frisk's bike. The engine revs and then they are flying. Frisk can't tell if Sans yelps or lets out a whoop as they skim the ground when they lean into turns, but as his grip tightens on their waist, Frisk grins. They are damn near flying and all they can think as Sans readjusts his position against their back is god I missed this.)
"Alright," they chirp, grabbing the case while he stands. They swing their elbow into his arm as they walk past, still grinning. "You owe a proper honeymoon anyway."
They laugh as he starts to choke, reaching back to pull him forward and then pat him between his shoulder blades. When he is finally breathing properly, they toss an arm around his shoulders and tug him alone. The road is waiting and it's not waiting for them alone.
A/N: Sorry that this is late-me and two other people in my family got sick, so we've all felt pretty crummy. But I'm mostly on the mend now.
Frisk isn't the best roommate, which you can kinda see here-they keep playing with the thermostat for one, but their habit of just leaving stuff lying around comes from the game itself. You can drop items on the ground, but you can't get them back, even important items, like Undyne's letter-that'd be a super annoying habit in a roommate.
The whole chapter takes place over the course of a year. There was actually another section, but I cut it out. Perhaps I'll post it later, as a bonus somewhere.
