Sans sighed, peering dully down at the knife now lodged in his chest. The damn kid who'd put it there sat to his right, looking about as bored as he felt.
"Nice weather we're having."
"Mmn." Frisk grunted.
Sans sighed again, rolling his eyes skyward. "I can't even be left to die in peace, now what is this world coming to?"
Frisk sat in silence for a while as Sans sat slumped against the wooden door, his breath coming in a wheeze every now and then. Then he blinked, and said. "It's snowing."
"It's snowdin." Sans snorted derisively.
"You said, 'nice weather we're having'." He recalled. "It's snowing."
"Just trying to make conversation. It's not like you were going to, after all."
"Mmn." Was the following answer.
"Can't a guy expire by his lonesome? You're killing me here, kid, no pun intended." The boy didn't respond, not even a grunt this time. "Hey, why the sudden silence? Am I boring you?"
"Not at all." Frisk replied blandy.
"Forgive me if I have trouble believing you when you say it so enthusiastically." Sans laughed bitterly.
"You're a strange one, you know."
Sans's breathy chuckles begin again, more movement than sound. "That's funny, kid."
Frisk shrugged, and they lapsed into silence again.
Sans's eyelids were threatening to slip after a particularly long gasp of silence. It was almost peaceful, even with Frisk beside him. He could hear the thrumming of his own soul in his chest, the creaking of his own bones as they shifted, his ribcage, he could hear, expanding and contracting with each heave of air into magical lungs. The quiet seemed to embrace him in a warm hug, caressing his sore bones and kissing away his bruises, singing him a soft lullaby and leading him by the hand deeper and deeper into the cold palm of death. The spell cast on Sans was broken, however, as the kid shifted beside him, flicking his cheek with two pink fingers. His eyes blinked languidly open, and he found himself almost disappointed.
"Not cool, man."
"Is this all there is?" Frisk asked, rubbing his flushed hands together, breathing a puff of warm air into his palms, then rubbing them together again.
"I dunno. I'm no priest." Sans breathed, letting his eyes slip shut.
"Wake up." He flicked him again, then again. Then again.
"Jeez, get off. You can't shank a guy to a door then expect him to hold a conversation with you, alright?"
"Hypocrite."
"Whatever."
They lapsed into silence again. Sans let his eyes droop shut once more, his breathing becoming shallower, fainter. Frisk snapped his fingers in front of Sans's face. Once, twice. No reaction. He stood up.
"See you, Sans." He uttered, wrenching the knife from the skeleton's chest.