Summary: The beginning of a love story.
(Warning: This story contains sadness, child neglect, vomiting, animal death, and blood.)
A sighing breath echoed throughout the dense forest, carrying in it the sounds of defeat and untold anguish.
Clear blue waters filled the great lake sat amid the lush greenery. Within its reflective surface dwelled the mirrored image of a slumped, teary-eyed young skeleton sitting on a rock. He wore a (mostly) typical outfit for a monster his age: a yellow and white striped sweater (stained across the chest with a dubious, brown substance [definitely not the chocolate he stol- "borrowed"]), beige shorts, sky blue flip-flops, and a hat; the captain-style white/black, gold-rimmed cap laid awkwardly atop his small skull, being several sizes too large to fit correctly.
But it was one of the very few precious gifts from his father (that wasn't random trash the elder artist picked up like a stone, fistful of snow, or an empty cinnamon bun wrapper), so he wore it anyway.
Another heaving sigh found its way outside him.
Palette absently plucked a smooth, flat stone off the ground and chucked it at the water. Instead of skipping like he'd seen them do for Ink, it slapped against the surface, creating a small spray of water droplets before sinking nigh instantaneously.
Yet another disappointment to add to today's lengthy, ever-growing list.
Sniffling, the young artist fought back the green tears threatening to spill from his eye sockets alongside the broken sobs attempting to claw their way past his jaws. An action that only served to cause the opposite of what he wanted. Instead of being willed away, the magic droplets blurred his vision as they sprung forth, trailing down his cheeks and trickling onto his shorts, and the chest-rattling cries he tried so desperately to contain made his invisible throat clench and burn.
It hurt but nowhere near as much as bitter aching sorrow in his soul. The sheer stabbing sensation that happened time and time again when he recalled the exact source of his misery; why he traveled out to this secluded local in the first place.
Ink and Dream forgot his birthday.
Again.
And what's worse about the matter was the duo weren't even fighting or doing any of their duties to keep the AUs safe- They were at a party. Some obscure celebration cobbled together by a no-name Sans from the outskirts of the Multiverse.
One of the many, many gatherings they received an invitation for.
That children were, apparently, no allowed to attend.
He knew his mother would make it up to him later, with gifts and cake and all cuddling the other could squeeze into the day. However, for just once, Palette wished he could celebrate his birthday on the actual day he was (supposedly) born.
Not the next day.
Not the day before.
Not two weeks later.
After all, this very day happened to be a monumental occasion in the young artist's life- at the stroke of "7:16 PM," he was officially turning thirteen years old. Meaning he would finally be out of his stripes. He'd be a big boy who could go on missions alongside his parents, order things not on the kids' menu, and stay up late to watch TV.
Not that he didn't already do the last one, but what Ink and Dream did not know wouldn't hurt them.
Palette's tears quickly tapered off once a few moments spent expressing his anguish passed, his undeveloped mana supply being unable to support the long-term discharge of the liquid magic. Thus, leading to a harsh, ugly feeling boiling within his soul.
He sniffled, hands fisting the fabric of his shorts as he glared down at his lap.
I can't keep my parents around on my birthday. I can't skip a stone. I can't even cry correctly!
Sure, crying barely qualified as a fun pastime, but at the moment, he wanted to sob to his heart's content- even if the associated negativity wasn't the best for a budding half positivity spirit, half skeleton monster like himself.
Alas, there was very little he could do about his body's refusal to shed any more magic.
Giving a final sniffle, he used a yellow sleeve to dry beneath his eye sockets and wipe the residual wetness from his cheeks. It wouldn't be surprising if the bone around the former looked slightly red and puffy. It certainly felt sore enough, given how the fabric made the area sting uncomfortably.
That, coupled with his low mana and the burning sensation in his nonexistent throat that had yet to subside, made the skeleton-spirit hybrid feel miserable.
Then, further adding to his suffering, a slight pang began nipping at his belly; Soon followed by a loud gurgle.
"Great. Now I'm hungry." Palette grumbled, a pout coming to rest on his features.
He promptly opened his inventory. It contained many things: crayons, paints, colorful papers, a nifty little spiked bracelet thing Red gave him (he still didn't fully understand what it was supposed to do, but the Underfell Sans told him to take it whenever he went out, saying something like "well, some mildly responsible party needs to know where you are and that you're protected."), plastic safety scissors, and etc.
Yet, notably, no food.
The young artist slumped atop the sitting rock, the corners of his teeth turned down.
He must have forgotten to grab a snack before leaving the house.
Of course.
Palette had been in such a hurry to spend the day anywhere else (preferably a place where he wouldn't get reminded his parent were away from home), he neglected to nab a pack of fruit gummies or chips in case he got hungry. Meaning the hybrid stripling had no way to sate his hunger or replenish his magic quickly.
On the bright side, he should have enough energy left to teleport one time. Or, well... somewhere close, at the very least.
A thoughtful hum escaped his throat.
Underswap is nearby, isn't it?
Palette straightened himself, a small smile creeping up his jaws.
Maybe I'll see if Uncle Blue will share a taco or a chocolate chip cookie with me, and then we can hang out and play a game or two. It'll be fun!
That is, if he didn't go to the party alongside my parents, his mind bitterly added, instantly bringing a frown back to his face.
Regardless, going there remained the most logical option. The Doodlesphere, his home, took far more magic than what he currently had to access it. And Uncle Stretch certainly wouldn't turn him away.
Plus, even if neither were home for so reason, the resident Muffet might take pity on him and graciously gift him a meal to eat.
Nodding to himself, the young artist prepared to teleport and subsequently jolted when a strangled cry echoed beyond the tree. Thus, causing panic and worry to usurp any feeling of sorrow, hunger, anger, and fragile hope.
Palette sprung to his feet, letting them guide him in the direction his feeble emotion powers sensed distress.
After jumping over rocks and pushing through bushes/short trees, they brought him to the beginning of a tiny clearing containing a variety of different shaped red, orange, pink, and yellow flowers and flat-topped tan mushrooms.
Green/yellow, star-shaped eyelights scanned the area in search of the troubling emotions' source. However, not a single person (human or monster) occupied the space- neither standing openly in the flower-littered grass nor lurking behind the trees.
The guardian-to-be glanced up.
The thick leafy canopy above bled away around the clearing's center, revealing a bright blue sky adorned by thin wispy clouds and an utterly enchanting figure: An angel, who, much to Palette's delight, was slowly floating closer to the ground.
Large, downy snow-white wings that glisten in the sunlight aided in their descent. Much like the halo of light surrounding them, a long white cloak with edges that licked at the air similarly to flames billowed around their small frame; accentuated by the wavy red scarf flowing around their neck. Its hood remained firmly drawn over their head, barely exposing what no doubt was a dainty skull.
Palette paused, jaws agape as a light green flush bloomed across his skull.
So pretty.
The beautiful being soon touched down with the grace of a butterfly, then-
They suddenly gagged and doubled over. A bloody red waterfall sprung forth from their parted jaws as they heaved until the brown-feathered form of a small bird came out. It flopped listlessly onto the ground in the sickly colored mess. Though still gave a twitch from time to time as a sign of (somewhat existent) life.
The winged skeleton panted for a few moments before wiping the blood off their chin and slowly straightening themself.
They glared and snapped at the brilliant blue above. "Ugh! Stupid birds, you're not the only ones who use the skies." Then their rage deflated alongside the tension in their posture while adding sullenly, "...I should have listened to dad when he said not to fly with my mouth open. I didn't think he was being serious about the bird thing."
They were upset.
Palette didn't need eyelights to be able to tell. His inherited powers did it all on their own, bringing forth a strong desire to comfort the pretty stranger and ease their negativity.
Without thinking, he stepped forward.
A twig snapped beneath his foot.
The winged skeleton's head jerked in his direction, allowing him to see their stunning purple eyelights and shocked expression.
A bright lavender flush colored their skull as their eyelights met his.
They sputtered and took a few steps back, mortified. "H-how much of that d-did you see?"
Palette ignored the words, more focused on their face- the way the light cast shadows upon it, how each individual section looked, how their blush burned brighter as he stared.
"W-well?" The beautiful skeleton demanded, ruffling their wings.
He blinked, opening his jaws to answer their-
Wait, what had the other said?
Instead of asking them to repeat, the hybrid blurted out, "Y-you're pretty! I like your blood!"
They jumped, eye sockets widening and feathers puffing. "O-okay? T-t-thank you?"
"And that's how Gothy and I first met!" Palette concluded while a pleased grin rested upon his jaws.
The stunned faces of his uncles stared at him from around the living room's sitting area. All seemingly left at a loss for words and capable of doing no more than gawking or glancing between the two love birds in confused/worried wonder.
"I wish you wouldn't tell that story every time you introduce me to your family members." The death god beside him muttered softly, burying his face in the red scarf around his neck and shyly tugging his cloak's white hood over his skull.
A childish whine crawled out of Palette's invisible throat. "But it's such a great story!"
Goth narrowed his eye sockets a fraction. "No, it's not. It's terrible and sad and-."
Killer quickly interrupted before the lovers could continue their minor dispute. "Okay, let me get this straight: You-" He raised a hand, pointing at Goth, who shrunk in on himself at the action, "up and coughed blood/a dead bird on the ground, and you," The phalange shifted over to Palette, "flirted with him?"
"Yes? I'm fairly certain something similarly strange happened between my mother and father. They did tell me how they met at least once." The young adult said with an added shrug. Meanwhile, his partner sunk into the couch in embarrassment; bones flushed, hands pulled over his face, body curled inward, embracing the hold of furnishing's cushions as if it would hide him from the surrounding world. And Palette's extended family.
Nightmare shook his skull. Whether in disappointment, fondness, or amusement was unknown. "You truly have my brother's tastes and Ink's romantic prowess."