I'm back!

And I have a vacuum cleaner! Yes, it's very important to me and I feel like I should tell everybody that I found the blessed item which will suck up spiders for me (weirdly sructured sentence here... I want to say that I DO NOT suck up spiders myself when vaccum-less). So I'm proud, that's it.

I will now start my prayers to the vacuum god. And the one of fiber optic and miracles, as I told my friend, for more urgent matter.

Chapter XXXII

Hot hot dogs

Heat.

A dry heat, the kind which causes the throat to beg for even the smallest drop of water to quench its insatiable thirst — but there is no water, not any he can drink. To anyone doubting it, Hotland deserves its name: now that summer is there, the temperature has risen in one go. The rare trees planted around town have started to wilt, their leaves falling to the ground, dry and breakable. Even the more resistant plants won't last long in this furnace where the wind rarely blows, and where rain can be absent for months. In the end, the only ones remaining will be succulents and a handful of others — those lucky enough to be watered, and perhaps even one or two which will manage to survive on their own.

Alphys warned him: the heat can be almost unbearable for monsters like her — and her kind used to live near deserts before the war — so there is no way for him to stand it. Now, he has seen quite a few hot summers on the surface, where the shining sun makes it even worse, but at least he always had the possibility to switch his sweater and jeans for a shirt and shorts. Without the shirt and shorts? He isn't sure he will see the end of the day…

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'Sans! Stop looking at that bottle like it's the love of your life and put some sausages on the grill!'

'How many?' he asks without detaching his gaze of the red bottle.

'Guess!'

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With a sigh and rolling eyes — bless the mask for hiding the second — he puts the bottle next to its yellow counterpart and glances at the queue lining up to the small street shop. Five people waiting: five sausages. Now, they are out of algae and fish ones — only leaving the type of sausage Sans can imagine the taste of: poultry — so it's fair to assume the customers want all the same.

.

A smile appears on his face as his hand reaches the bottom of the cooler without finding more than two sausages. He grabs them as well as a water bottle before heading to the backroom, dropping them on the grill on his way: it won't hurt Muttler, the owner of the small shop, to watch these ones for a minute. After all, he has enough time to watch Sans even on his breaks, so two poor sausages shouldn't be a problem…

Water bottle in hand, Sans disappears behind a door to enter the storehouse. It is merely bigger than a storage room, with just enough space left to move out of the way of the door when opening or closing it and certainly not enough to hold in two people. Muttler won't come in, especially since trying to open the door while the fridge's one is opened causes the first one to bump into the second without even giving enough space to enter the room.

Which means he will be left alone.

For a while at least.

.

Sans opens the fridge's door, welcoming the fresh air coming out of it. Behind his mask, his face breaks into a smile — soft, almost relieved, but also pained as his dry lips crack. Kneeling in front of the opened fridge, with it's cold blue light for sole illumination, Sans reaches for the ties of his mask. He struggles a little to unknot the strips of cloth tangled in his hair, but the piece of wood eventually falls off. The boy lets out a sigh of relief, unsticking his sweaty hair from his forehead, as he takes a much needed breath. For the first time in almost three hours, it feels like he is actually breathing and not suffocating — and, by all means, it does feel good. Fresh air, unlike the humid and stifling one trapped between his mask and his face… He cannot see it, but he can feel his cheeks burning red even more now that the cold air is reaching them — it prickles a little, yet it is oddly satisfying.

But he doesn't have much time.

.

Muttler will eventually wonder what he is doing, and he doesn't want him to see him without a mask. The door of the storehouse may not be able to open completely, but it could still be enough for the dog-like monster to have a peek at his very human face. It's a risk he doesn't want to take.

A risk he cannot afford to take.

.

With a sweep, Sans grabs the bottle he put on the floor and uncaps it. The blessed liquid tastes like the fountain of youth — not that Sans knows what an actual fountain of youth would taste like. Now, crush that bottle and get the box of sausages. Close the fridge, open the door — the mask! Putting the box at his feet, he picks the mask, hitting his elbow in a shelf in the process.

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'Sans?'

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The wooden piece falls back on the floor as Sans stands up straight, eyes widened and heart racing. He hears the click of the door knob: be quick, think of something. He doesn't have nearly enough time to put his mask back on, and be caught midway would probably be more of a problem — if he cannot avoid being caught, having his hands free can only be an advantage. So push the mask under the shelves with a kick. Make the sausages' box slide so you can turn your back to the door. Pretend to be doing something — anything! Rearrange the condiments, that will do.

The door cracks open, and a white furry head sticks out of the embrasure.

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'Hey, what are you doing? The customers want their hot dogs!'

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Muttler isn't pleased — he doesn't sound like someone who is. Sans tenses up, yet he has to keep pretending nothing is wrong. So he needs a lie, something convincing enough. It shouldn't be too hard — if he hadn't learned to lie before getting in the Underground, he surely has now. After all, you pick up the necessary skills fast enough when you need them to survive.

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'Sorry, sir. I… Uh... made some condiments fall?' No, it isn't right. He sounds too hesitant. He needs to be more convincing than that! So he swallows his fear, and tries to speak with a less trembling voice. 'I was just putting them back in place.'

.

Sans holds back the need to look behind him, the need to see the expression's on Muttler's face. One look, and he's done for. So he listens.

He can hear Muttler's breath — regular, yet slightly panting at the same time. He is displeased, and probably irritated by the hot temperatures, but he isn't angry. A sigh breaks the pattern, yet it doesn't sound disappointed or annoyed — simply tired.

Behind the door, he can hear the customers talking to each others. One of them is complaining there are no more algae sausages, his favorite ones. Some are talking about the heat, too. They don't sound too impatient, which is good for him.

Then, there is his own breathing — a breathing he struggles to keep slow and regular, which makes him feel like he is suffocating. He hears his own heart, pounding in his ears. The sound feels deafening — somehow, it isn't — and he wants it to stop. He cannot make it stop.

.

'You're sure you're alright, kid?'

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There is a tint of concern in Muttler's voice — he isn't a monster, not in this sense of the term. The anthropomorphic dog, under his old grump image, does care about the ones in his care. He is well aware Sans doesn't do too good in this scorching heat, but he wouldn't want to overstep his boundaries by forcing him to wear lighter clothes — even if it would be for his own good. He supposes there must be a reason for his skin to be completely covered, be it a good one or not. In fact, Muttler may care, but he has his own back to look after too — let's say it is a possibility that some of the things he does are slightly tapping into illegality. It could be a skin condition, or Sans could be a fugitive: he truly doesn't care. All he knows is that, as king Asgore's subject, it's his duty to care for others — especially for children. As long as he doesn't know anything compromising, he has no reason to stop doing so.

And he doesn't plan on learning anything compromising.

.

The fact Sans smells a bit too much like a human — yet not enough to be one, Muttler can assure — is something he can work around. However, he doesn't want to play: the least he knows, the better. If there is anything the post-war period should have taught Monsters, it would be to never ever stick their nose into anything which could be human related. It never turns out good.

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'You should go back home, kid. We'll be out of sausages before the end of your shift anyway.'

'No, it's alright. I... '

'Go back,' Muttler cuts him. His words are sharp, unquestionable. 'I won't repeat myself.'

.

Sans pinches his lips, unwillingly closing his eyes when he felt Muttler's fur brushes against his sweater. The Monster takes the sausages' box, eyes focused so he wouldn't see whatever Sans was hiding. He isn't sure there is an actual problem, and perhaps he shouldn't really send Sans home, but he doesn't want to take the risk. If there is even the slightest risk it could get the Royal guard to show up, he surely doesn't want to take it. As he kneels to pick the box, he notices something white under the shelves. He refrains looking up to see Sans's face — he knows it must be his mask. Curiosity killed the cat, as humans say — he doesn't want to check whether it kills the dog too.

Yet…

Satisfaction brought it back, didn't it?

.

No, he can't do it. Too much at stake, he repeats to himself. Instead, he takes the box, moaning so Sans gives him an answer. At last, this answer can be heard as a whisper.

.

'Sure…'

.

Letting the door close behind him, Muttler affords a smile: at least, he is giving Sans a chance to put that mask on and go somewhere he hopes he doesn't have to cover up from head to toes. Besides, he remembers Sans telling him he would like to check on his brother earlier. Why? He wasn't paying attention.

Not even a minute later, he hears the door to the storeroom open behind him. Hiding his smile, Muttler take advantage of having to pick the tomato sauce bottle to have a glance at Sans. His mask is back in place, with this creepy unfading smile of it; good, he thinks. This way, he knows nothing he could ever come to regret.

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'Tomorrow, eight?'

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Sans nods, and Muttler can feels he is smiling even under his mask as he waves at him.

.,

'Sure!'

.

Muttler doesn't watch him go, too busy serving his customers — who does that kind of thing anyway? Only half an hour later does he realize that, perhaps, the reason behind Sans's refusal to let him see his face might be worth investigating — and by "worth investigating" he means "should be investigated for the sake of Monster kind".

For his eyes caught something he hadn't noticed he saw.

Something which, if he saw it right, could mean his nose has betrayed him.

.

Isn't it remarkable, how a distorted reflection can inspire such suspicion?

Isn't it?

Yes, isn't it, Muttler? Isn't it? Why don't you stuck to your "no probs policy", uh? And spare the kid some stress, too! He's turning gray early because of you!

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By the way, Sans's problems with his mask are becoming oddly relevant... Like, I planned this stuff in 2016, but I feel like 2020 showed up just for being like "hey, ya know what'd be cool? Knowin' what all of this feels like! Yeah, got that covered" and I'm like "What about NO?".

I don't even know how my university will do T.T Let me live in my apartment! I want my independance! (I don't have it, technically, since I still have to figure ou how to summon a full-time job's paycheck... I'll have to work on that)

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The next chapter may come out on Monday instead on Sunday, since I'm moving my things from "little cosy bedroom" to "not that much bigger but deal with it you don't have money apartement". It's written, but I can't know when I'll be able to publish it.

See ya!