Follow up to the previous chapter. At least it gets the semi-happy ending it deserves...
Warnings: Talking about self-harm. Talking about death.
He does wake up.
His eyes open to a blurry ceiling, small cracks running across age-worn wood. Papyrus blinks in an effort to clear his vision, surprised at how the world appears to be slowly spinning.
That was certainly... something.
He tries to check his own HP, get an idea of the damage he caused himself this time. But his head seems to ring with a dull ache that makes it too hard for him to properly concentrate.
A small, nervous laugh makes him turn his head. Sans is on the floor, sitting with his legs crossed and his head in his hands. There is something in his lap that Papyrus can't quite make out from his position on the couch.
"How bad?" he asks, voice hoarse and tired sounding. He feels like he could just close his eyes and sleep for a hundred years.
Sans looks up at him and slides one hand down to rest above his own chest. Papyrus doesn't need to see the soul that resides beneath, to know it's there. So fragile. Sans has always been so fragile, one hit and-
"Let's just say we match now, bro..." Papyrus has never heard his brother sound so cynical.
"That bad, huh..." he murmurs, more to himself than anything. He really overdid it this time.
He's such an idiot. In retrospect, there were about a million different ways he should have handled the situation. A thousand better solutions. Yet he decided to nearly kill himself?
Well, at least he wasn't actually dead. Though, depending on what would come next, he might wish he were.
Sans is shaking ever so slightly, bracing against the floor. And Papyrus just knows this conversation isn't going to be pleasant.
"I'm sorry. I went through your room and-" there is something in his hands now. Something that catches the light, and reflects it in a way that is all too familiar to Papyrus. "-and found this."
Papyrus has to put in more effort than should be considered normal to see what Sans is handling.
It's a knife. His knife. The one he had stored away in his room, somewhere in the back of his closet.
It was his go-to instrument when he needed... relief. But today, he had opted for another, similar blade, straight from the kitchen.
Because the knife he usually preferred had gotten dull from use, and he hadn't had the chance to sharpen it yet.
"Care to tell me what the hell this was doing in your room?" Sans' voice pulls Papyrus out of his thoughts. His brother is handling the cold instrument idly, twisting it between his fingers slowly. "Because I don't think it's because you suddenly took an interest in woodcutting..."
His mouth feels like somebody stuffed it full of cotton, the world still slightly too bright and sharp for him to think properly. It's the low HP, he reminds himself. Once you eat something, everything will be alright.
Except that Sans knows now and nothing is alright.
"Why were you in my room?" he hears himself asking. It's a stupid question. A ridiculous question. But it's what he would say in a normal situation, and the only thing he can think to ask right now.
But Sans tenses, grip clenching around the blade, and the sight is actually kind of terrifying. "It doesn't matter why I was there. What matters is what this was doing in there."
With monumental effort, Papyrus tries to move. His arms feel like overcooked pasta, barely able to support his weight, but he manages to use them as leverage to push himself into a semi-upright position, back braced against the armrest.
This is the conversation that he had wanted to avoid at all costs. But if it was going to happen despite his trepidations, he didn't want to be lying there like a dried out Woshua.
Sans watches him struggle, and Papyrus knows his brother wants to get up and help him. Do something. But his anger keeps him rooted to the spot, the knife now tapping softly at the ground.
Papyrus wishes he would just put it away already.
"Sans-" he says. The other skeleton won't look at him. He's staring at the floor, at the gleam of light that reflects in the sharpened metal, at his own hands. But not at Papyrus.
"Sans, I-" Fuck, this is hard. They've had this conversation a million times over in his mind, and yet now not a single thing seemed to want to come out. "I'm sorry."
The silence that greets his apology is not very encouraging. Sans curls his hands in his hoodie, stares at his own lap. The knife lies abandoned at his side. "What for? For trying to dust yourself on our living room couch?"
Papyrus shudders at the tone. "I wasn't trying to- It was an accident, Sans."
"An accident?" Sans gets up so fast, Papyrus isn't sure if he just used his powers or not. The knife is back in his hand. "Doing a pratfall in the snow because you're trying to pose on the ice is an accident. Burning your hands because the water boiled over again is an accident. Coming home with a fucking crack in your fucking kneecap because Undyne was a bit rough during training. That is a fucking accident. But this-"
Sans actually throws the knife at him then. Not expertly or meant in a harmful way, but in an angry frenzy that has it bouncing against the wall and landing somewhere on the couch with a dull crash, like he can't even stand looking at it anymore. "This is not an accident. This is you almost killing yourself in our living room!"
Papyrus cringes at the louder volume but waits for his brother to stop yelling to actually say anything. "I wasn't trying to-"
"And that would have made a difference, would it?" Sans bulldozes right over him, whole frame rigid, movements short and jerking. If he had any hair, he'd probably be pulling it out. "If I hadn't come home when I did... If I-"
And suddenly, Papyrus realizes. Sans is not angry. Sans is afraid. Sans was scared to lose him. Scared that he'd-
This makes everything worse.
The energy seems to drain from Sans, the thought of what would have happened had he not arrived when he did taking the wind out of his sails. He approaches and sits down next to the couch, knees clacking against their carpet. He's still not looking at Papyrus.
"If you're going to do... stupid stuff like this." He lays one trembling hand against his brother's wrist, fingers barely touching the numerous cuts adoring the ulna, eyes trained on the small trickles of dried red marrow between them. "You shouldn't do them when I'm not here. You shouldn't do them when I'm not here to-"
It seems Sans is having as much difficulty getting the words out as Papyrus is having simply forming them in his head. He wants to apologize again, but something tells him it won't matter anyway.
They are far beyond regrets by now.
"I know," Papyrus says, laying one hand to cover that of his brother and feeling slight relief when Sans does not pull away.
He does know. Sans is right. No matter how you look at it, Papyrus's coping mechanisms are... faulty. The least he can do is make sure Sans will never come home to an empty house and a pile of dust.
They sit in silence for a bit. Not tense, but not comfortable either. Just the absence of sound and an overwhelming feeling of gratitude.
Then, Sans pulls back his hand and finally looks at him. He's frowning hard, normal smile set in a grim approximation of a smirk. "Will you at least tell me why? I'm dying to know what's caused this, bro."
Papyrus doesn't react to the joke. Sans compulsively uses humor to deflect uncomfortable situations, much as he himself takes a knife and-
"I can't," he says. "Not yet."
Sans does not look pleased with that at all. Papyrus guessed he wouldn't be, but... How could he even begin to explain?
"You have to promise me you will stop this, then." Sans looks at him so intently, so pleadingly, Papyrus almost wishes his brother would start avoiding his gaze again.
He doesn't want to lie to Sans. But he doesn't want to disappoint him either.
His hesitation is as clear as day though. Sans bows his head, eye lights guttering out of existence as he averts his gaze. "Let me guess: you can't to do that either."
Papyrus doesn't trust his voice to not break on him now, so he shakes his head instead, the movement tight and uncomfortable. He wishes he could. He wishes with his whole soul it could be that easy.
To say that of course he'll stop. Of course he won't hurt himself again.
But things are not that simple.
Still incredibly dizzy, but at least feeling slightly surer of his hand-eye coordination now, Papyrus bends towards Sans and holds him. Feels the thrumming of that fragile soul against his chest, feels his own weak magic answer in kind.
"I will try," he says, so quietly it can barely be heard. "I can't promise... but I can try."
Sans stays stiff against him, arms limp at his side. For a moment Papyrus fears that it's not enough.
But then, he feels his brother's arms come up to hug him back.
"Alright..." Sans breathes against him. "We'll try."
"...We'll try," Papyrus repeats, voice gaining just the slightest edge of confidence.
His head still throbs like somebody tried to smash it in with a hammer, light burning his vision, and every sound deafening to his ears. He's cold and tired and really, really in need of a nice plate of left-over spaghetti.
But it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.
As always, find me on Tumblr at sharada-n
