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They requested more about Adult Papyrus dealing with the fallout of Badster denying him food as a punishment.
Sometimes, he likes to pretend it doesn't affect him anymore.
Like the years have filled up the gaps, the memories of clawing at the floor and licking moisture from the walls in a desperate plea for fluids. Like they have magically wiped away days of chewing on his own fingers and trying to ignore the emptiness inside him.
But the truth is, it hasn't really left him at all.
Papyrus can still sense him, eyes boring into the back of his skull, disappointed sigh seconds from leaving his mouth.
He can feel it every time he opens the fridge. He can smell it in the scents drifting up from his stove. He can see it in the full bags of groceries he comes home with. He can hear it in the clattering of fork and knife against porcelain.
Everywhere, Papyrus is aware of it. And he's almost certain it will never leave him either.
It fades away for a while, when the human finally makes all the right decisions. It gets smothered in sunshine and fresh air. In new beginnings and freedom.
Papyrus doesn't really think about it then, about the guilt or the feeling of being completely devoid, busy with everything that mass immigration entails.
Moving boxes and furniture. Painting walls and shaking hands. And if he forgets to eat for a few days straight, then that's just normal, right? The Great Papyrus can't think of everything, after all.
But eventually, the ruckus calms down, and he's standing in something maybe eerily similar to the bar Grillby had back in Snowdin, something which might make it harder to remember.
The timelines tend to blur together in his dreams anyway.
The tables are overflowing with food, almost making it look like they're trying to feed a small army and not just a number of close friends. Papyrus stares at it in silence.
His hands itch so he tries clenching them instead, tries to ignore the despair creeping its way up his spine.
"Do you think you deserve this? Do you really?"
He lets the others go first. He watches as they eat and drink and laugh, the sounds easing their way into his head until he can almost breathe again. Almost able to think there's enough.
He nearly doesn't dare approach it either, like it will disappear if he wants it too much. If he indulges in his selfishness.
Maybe he just shouldn't.
But he knows it would look weird if he didn't, so he tries to keep his fingers steady, willing them to not give him away.
For a moment, Papyrus is reminded of that one time it became so bad he actually saw a plate of dry bread that wasn't actually there. How his small knees scraped against the tiles as he crawled towards it, reached out with shaking fingers just like he's doing now, fingers which moved right through the food.
The mind of a 5-year-old can play some cruel tricks.
When Sans claps him on the back, Papyrus almost screams. His brother is laughing, he is talking, and Papyrus knows he doesn't remember. Maybe he never knew in the first place?
It is infinitely better that way.
He always makes spaghetti. Heaps and heaps of it, more than they could ever eat. But that's the entire point, isn't it?
Because when he opens the fridge and it's full of plastic containers, he can function again for a while.
And this doesn't change, no matter if they're Underground or on the surface.
Maybe he asks Sans if he's hungry about a hundred times a day, but his brother doesn't complain, mistaking pure distress for regular brotherly worry.
When he goes to Grillby's, Papyrus wants to strangle him, caught between the subconscious happiness that his brother is eating, and the voice resonating in his skull about nutrients and health.
About making every meal count, because it's potentially the last one you're going to get for a long time. About stocking up on food, should it be denied next time.
But he can't say so out loud, swallowing it down instead, chocking on it like a piece of rock.
Only once did he try that and father wasn't very pleased.
Sitting at the table and staring at a plate of pasta, waiting for it to slowly go cold. His stomach feels too tight for him to take a bite, so he puts it back.
Maybe Sans will want it when he comes home?
"I really don't get why you love it so much, it doesn't taste like anything."
Papyrus stares at the oatmeal in his spoon, at the bland grayish color and soggy texture.
Undyne is right. It doesn't taste like anything.
But he can't tell her that's exactly the point. The flavor stays the same going in or coming back out, and that gives a certain sense of comfort. A delusion of wastefulness.
It doesn't need to be enjoyed, just consumed.
It looks the same coming out too and Papyrus can see when he stares into the plate, can hear his voice echoing against the walls.
"I guess you just don't care about if you're brother is hungry, do you? How selfish of you. How mundane."
He is done denying it, like so many times before. He can only nod along to the observations. Because that's what they are. Just facts.
At night it gets worse. He dreams of fluorescent glares and days of wishing for release, for comfort, for anything. Days where he wondered what his own soul would taste like.
When he wakes up and goes downstairs, he starts cooking. It is the only thing that will stop the rattling of his bones.
Flowey looks at him from the edge of the table. He never sleeps. "Did it happen again?"
Papyrus tries to nod, but can't. The wooden spoon bangs against the side of the empty pot, loud and unpleasant, but it drowns out the noise, drowns out the pleading in his memories.
"Sir, please, please. I promise I won't do it again. I can be a good boy. I'm so hungry, pleaseā¦"
He doesn't react to the vine around his wrist, doesn't say anything. Flowey pulls him towards a chair and his eyes are almost kind, almost concerned, but mostly amused.
"Sit down and eat, you idiot."
With a sigh, Papyrus sinks down. But he doesn't listen.
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