More ED!Papyrus, ties in with the previous chapter.
With Flowey, he doesn't need to say it out loud. His best friend simply knows.
Doesn't matter if he aims for 12 hours, 24 hours, double that, or far more. Flowey always knows and he's there.
Because somebody will have to catch Papyrus when he inevitably buckles.
And it can't be Sans, with his anxious fiddling and nervous words. Papyrus may have taken more after their father physically speaking, but it is in his brother's face that he recognizes the doctor.
The worry in that gaze so easily perceived as disappointment by his treacherous mind. And Papyrus doesn't want Sans to touch him, when he's really on the edge.
Doesn't want anyone to touch him, except maybe Flowey, if he allows it.
And if he doesn't, Flowey will anyway, complaining at him about not being allowed to tear himself apart like this.
Papyrus is of the opinion that it is his body and his burden and his choice. It's his guilt that needs to be silenced by the sweetness of starvation. The taste of true emptiness the only thing real enough to clear his mind.
He doesn't need to listen to anybody else. Save for maybe Flowey again, because he is his best friend and will give his verdict regardless if Papyrus wants it or not.
At least the honesty is refreshing.
"You do realize you're being an idiot, right?" Flowey tells him, time and time again. "He's dead, Papyrus. He's gone for good."
Papyrus is reorganizing the fridge, making sure there's enough food. Always making sure there's enough.
They should never run out.
"I know," he says, and he does, but it doesn't make any difference.
No logic in the world can battle a habit ingrained so deeply into his soul it has become a part of his universe. Just a simple fact.
Grass is green and the earth revolves around the sun and food needs to be earned. That's just the way it is, the way it has always been.
"Your hands are shaking, you're going to hurt yourself," Flowey says, scowling at the way his fingers tremble, spilling dust from shallow cuts. "Stop it."
"No." Papyrus tries to hold still as he continues cutting into the carrots, slower, but he can't go too slow because that's not what good boys do.
"Good boys do their chores without complaining. Can you be a good boy, P-2?"
"Let me do it," Flowey says and pries the knife from his grasp. There is dust all over the table now and Papyrus should probably clean this before Sans gets home.
"Is this enough yet?" Flowey asks hesitantly when he's done, and he isn't annoyed or tired like he sometimes is.
He's trying to help.
"It's enough," Papyrus confirms, laying his hands back on the table, now perfectly still.
He bandages up his fingers and they don't talk about it, because Papyrus is eating (however little it is) and as long as he's eating is, it's all fine.
And then he stops.
Sometimes it's because of something somebody said, a stray remark that doesn't mean anything. Or because he forgot to do the laundry. Because he overslept. Because he didn't remember something important.
Because he just can't get things right.
"Because you keep disappointing me. I'm so tired of it, P-1. So, so tired."
And maybe secretly sometimes because it has been so long and he misses it.
So he stops, and Flowey knows. Sees it in the stiffness of his arms and the way he avoids the kitchen.
Sans notices too sometimes, but not often. He's so busy.
"He's not useless like you are. You should follow your brother's example."
"Hey Papyrus, show me your stupid book again?" Flowey will ask, quietly. He is testing the grounds, the seriousness of the attempt.
If Papyrus dreamt of him, of cold tiles that taste like acid when he licks them, it won't work. He'll sit on the couch and stare at the wall and Flowey will talk to him, follow him for days if need be, patiently waiting for the lack of nutrients to catch up to him.
And then Flowey will still be there, to make sure he never even hits the floor.
But on other days, good days, it works.
Papyrus shows him his book, diagrams and formulas and a few sketches, puzzles he designed but never got to use, horoscopes he solved, or just the calculations he made to pass the time.
Flowey has seen them a million times before.
"This one has fire?" he asks, and points to one of his favorites. Papyrus smiles.
"Indeed, quite the fierce challenge for a passing human," he answers. "Sadly, it never finished construction."
"Golly, it looks very neat Papyrus." Flowey doesn't even need to put any effort into sounding sincere. He means every word. "You're so cool for making these. I bet you're way smarter than that trashbag."
Papyrus stills, exhales.
"You'll never be nearly as smart as S-1, will you? How dull…"
"Between this and your special attack, the human wouldn't have stood a chance," Flowey assures him.
"Even in strength you are lacking. What use are you to me?"
His eyes are vacant, far away, and Flowey sighs. "You're too good for them, Papyrus."
"You'll never be good enough."
"I'm glad you are my friend." Softly, nearly inaudible, as if Flowey didn't really want him to hear it.
A last resort, maybe.
"Thanks, Flowey. You're my best friend too," Papyrus says brightly, perhaps a bit too brightly, to compensate for the shadows in his mind.
"I know." Flowey rolls his eyes. "Can we eat something now, I'm clearly starving here."
"Right." Papyrus stands and when his legs nearly give out, Flowey steadies him. He walks to the fridge and pulls it open. "Right, we should eat something."
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