All aboard the pain train!

"You realize I know how to make a sandwich, right?"

Papyrus pauses for a moment, the knife hovering precariously over a slice of white bread spread thickly with ketchup. He glances at Sans. "Do you though?"

"You wound me," Sans says, one hand hovering over his chest, but he doesn't protest about Papyrus packing him lunch any further so Papyrus continues making the sandwich.

They didn't do this before. Papyrus would cook often, but Grillby's was quite literally around the corner, and Sans did not stick around for dinner or lunch. Or breakfast for that matter. Sans' idea of a midday snack was probably a bottle of ketchup and a hotdog (no bun, just the sausage) and the thought was appalling to Papyrus then and downright abhorrent now. So he went to the store and got the same brown paper bags he has seen Toriel use for Frisk and he's making Sans lunch.

It is all he can do really.

Because Sans is going to university for the first time, going off to become a physicist or an astronomer or maybe a stand-up comedian. Papyrus wasn't paying attention when he told him. But Sans is going away for the day and he won't be back until late and there will probably be a cafeteria but what if they didn't have anything good or healthy or something with ketchup? Papyrus has to make sure Sans has lunch or he would be a terrible brother.

Papyrus doesn't want to be a terrible brother. He's holding onto that.

"Thanks, bro." Sans takes the bag from him with one hand, like holding a nuclear bomb. "Have you even had breakfast yet?"

With a grimace, he dumps the disgusting ketchup covered knife into the sink. It smears red against the side of stainless steel. "Not yet. I'll have some after you're gone."

"Guess you're more nervous about this than me, huh?"

Papyrus isn't nervous about anything. But he nods absently, watching as Sans triple checks he has all the required books and papers with him. Sans never checks things, so it's a confounding sight, sparking a detached sense of pride in him. Not real pride, Papyrus doesn't have that anymore either. But there's rituals and traditions and things that are in your head more than in your heart.

Things such as making lunch so you can be a good brother.

Papyrus is very good at head stuff now.

So he can be proud of Sans – even as he isn't really – and wave him off when he steps outside, slamming the door like the lid on a coffin. He doesn't have breakfast, but he also didn't have dinner yesterday, so that's probably fine.

Undyne ends up getting him the violin. "Just for no reason," she says with a sudden sharpness to it. Papyrus holds it at arms length. The color of the wood is much lighter than the one he used to have, used to play, and it doesn't look as scratched up.

He's not sad about that. Not happy either. Not even melancholic.

It's just a violin.

"No reason?"

"You can give things to people with no reason, Punk!" Undyne declares with such confidence it almost staggers him. She's not angry – he has enough experience reading her face to know – but there's something lurking beneath the surface, like a shark turning lazy circles around a bleeding prey. Like she's waiting for something different. "I thought it might help."

Papyrus holds the violin closer, fingers curled around the neck carefully. The bow is still lying on the table. "Help?"

Undyne huffs and throws her hair over one shoulder in obvious agitation. "Shit, are you really going to make me say it?"

"Perhaps." Papyrus picks up the bow. It feels foreign in his hand. He isn't certain how long it has been since he last played. The strokes are hesitant, but aren't off-pitch.

"Look, Papyrus..." Undyne says, falling down into the nearest chair with a sigh. "You know I'm not good at these kinds of things, but you haven't exactly been yourself lately and yeah, this whole surface stuff is fucking scary for me too but-" She covers her ears at the sudden screech of the violin and curses under her breath again.

"What did you say?"

"Fuck, Paps, I think I'm bleeding from my brain now. I said I'm scared too."

That wasn't the part that mattered really. The part that mattered was the part about everything he was putting all this effort into (was working so hard at was worth still living for) falling apart. The part about still being who they needed him to be even if he wasn't-

"You're scared?" he hears himself ask, voice strangely light, unreal. It can easily be played off as surprise at her confession. The Captain of the Royal Guard wasn't supposed to be scared of anything ever.

But even more, it's like he's grasping onto a fleeting sensation, hands cupped around smoke that will dissipate no matter how tightly he squeezes. Papyrus doesn't feel scared, but he wants to know what it would be like if he did.

"Of course I'm scared. Everything about this is downright terrifying, we have no idea what we're doing. Not to mention Alphys and..." Undyne trails of there, embarrassed. They didn't often talk like this, during training. As a boss, Undyne operated on a strict 'actions first, words later' basis. But she isn't his boss anymore. He isn't in training. They are just friends now.

Whatever that means.

He keeps playing, keeping the strokes light so she can still talk. The repeated motions make it easier to hold on. "What about Alphys?"

"Alphys isn't good at communicating and neither am I and I'm scared I'll screw it up, you know? She's very smart and I'm not and I love her so much, I'm terrified of losing that. If I make a mistake."

"You are definitely going to make mistakes."

Undyne glares at him from under her side-swept bangs, and the corner of her mouth is pulled up in a smirk that only just reveals razor-sharp teeth. "Gee, thanks!"

Papyrus remembers vaguely how in awe he was at her. How grand she seemed, untouchable and strong and all the things he wanted to be for the world. He remembers vaguely thinking that maybe he could be good if he did good things.

"I mean, you're going to make mistakes because everybody makes mistakes." Papyrus stops playing for a moment to point the bow at her and Undyne looks like she has half a mind to snap the thing in two but doesn't. "Of all certainties in life, The Great Papyrus considers these the certaintest. But the true tragedy is letting these mistakes overcome you." Resuming a new song – one he played for her once when she was queen and lonelier than even he was with that crown upon his head.

It brings back some distant recollection of sadness that he doesn't experience anymore.

Her eyes widen, recognization almost on her face. "Papyrus-"

He stops again, arms limp, and smiles. "I'm not scared, because I also believe in the certainty that everything ends up where it should end up."

Undyne blinks a few times, he's not sure what emotion is in her eyes now. He can't know any of that anymore. But he knows her grin means he has done his job well, has done what he had to as a friend. The only thing he is still good for now, holding on.

"Whatever, Punk. You really know how to sell it. Maybe you should give life advice or something." She gets up with a grand gesture. "So, am I teaching you or not?" She takes a seat behind her piano and carefully lifts up the cover. Her piano is one of the only things Undyne handles with care.

"If you can keep up with me," he jokes back.

"Yeah, where did you learn that anyway."

Papyrus laughs and it's almost real, almost a thing he can touch. It's almost something that permeates the air and lingers as smoke should. But it isn't. "When we're done I shall regale thee with the greatest invention of human time. It's called 'youtube tutorials'."

"Alright, wisecrack."

They play together for a few hours, like old times or new times. Like times that happened once maybe. And Papyrus doesn't know how he felt about that then or how he should feel about it now.

But he knows Undyne doesn't talk about him acting unlike himself again for the rest of the day. And that means he did something right.

Sans isn't home yet when Papyrus gets there.

The house feels empty and dark. He closes the drapes, thinking maybe he'll see snow if he looks outside, but it's only fallen leaves and asphalt. Taking the violin out of its case, he goes through the different songs he composed in other timelines meticulously, seeing if he can recall them from memory alone.

He should probably write them down soon. There wasn't really much point to it, when he wasn't certain if all his hard work would go to waste when they went back in time anyway. But now he thinks he might want to.

At first, he concentrates on the ones he wrote for others. For Sans and Undyne and Toriel. Once, he wrote one for Asgore, though the old king never got to hear it. There are numerous ones he wrote for Flowey. His best friend used to watch him practice and complain about the racket he was making, without actually leaving as he could have.

When he runs out of those, he goes back to the ones he wrote for himself. There aren't as many – they're not as important – but playing each one almost makes it easy to know what he felt while composing them. Was he sad? Angry? Frustrated?

Was he ever happy?

Papyrus can't remember if he was ever happy.

He throws the violin onto the couch, realizing the way it bounces off and clatters onto the floor should spark something but it doesn't. There's nothing.

No matter what he does there's still just nothing.

Sans leaving was nothing. Undyne grinning was nothing. The songs are nothing. The violin breaking would be nothing.

(Papyrus dying would be nothing)

He goes upstairs, opens the first drawer of his bedside table. Inside are a few books and crosswords and his old scarf and wrapped in the folds of the fabric, concealed where nobody can find it is the knife he has used a few times now. He doesn't sit down this time, just grabs the handle and puts the sharp edge against his arm.

Nothing.

He cuts three times in quick succession, not allowing much of a pause or hesitation between each self-inflicted wound. They're not deep, he's not pushing too hard, but it hurts and that's not nothing and so he waits until the sharpness subsides and he can think again. There's no feeling but there's pain instead and that's nearly the same if you don't think on it too long.

It fades quickly – like smoke – and he heals the cuts just as fast.

Wanting to put the knife back, Papyrus unravels the folds of the scarf again, and as he does watches grey dust trickle down from his arm. He looks at it dumbfounded for a moment, turning his ulna towards himself and the cuts are there, trickling broken-down magic. He thought he healed them?

He tries again.

Nothing.

The thing about holding smoke is that you can't. No matter how hard you squeeze, it will always dissipate, leaking from between your fingers to dissolve into thin air. But if you keep them shut, pressed together as firmly as you can manage, and don't open them again, the smoke could still be there. As long as you don't open your hands, it could still be there and you won't know until you take a look. Something like a cat and a box.

And maybe Papyrus had known. Maybe part of him had realized all along, but that part had shut itself down completely in favor of doing what's right and holding on. Holding on to smoke. No matter how much you didn't want to though, sooner or later you would have to take a look.

He sinks down onto his knees. The room is dark. Closing his eyes, it surges inside him, bringing back forth a sudden rush of dizziness. Papyrus forces himself through it and peeks from one socket.

Nothing.

Trying, again and again, growing more frantic with each failed attempt. He's not panicking. He's not scared. But he has to see.

Nothing.

Papyrus tries to summon his soul over and over and there's nothing.

He laughs then. It's not the right reaction but it's all he can muster. Because there is nothing and he has never been emptier and he thinks of Flowey, scathing and bitter and soulless. Flowey who was never much good at being anything except empty, unless he wasn't anymore and now Papyrus was the empty one and-

Oh.

Flowey, who was never much good at being anything except empty.

And Papyrus who believes everything ends up where it should end up.

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