His phalanges twitched nervously in their grip on his sleeves. That was the first time that child-like voice took even a drip of a serious tone on him. The fabric felt soft, a reminder of simpler times, and his eye lights gazed upon the room. There was a shudder of nostalgia at the orderly chaos making up the room, a far cry from what he had (sadly; reluctantly; hate; hate) grown used to. Everything where they needed (had) to be. Self-sustaining trash tornado on the left, pile of socks right, treadmill front and center, dresser back-right corner, and bed back-left corner. He blinked, something wet trickling down his cheekbone, distal phalanxes brushing away the liquid. Soft yellow-speckled cyan drops gathered on the tips as he pulled away to examine the substance. When did he start crying (don't cry; can't cry) and why?
Sans sighed, brushing away the insistent drops from the corner of his sockets as he made way to the dirty, stained mattress. A silent sob escaped him as he curled around the scrunched up sheets ball. It felt so good. He closed his sockets and took in the springs that pushed against him, the smell, from the ball that desperately needed washing and the silent cries grew, wracking his fragile body. Sans buried his skull into his sleeves as little hiccups of pathetic noise escaped him. It felt like hours dragged on where he just laid there, curled up, weeping and no more tears would come. Something pulled at his conscious. A need to escape, to rest, to sleep, a concept that Sans was all to familiar and comfortable with surrendering to.
Gray, gray, gray. Life was a dull stone-gray square; a thick metal door to the right, a surprisingly comfortable cot in the corner, all light up by a singular swinging bulb too high to reach. Entertainment was tap, tap, tapping away at the stone to fill the silence, scratching at it when it got to be to much. The voices tried to reassure him, but he knew better, knows better. Scrape, scrape goes his cranium. All he wants them to do his stop it. He drags his phalanges into his skull's side as hit goes scrape, scrape scrape.
They beg him to stop.'you're hurting yourself! please don't!' They sobbed
'sans...' they murmured shakily.
'starsdammit, you idiot don't do this to yourself!' They shouted, all trying to stop him from snuffing out their pathetic existences. What did stop him was the impact of fist against metal, oddly recognizable. Sans blearily stared at it waiting for it to open. Or do anything. However it only seemed to quiet the voices. He waited patiently, the smooth cold stone cushioned by his clothing. When five minutes past, even the voices started radiating anxieties and confusion. Tic, tic, tic, the tapping was gentle and shy but clear against the thick metal. Tic, tic, BANG, tic, tic. He jumped, rib cage pounding. The pattern dragged on and on, soothing soft then a deafening bang. Tempo increased, coming in at a rapid, punishing pace. Sans' bones rattled in horror at this confusing, terrifying new thing. His breath quickened, to match the pace it set, unwittingly.
Then it stopped. It didn't taper off, but it stopped and the silence was back. It was back and where did that noise go? What just happened? Even the voices were gone and why was it so quiet? He tapped a distal phalanx against stone and heard nothing. Was he deaf? Did they finally leave him alone? A soft creak amplified by the pure silence caught his attention. That thick metal door was gone? Replaced by thick inky darkness. Something slimy brushed the back of his skull...
Sans flinched away harshly only to make contact with his pillow, sitting up in a rush only to disorient himself even further. There was a sharp, stabbing ache in his skull, which he tried to soothe with a thorough one-handed massage, his other hand supporting him. It stopped, however, at the huff of amusement tinged with worry, giving out and causing him to fall backwards half onto the pillow.
'you alright there, sweetheart?' The light-hearted response was met unsurprisingly with silence. Sans looked around, if Bubblegum and Quattrocento had a visual appearance now, did Pontano have one too? The answer came in the form of pure lime green eye lights gleaming in concern. The translucent skeleton they belonged to was decked in a black vest overtop a dark green sweater, black pants, and green sneakers. He was crouched down to meet him at socket level, hands stuffed into vest pockets and a relaxed grin on his face. This was the first time Sans actually looked at the outfits the hallucinations wore in detail. (thinking about hallucinations) His eye lights darted past him, searching for the other two.'bubbles and q are taken a nap. if they 'ad it their way, they would run themselves inta the ground.' He let out a chuckle,'they did update us on the going ons though. you experiencin visual 'allucinations in tha form of us. i don know whether ta jump fo joy at bein able ta finlly physically interact wit ya or be 'pset at ya fo gettin worse on us. 'm persnally leanin towards lookin at this in a positive sense, 'm mean no need ta be a negative nunito. speakin of nuni, you know 'ow we 'ave partners. Weeellll, it might be 'im or it be work. i don know who ould be more stressful. i know they mean well, but i don want them ta 'ave a negative ' pact on ya.' Pontano grew more worried at the thought, unsure of what to do. Before Sans could do anything to reassure him or at least get him to calm down there was an impatient cough, loudly announcing a new presence.
'seriously you smooth talking moron. and are you talking about me behind my back? last time i take my sockets off of you whilst attempting to be a productive member of society' he let out a frustrated groan, crossing his arms and pouting like a child throwing a temper tantrum. (note to self; hallucinations are members of society.) Pontano nearly doubled over, throwing Sans an amused look, poorly attempting to muffle the chuckles spilling past his teeth.'shut up! shut up! you guys are so mean!' Tears pricked at sockets as bronze eye lights glared at them in pure and utter frustration.
'nuni, i was just worried you wouldn be able ta flly 'elp wit 'ow stressed you can get. you and work can get a little out of control.' He giggled. Nunito just whined at that, sockets narrowing. Sans decided that as fun as it was to watch these two go back and forth, his nonexistent stomach growled at the lackluster diet he's been maintaining. Pontano flashed him a concern glance and Nunito immediately went into a long-winded rant on how being a living thing, Sans needed to eat.