So if you love me, let me go.
And run away before I know.
My heart is just too dark to care.
I can't destroy what isn't there.
The door to their house makes an aggravating squeak as he opens it, and Papyrus reminds himself yet again that he really should get around to oiling the blasted thing.
But between making his famous lethal puzzles, training to keep his edge in battle AND taking care of all the housework, where was a skeleton to find the time?
He should ask Sans to clean or cook for a change, but really, the younger brother couldn't be bothered.
Sans would screw it up somehow with his blasted laziness, and Papyrus would end up redoing all the work himself anyway.
Sans calls it his OCD. Papyrus calls it being thorough in his work.
Besides, Sans's lasagna making skills are about as crappy as his general health.
The entire way home his brother had scuffed his feet, hands shoved deep down into the pockets of that trademark jacket of his and shoulders notably slumped.
Papyrus didn't know why Sans was upset this time. He didn't ask.
He had already slipped up enough for one day.
Had already felt the worry seize his soul in the skeleton equivalent of a heart-attack when he realized he was about to witness the impending murder of the only family member that remained him.
No matter how useless that family member was in his eyes.
He had already heard the uncharacteristic trepidation clouding his own voice when inquiring after the other's well-being.
Right now, he could only hope Sans had not noticed, or there would be a price to pay later.
Papyrus was sure his brother could think of a few gloating words to spit at him, ridicule him for his apparent weakness.
As if in his mind, he wasn't already chiding himself enough for his damn stupidity.
'What where you thinking, you fucking moron!' it was basically screaming at him. 'Why not open your arms to the enemy and offer them a hug of acceptance, while you are at it!'
But there was another voice inside his head too. A voice that had been there all along, but Papyrus had managed to comfortably drown in a need for survival and a fear for the dangers this world possessed.
A voice that he never really heeded, except once a day, when it told him that maybe he should pass by his brother's post while on patrol. You know, just to make sure the damned lazybones wasn't slacking off again.
A voice that had spurred him into a reckless attack, driven by pure instinct, which he would most likely get to regret later.
Because while the dog couple is certainly intimidated by him, afraid even, they are technically royal guards, for as much as that title still means these days. They would go to Undyne.
And while Papyrus likes Undyne, mostly in a 'You are one badass motherfucker and I respect that' kind of way, he'd rather not deal with her when she was pissed.
The few who survived such an encounter could attest to that.
Messing with the royal guards was the number one reason for getting her pissed. Being a royal guard yourself was not an exception to this rule.
It might even make things worse. Undyne does not abide mutiny.
With a weary sigh, Papyrus brings his thoughts back to the present. He would have to deal with her later.
He observes Sans sitting on the couch, still terribly slumped. The smaller skeleton didn't bother taking of his sneakers when he came in, a wet snow track showing his route from door to sofa.
It irritates Papyrus endlessly, so many things about his brother do, and he grasps onto the emotion tightly, glad to be back on familiar terrain.
But it doesn't feel as real as it should. It never has.
How did they end up like this?
"Sans, you're making a mess again." He scoffs, stalking over to his older brother and bumping into his legs with his boot to catch the other's attention.
Sans looks up at him with the usual look of disinterest. Papyrus has noticed it getting progressively worse lately, more empty.
Somewhere, deep inside, this unnerves him.
He feels like saying more, like getting angry and shouting at his brother. Maybe then Sans would respond, get defiant or stubborn and yell something back, like old times.
Basically do anything besides sitting there looking like a kicked puppy.
But Sans breaks the silence first.
"Why?" He asks.
Papyrus crosses his arms over his chest, taking comfort in the gesture. He looks down at his brother with a look that he expertly infuses with just the right amount of disdain to be convincing.
It's near painful.
As it turns out, he has been contemplating this exact question the entire walk home, and is yet to come up with a satisfactory answer that appeases the stronger inside voice calling him an idiotic, suicidal asshole for caring about the well-being of anybody besides himself.
Why? Was it even worth it at all?
But he also knew Sans would ask, predictable as he is, which is why the reply comes easily, naturally, with not even a beat of hesitation. The Great Papyrus always comes up with the best answers.
"Because, getting dusted in such a pathetic way would really only reflect poorly on me." His voice is dripping contempt, seeing as it's not even an entirely untruthful answer. "You are a worthless excuse for a monster, Sans, but you are also my relative, meaning that if you're going to die you should at the very least do so fighting."
When Sans looks up, Papyrus is more than a little relieved to see that some fire has returned to those eye sockets, probably spurred on by the offhandedness of the excuse.
"Ah yes, of course. I would never want the oh-so great Papyrus to look bad because of me. Whatever was I thinking, bro." Sarcasm drips from every word, but at least he sounds like Sans is supposed to sound, which is good enough for Papyrus.
"You weren't thinking. You never are." Papyrus retorts coldly, turning but bumping his brother's legs again in the process, a bit harder than strictly necessary, just because he's still low-key pissed. "I know you are weak, but the least you could do is put on some kind of death struggle, instead of just hanging there like a wet rag."
He looks at Sans from the corner of his sockets as he utters his next words, looking for a reaction, anything.
"It's almost as if you want to die."
The older brother laughs instead, throwing his head back against the couch, and it's the most bitter sounding noise Papyrus has ever heard.
Heartless and without merit. A bit like he himself feels.
He wants to say more, but just then Sans winces and brings a hand to his skull, rubbing slightly. When his fingers come away, there is dust sticking to them.
He hates to admit it in hindsight, but there is a tiny flare of panic in Papyrus's nonexistent gut. He pushes it down hard and fast, instead briskly approaching and laying a head against the top of Sans's skull to bend it downwards.
Sans grunts softly in pain, but allows himself to be man-handled, going slightly tense at being touched at all.
There is a thin crack in the bone, a tiny denture in the skull with small fissures extending from the edges, like when you drop something heavy onto a patch of ice.
"Looks like she did get you." Papyrus observes softly, trying to ignore the insistent will to go find Dogaressa and kill her after all.
If he's fast, he can still catch up to her.
Sans hums a bit and shrugs as best as he can while leaned like he is, an uncomfortable position. "Can't be too bad, if I'm not dead."
"The cracks will most likely get bigger as they heal. It will be a scar." Papyrus lets go and steps back, frowning at the carelessness on his brother's features.
"Oh, golly." The sarcasm is back tenfold, now that the distance between the two has increased again and physical contact has ceased. "Guess I get to look as cool as you do, bro."
Papyrus looks disapproving at the notion, almost subconsciously passing a hand over his face and feeling the old cracks running down his right eye socket, no light flickering in its depth.
His opponent had thought it a good idea to try and gauge Papyrus' eye out. Too bad skeletons don't have eyes.
It was only one of the many scars littering the younger brother's bones, but it was the most obvious one. A testament to his bravery and survivaal.
When he realizes what he's doing, Papyrus's drops his hand back to his side quickly, clenching a gloved, hoping Sans didn't notice. He turns around to occupy his mind with something, anything else.
"Do I have to do everything around here." He huffs, when he sees his brother's rock prisoner lying on the table.
It is actually just a stupid stone Sans brought in one day, out of fucking nowhere. calling it a pet.
When Papyrus had informed him they didn't do 'pets' Sans had re-assigned it with the tittle 'convict', and had even gone as far as to build a tiny prison out of sticks to contain it in.
Papyrus was pretty sure his brother did these kinds of things solely to get on his nerves, but he ended up feeding the blasted thing anyway.
But not too often. Starving your prisoners is an ideal way to get information out of them.
He walks over and brushes the few dried bread crumbs off, seeing it as the perfect excuse to flee to the kitchen when depositing them in the trash bin.
He's not even sure why. Why he wants to get himself away from his brother and this conversation as fast as possible.
When he returns to the living room a few minutes later, Sans is gone. Probably off to that hellhole of a bar he insists on spending his free time at. The mere thought makes Papyrus thankful to be lacking a stomach.
Instead, he stomps around the house doing anything and everything to distract himself of the bothersome thoughts regarding his brother's wellbeing.
He does not fix the squeaky door.
The thought lingers for a while. The panic squeezing around his soul, making it hard to concentrate.
Papyrus does contemplate the notion of going to talk to somebody, just to get it of his chest, but it's an idea easily dismissed.
Despite being amazing and popular and strong and quite handsome, Papyrus didn't have a lot of friends. Or any friends, for that matter.
Not that it was something he wanted, fear was as good as friendliness on any day.
But isolation.
Isolation makes you wearisome.
Thanks for reading!