Chapter Text
You spend a quiet, leisurely morning with Papyrus.
Rolling out of bed at your own pace (later than your usual and far earlier than Papyrus’), you putter slowly about his kitchen, scrounging up some breakfast together.
Getting started on some pancakes, you briefly turn to watch him making coffee.
He knows exactly how you like yours by now, which makes you smile.
…He also puts so much cream and sugar in his that it makes your teeth hurt a little just watching, but your smile doesn’t fade.
“…what’s that look for?” Papyrus wonders, passing you a mug.
“Ah, nothing,” you hum, leaning over to give him a peck on the cheekbone. “You’re just cute.”
It takes Papyrus a second to process, so early in the morning for him.
And then, he’s blushing, that deep, dusky violet color that so endeared him to you that very first time you met.
“you’re cute,” he mutters, nonetheless nuzzling you in return, and your smile widens.
This is nice.
You return to the pancakes—neither of you particularly like them crunchy—and revel in the easy pleasantness of the morning ritual.
It’s not until you’re actually eating breakfast together, watching Papyrus pour ludicrous amounts of maple onto his plate, that you realize…
“Hey, ‘Rus…”
“hmm…?”
“Everything okay?” you ask. “You’re a little quiet today…”
You’re hoping that he’s just not all the way awake yet, because the alternative…
Well, you’d like to think that you’d have woken up if he’d had a nightmare or something, but you can’t be sure.
You’d rather ask for nothing than miss something important.
Papyrus…blinks at you.
And then he smiles, a soft, appreciative thing that makes you feel warm inside.
“m’good,” he assures you. “just…thinkin’ about stuff.”
“Heavy stuff?”
He shrugs.
“not really, just stuff.” Papyrus reaches over the kitchen island for your hand, giving it a squeeze. “love you.”
Your reply is obvious.
“I love you, too!”
Papyrus looks as pleased with your answer as he always does, and breakfast resumes.
Until…
“so…any plans today, or…?”
“Mmm, not really,” you admit. “Thought I’d go back home for a bit, catch up on dishes… maybe run a vacuum through…”
With as much time as you’d been spending at the brothers’ places lately, you’d started to let the chores in your own little apartment start to slip, just a bit.
“But after that, nothing. Why,” you wonder, “do you want me to come back over?”
“always,” says Papyrus, and oh, your heart, “but actually…i was hopin’ you could do me a favor…?”
“Ooh, a ‘favor,’” you muse, mischief in your tone. “Sounds…clandestine.”
“nyeheheheheheh, sorry, angel, but, uh…it’s pretty much the opposite. i was hopin’ maybe you could drag sans out of the embassy for me today.”
“Ah! Operation Self-Care?”
“operation self-care,” Papyrus agrees, nodding. “nothin’ big, just…lunch or somethin’, a little break.”
“The usual,” you conclude. “Sure, no problem!”
This is absolutely a favor you are happy to help with, but it does raise at least one question for you.
“Are you not coming?”
Papyrus makes a face.
“nnnnnooooooo,” he groans. “i got work to do…”
You frown, confused.
“Really? I thought you didn’t need to finish the otter with the big boobs for another week?”
“………ah fuck, i forgot about that. i have even more work than i thought.”
“What else do you have to do?”
Papyrus shoots a baleful little glare over at his tablet, resting innocently on the counter.
Expecting to hear that your boyfriend had accepted another ill-advised commission on top of his currently full list, you’re surprised to hear what he says instead.
“i’m therapist-shopping today…”
Your eyebrows raise of their own volition.
“Oh! That’s fast!”
Not that you disapprove, of course—you’re just surprised.
Thankfully, Papyrus takes no offense to said surprise.
“yeah, i know… i wanna get on top of it, though,” he tells you. “lead by example.”
“…What?”
“i mean…if i take it serious, and…and don’t just dick around…”
You think you’re starting to understand.
“You want to find a good therapist to peer-pressure Sans into finding one, too, don’t you?”
“just a little bit!” Papyrus fiddles with his fork, conceding, “i know you’re probably right, he’s…he’s gotta be…ready, or whatever, i’m… not gonna push him… but i dunno, if he sees me getting right on it, maybe he’ll…know it’s important. a-an’ if i find somebody who helps me……”
Maybe Sans won’t think it so farfetched that there’s someone out there who could help him, too.
“I think that’s a good idea,” you tell Papyrus, offering your support. “I’m really proud of you…you know that?”
Papyrus smiles, bashfully avoiding eye-contact, but he doesn’t try to deflect the compliment, either.
Just another thing for you to be proud of.
In just the time you’ve known him, this skeleton has grown so much…
You can’t believe how lucky you are, to be able to call him ‘yours.’
“I love you,” you say.
“i know,” Papyrus chuckles, like you’d just told him the sky was blue. “i love you, too.”
And that’s that.
-
After breakfast, Papyrus hustles you off with an exaggerated kiss (saying ‘mwah’ while he nuzzled you, to really sell it with his lack of lips) and encouragement to say ‘hi’ to his brother for him.
“…and make him get you somethin’ good, okay?”
“Like what?”
“like… whatever you want, he’s buying.”
“Pfft!”
And then you’re off home, to the wonderful world of procrastinated chores.
…It isn’t that bad, really—just a bit of light cleaning, making sure nothing had gone off in your fridge, organizing whatever you’d left out so that it was in its proper place.
Honestly, a deep-clean of the place probably wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours, with the size of it…
You manage to make quick work of your tasks and then consider Sans.
If he’s at work, it’s probably a bad idea to just…show up, and equally rude to just call, out of the blue.
You send a text instead.
Me: Hey! Are you busy or is now a good time to call?
The first reply is near-instant.
Sans: FIVE MINUTES.
And then, precisely five minutes later…
Sans: ALRIGHT, I’M FREE, DO YOU STILL NEED TO CALL ME?
‘Need’ was a strong word for the reasons you were trying to get ahold of him.
You hesitate…
Apparently exactly long enough for Sans to get impatient waiting for a reply.
Your phone rings, and you answer.
“WHAT’S WRONG?” Sans demands immediately. “ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”
The business-like tone of his voice is far from enough to cover up the underlying note of concern, and you can’t help but smile a little.
Still, there’s no need to worry, so you quickly promise, “I’m fine! Everyone’s fine, nothing’s wrong! I just wanted to see if you could squeeze aside a little time today, maybe…get some lunch?”
“………THIS IS THAT ‘SELF-CARE’ SHIT AGAIN, ISN’T IT.”
Of course it is.
“Is it really that weird that I might want to call up a friend to see if he wants to have lunch with me?”
“WEIRD? NO. SOMETHING YOU WERE OBVIOUSLY PUT UP TO BY MY BROTHER? YES.”
You laugh.
“Well, jeez, it’s not like ‘Rus had to twist my arm. I haven’t seen you in awhile,” since the party, just two days ago, but you stand by your ‘awhile.’ “Lunch is good for catching up, I think it’d be nice.”
“………”
The silence breaks…in an unexpected way.
“…t’s that look for? Who are you talking to?”
“GENERAL! I, IT’S…A PERSONAL—”
“I know, you never take personal calls, what’s the deal?”
“Sans?” you try hesitantly. “Do you need to hang up, or…?”
“NO, IT’S FINE!” Sans says quickly. “WHEN…WHEN WERE YOU THINKING?”
You hear a distant gasp.
“Sans, did you actually take my advice? Is that a—”
“NO!”
There’s a sound that you can really only describe as the noise a middle-school girl makes when she’s uncovered a juicy tidbit of gossip: a long, delighted ‘ooooooooh!’
Sans’ voice cuts through it.
“AT THE RISK OF SOUNDING BLATANTLY INSUBORDINATE, SHUT UP!”
Whoever he’s talking to laughs, loudly, and Sans hisses your name into the phone.
“ON SECOND THOUGHT,” he tells you, “NOW SOUNDS GREAT, I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO GO ON LUNCH RIGHT NOW. WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Oh! Uh…”
You glance around your apartment.
Even freshly-cleaned, it is…very much a shoebox of an apartment.
Probably the size of Sans’ kitchen.
But Sans persists, in your silence.
“DISTANCE IS NO OBJECT, DEAR, JUST TELL ME, PLEASE.”
The edge of desperation in his voice, in the end, outweighs your embarrassment about your living situation.
“I’m just at my apartment,” you say. “The address is—”
“YES, I KNOW. ALPHYS, I’M TAKING MY LUNCH HOUR, GOODBYE!”
“Hahaha, sure, have fun on your—”
The line goes dead.
And in the very next breath, there’s a knock at your door.
Of course, you answer it—to a hilariously flustered-looking Sans who rushes right in.
“OH STARS ABOVE,” he huffs, “I HATE THAT WOMAN. RELENTLESS.”
It’s a real struggle keeping a straight face.
“That’s ‘friends’ for you.”
“HMPH,” he says noncommittally, straightening his uniform in the most haughty way possible.
He makes the same noise watching you do up all the locks on your front door, but aside from that, he passes no judgment at all on your tiny, cheap apartment and you…you feel a little silly for worrying about it at all.
Sans isn’t that type of guy.
You know the type of guy Sans is, and that’s why you’re glad he’s here—you get to have a little quality time with a good friend!
“WELL!” Sans says, clapping sharply. “IF WE’RE GOING TO DO THIS, WE’RE DOING IT RIGHT.”
You snort.
“Okay…? And, uh…how does one do lunch the ‘right’ way?”
Sans smirks.
He holds out a hand for you to take, and says three, magical little words that get your heart thumping excitedly in your chest.
“LET’S FIND GRILLBY’S.”
You don’t hesitate for a second to take that hand.
-
“TRACKING DOWN GRILLBY IS…LESS OF AN ART, MORE A SCIENCE,” Sans tells you, eye-lights intently scanning the park.
Blip.
“LITTLE CLUES AND PROBABILITIES, CALCULATED ON THE FLY,” he adds, pulling you a little closer, away from the foot-traffic of the very busy sidewalk. “AH! THERE, SEE THAT?”
You look where he’s pointing.
“The wrapper?”
Part of you wants to quickly run over to the discarded little piece of trash and throw it in a bin, but Sans doesn’t give you the time.
“YES, EXACTLY!” he says.
Blip.
“JUST ONE SMALL PIECE OF THE PUZZLE!”
You’re…
You think you’re in the zoo now.
“You’re telling me…you know where this guy’s gonna be because of an ice cream wrapper blowing down the street?”
“NICE SCREAM,” Sans absently corrects. “BUT NO, IT’S MORE THAN THAT, IT’S A WHOLE…TRAIL, MORE THAN I COULD EXPLAIN WITHOUT A WHTEBOARD AND AN HOUR OF YOUR TIME, AND I’M ASSUMING YOU’D LIKE TO USE SOME OF THAT FOR ACTUALLY EATING SOMETIME TODAY.”
“That’d be nice,” you agree.
Blip.
You don’t recognize this part of Ebott at all—maybe a suburb?
Something about…something in the area makes Sans brighten, though, so you think it must be a good sign.
“THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT IS, THERE’S A FINE LINE BETWEEN METHOD AND MADNESS.”
Blip.
“AND I UNDERSTAND BOTH.”
With a smug flourish, Sans gestures across the street of this…urban art-park, to a brightly-colored food truck with a considerably large crowd of people gathered around it.
You can see the sign from here: ‘GRILLBY’S’ in rainbow neon letters.
“…Well,” you say after a moment. “You’re a witch. The nerdiest witch of all time, congratulations.”
“NERDIEST WARLOCK OF ALL TIME, PLEASE,” he requests, and you snicker.
“Fair enough. …Hell of a line though,” you can’t help but notice, approaching the large mass of humans swarmed around the truck. “Are you sure an hour’s gonna be enough time to get through it?”
“HEHEHEHEH, HAVE A LITTLE FAITH IN ME, HUMAN! WE’LL HAVE TIME.”
You’re not sure you see how…
At least, not until you come within a certain radius of the service window.
“Hooooold everything!” a loud, crackling voice booms out, silencing the chatter of waiting customers. “Do my eyes deceive me? Are we truly graced with such illustrious company on this fine afternoon? Move! Move out of the way!”
If the imperious order wasn’t enough to part the crowd, the rush of heat that follows certainly is, revealing the purveyor of this semi-mythical establishment.
The monster leaning out of the service window is a humanoid mass of flames in a vibrant shade of blue, flickering with visible excitement. Despite everything your brain is telling you about blue flame and its near white-hot intensity, the man’s body is dressed in a dapper—if loud—ensemble, complete with satiny bowtie and swirled spectacles that put you in mind of nothing less than the Mad Hatter…
…If he had some kind of scene phase, and also was made entirely of fire, anyway.
Beside you, Sans simply folds his arms behind his back and smiles.
“HELLO, GRILLBY,” he calmly greets, and the flames of Grillby’s face split open into a facsimile of a smile, too.
“As I live and burn!” the elemental crows. “Captain Comic Sans Serif! How long has it been?”
“ABOUT A WEEK.”
“Unthinkable! Come on, then, come on up!”
Perfectly casual, Sans does exactly that—sauntering straight up to the window—and you follow at his heels…considerably less casually.
You feel hyperaware of the people all around you that you’d apparently just been ushered in front of, grumbling quietly, but you don’t think it’ll get any worse than quiet grumbles.
Not with a uniformed skeleton bearing a shiny Delta Rune on his chest, and fire elemental with a more than slightly manic grin on his ephemeral face.
A slightly manic grin that widens as soon as Grillby spots you.
“Well, well,” he hums, “and who do we have here?”
Sans graciously introduces you, adding, “MY BROTHER’S PARTNER—HE’S WITH ME.”
“A pleasure, of course!” Grillby exclaims, offering his hand for you to shake.
Seeing Sans isn’t making any moves to stop you, you assume this is a safe interaction and reach for his hand.
Grillby grasps your fingers, and though you don’t burn you still definitely feel the heat. Being so close to living fire has sweat prickling through your skin in seconds as he grips your hand, squeezing tightly before finally shaking.
You laugh a little, awkwardly, but when he releases your hand and his flickering grin starts to curl at the edges, you feel like you may have passed some kind of test.
“A brave one,” Grillby comments to Sans—maybe you were supposed to have flinched?—and Sans beams proudly.
“YES, I KNOW.”
And, well…you don’t really know how not to feel pleased by that kind of confidence in you.
-
Sans, naturally, already knows exactly what he wants, but procures a paper menu for you—from the ‘old days,’ apparently—and at your insistence, steps off the side with you so some of the disgruntled patrons could be served while you try to decide.
“YOU’RE ADORABLE. THEY WOULD’VE WAITED ON YOU,” Sans says, matter-of-factly and radiating the strongest ‘knife-cat’ vibes you’ve ever seen in real life.
“And they would’ve given me death-glares the whole time,” you point out. “Aren’t you the one who accused me of being ‘soft’? I don’t like death-glares, they make me feel rushed!”
“HEHEHEHEH, LIKE I SAID—ADORABLE.”
You resist the urge to pout, knowing this would only enforce his point.
The menu in your hands is small, but everything on it looks, quite frankly, fantastic. Horrible, health-wise, but delicious if the pictures (and the nearby smells) were anything to go by, and you’re having trouble narrowing down what you want.
And there’s one other hiccup.
“So…there’s…no prices? Like, at all?”
“NOT LISTED ONES. IT’S A GIMMICK,” Sans explains. “THE PRICES CHANGE DAILY—SOMETIMES BY THE HOUR, IF GRILLBY’S IN A MOOD.”
Just a touch apprehensively, you lower your voice.
“Like a…like a Muffet-y sort of mood…?”
Sans chuckles.
“NO, IT’S NOT AS A PUNISHMENT. MORE JUST TO KEEP THINGS INTERESTING…AND,” he confides slyly, “TO MAKE IT A LITTLE HARDER FOR PEOPLE TO BE SURE THEY’RE GETTING CORRECT CHANGE ON A REGULAR BASIS, WHEN YOU NEVER PAY THE SAME AMOUNT FOR THE SAME ORDER.”
That certainly sounds like a devious business model.
“And people still come here?” you wonder incredulously.
Sans just nods over to a few people who’ve already gotten their orders, enjoying greasy, salty garbage with obvious gusto.
“THE FOOD IS VERY GOOD. …AND EVEN THOUGH THE PRICES ARE RANDOM, THEY’RE ALL IN A FAIRLY REASONABLE RANGE FOR WHAT YOU’RE BUYING, GIVE OR TAKE A FEW OF YOUR DOLLARS—SOMETIMES YOU PAY MORE, SOMETIMES YOU PAY LESS…IT’S LIKE A LOTTERY.”
“Huh. A lottery you always win, or…?”
“IF YOU’RE ASKING WHETHER I GET PREFERENTIAL TREATMENT, THE ANSWER IS NO. I PAY WHATEVER GRILLBY DECIDES, SAME AS ANYONE.”
Still, Sans smirks a little.
“OF COURSE, THAT’S ALL I PAY—HE KNOWS BETTER THAN TO TRY AND SHORTCHANGE ME BY NOW.”
“So you are his favorite customer!”
“JUST ONE WHO’S VERY, VERY GOOD AT MENTAL MATH AND WHO PAYS ATTENTION WHEN MONEY’S CHANGING HANDS,” Sans protests.
You give him…a very slight Look.
“……ALRIGHT, YES,” Sans admits after a moment. “I’M ABSOLUTELY HIS FAVORITE: I’M HIS ONLY INTENTIONAL REGULAR. NO ONE CAN FIND HIM AS OFTEN AS I CAN.”
“Nerd Warlock,” you say, understanding.
“NERD WARLOCK,” he agrees.
You share a bit of a laugh.
But even now, understanding the lack of numbers on the menu, it leaves you in a weird spot—not knowing how much anything would cost, unable to gauge what you should order…
It would be one thing if it were your own money, but this…
It doesn’t take Sans long to suss out the source of your hesitance.
He settles a hand on your shoulder, gloved claws giving you a gentle squeeze.
“DON’T OVERTHINK IT,” he says. “ORDER WHATEVER YOU LIKE, DEAR. IT’S MY TREAT. ESPECIALLY AFTER—…”
Sans cuts himself off.
In a moment of clarity, though, you realize the gist of what he was probably about to say.
After all, the last time Sans had treated you to something, it was also in apology for having emotions in your general direction.
The exasperation that wells up in you is almost enough that you don’t even notice he called you ‘dear’ again.
Almost—how long had Sans been doing that? And why is hearing it so…
“Sans,” you say, very sternly and seriously. “You don’t have anything to make up for.”
You hold his gaze, long enough for him to know you mean that…
And then you add, “But I want the Number Four, with fries, please and thank you, you very sw…salty skeleton.”
Sans takes a moment to process your joke; the little callback to that night.
He cracks a smile.
“FAIR ENOUGH,” he decides, all self-deprecating apology forgotten.
It would be a more emotionally charged moment, probably, if Sans didn’t immediately cut to the front of the line again to order for you both, but c’est la vie.
-
You get your food in short order, and in the time it takes you to scope out a nice place to sit down and eat, Grillby and his truck are gone, off to parts of Ebott unknown to anyone other than your current skeletal companion.
With your first bite, you understand completely how the wild and erratic elemental can do such a brisk business for himself, even without ever advertising his location ahead of time—Sans was right, his food is very good, flavorful and greasy in all the best ways.
You’re glad to know you have an in now, just in case you might want to come back and try that Number Six someday…
In the now, though, you just…sit outside with Sans, next to a weird-looking avant-garde fountain and enjoy the afternoon.
Sans takes the time to vent about work a bit, and how much he hates politics.
“Really?” you wonder. “I thought you’d love politics. You strike me as someone who’d make a great politician.”
“FIRST OF ALL,” replies Sans, “THOSE ARE FIGHTING WORDS, DEAR, MIND THEM.”
Again.
‘Dear’ again, does Sans even realize he’s calling you that? You don’t think so…but now that you’ve realized, you don’t think you’re going to be able to stop hearing it.
Or feeling that little flutter in your stomach, whenever he says it…
“AND SECOND OF ALL…” Sans continues, heedless of your thoughts. “POLITICIANS ARE BLOODTHIRSTY LIARS FULL OF HOT AIR AND EGO. OF COURSE I WOULD BE AMAZING AT IT, BUT WHY ON EARTH WOULD I WANT TO GO AROUND ARGUING ALL DAY LONG WITH UGLIER VERSIONS OF MYSELF WITH EVEN FEWER MORALS? PASS!”
His perfectly frank delivery wins a laugh out of you—one in which you may or may not snort.
Sans is a funny guy.
And he’s right: he’s not ugly, not at all.
In fact…
The thought crosses your mind again, the same one from the night of the party.
You…do wonder, what could’ve been.
If you’d met Sans first, if you hadn’t gotten off on such a bad foot with him, if you hadn’t…
If, instead, you’d be…
It’s a thought.
But one you don’t dwell on.
There’s a million ‘what-if’s in the world, hundreds of thousands of possibilities, but there’s only one ‘what is’—and it’s something you wouldn’t give up for all the theoreticals in the world.
Sans is your very good friend and you enjoy his company just fine; just like this.
You’re too happy to need anything more.
-
Papyrus looks up from his tablet when he feels the familiar buzz of his brother’s magic, popping into his apartment.
As always, the sight of you brings an irresistible smile to his face and he greets the both of you with a big bear-hug—to a happy noise from you and an outraged squawk from Sans.
Sans quickly wriggles out of it, exaggeratedly brushing himself off.
“YOU’LL BE HAPPY TO KNOW YOU’VE WON,” he says, nasal ridge in the air. “WE’VE EATEN, EVEN THOUGH THERE ARE A THOUSAND OTHER THINGS I COULD’VE BEEN DOING BESIDES TAKING YOUR HUMAN OUT FOR LUNCH.”
Papyrus is happy to hear that.
“thanks,” he retorts. “i’d have done it myself, but i was goin’ over that list you sent me.”
The list of pre-vetted therapists he’d asked Sans for, knowing it’d let his brother feel like he was helping, without also making him do all the work.
“i figured, y’know, if you could throw that together for me in a day, least i could do was start goin’ through it.” Papyrus gives him a side-eye-socket. “if you can do it that fast for me, it’d probably be even easier doin’ it for yourself, right?”
Sans clearly knows exactly what he’s getting at, because he fixes Papyrus with a flatly unamused look.
“OH, YOU ARE INSUFFERABLE,” he opines. “CAN YOU AT LEAST WAIT TO NAG ME ABOUT THAT UNTIL ALL THIS…STUPID SUMMIT SHIT IS OVER WITH? STARS ABOVE, YOU’RE ANNOYING—”
“you can dish it out, but you can’t take it, huh?”
You laugh, just egging Papyrus on further.
“UGH, I HAVE TO GET BACK TO WORK,” Sans declares, starting to turn on his heel.
“because you don’t have a good comeback.”
“I AM GOING TO WORK,” Sans says, more forcefully this time. “HAVE FUN WITH YOUR HUMAN AND STOP SASSING ME!”
“you’re smiling.”
“AND WHAT OF IT?!”
“Hahaha!”
Ahhh, your laughter is music to his lack of ears…
Sans eventually leaves, back to the Embassy to work a probably stupid amount of hours, but Papyrus settles in with you with a clear conscience, knowing that at least Sans has taken one break today.
“So! How’d your research go?” you ask.
To Papyrus’ great pride, he’s able to say, “pretty well, i think! couple…couple promising ones, for sure…”
His current frontrunners are both relatively young—younger than Dirk, at least, and maybe, hopefully, a little less jaded; a little less burnt out, more likely to…to try and actually invest in him instead of just writing him off.
To you, he shares the thing he’s proudest of, though…
“i even called one.”
Your eyes go wide, genuinely excited by the news.
“Whoa! And you talked to them?”
“well…no,” Papyrus admits. “but i left a message!”
“That’s still really good, baby!”
You give him a kiss, and without you having to say so, Papyrus really gets the sense that you’re proud of him.
He feels…very valued and loved right now.
Which reminds him.
“what about you?” he wonders. “how was lunch with sans?”
“Oh, good! We went to Grillby’s!”
Yeah, he kinda figured.
“I have no idea where the hell we were, but there was a weird fountain—I think you’d have liked it, I should’ve taken a picture—and the weather was so nice to just sit outside… You and me should go back to the park one of these days, before it gets too cold, that was really nice…”
Papyrus just…lets you go on for awhile, listening fondly as you talk about your day.
You definitely know.
And yet…
Stars, he loves how steadfast you are, how confident and sure of yourself you are, and how it seems like…
Like with every word you say, everything you do, you’re just turning right around and making him feel that way, too.
Papyrus feels secure with you, in ways he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before.
He loves…
You.
That’s all there is to it.
And…
He loves Sans, too.
That’s what he’s decided.
…even as it’s becoming rapidly apparent that as aware of yourself and your feelings as you are, his brother is denser than a stale pound cake.
Classic Sans, really.
It was…probably pretty silly of Papyrus to expect Sans to figure out anything from just one ‘accidental’ date, anyway.
ah well, Papyrus thinks to himself, holding you close in his arms. hardball, it is…