Chapter Text
Papyrus…
Didn’t tell him about it tomorrow.
Sans snuck him glances.
Papyrus snuck away.
Sans left room in his Soul for talking.
Papyrus left room in his chest for nothing.
Something was tight in his chest. Like a red rubber ball. Small but there enough to notice. He tried to take as many deep breaths as he could, to avoid the ball from increasing in size—which it seemed it very much wanted to do.
“You okay?”
The sudden question, the sudden breach of safe silence, caused Papyrus to almost drop the pan of almost-scrambled eggs all over the floor. Then the floor would be almost-scrambled.
…
He felt very, very fully scrambled.
“Yes,” he responded, at length. Too loud.
Sans didn’t look like he believed him. Papyrus… Didn’t know why.
Or, rather,
he didn’t know why Sans cared.
. . .
I mean.
Sans was giving him every chance to open up about things.
There was no good reason he couldn’t. No good excuse.
.
.
.
Wait.
He could tell him. He’d promised to! He’d promised to tell Sans when he was hurting!
Sans didn’t have to know the whole thing! He just needed to know Papyrus wasn’t doing great!!
So—
Wait.
“Are you still mad at me?”
Sans’s eyes immediately locked on his.
“Mad?” he echoed. “I’m not— I’m not mad, Papyrus.”
Oh. “You’re disappointed, then.”
His brother sighed, pinching the bridge of where his non-nose was.
He was definitely disappointed.
“I’m not.” He was being dishonest. Papyrus knew Sans didn’t like him anymore. Didn’t think he was great anymore. “…Can we talk, now?”
Papyrus suddenly didn’t want to again. He just nodded, throat feeling thick.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
His voice was softer.
Papyrus didn’t trust it.
“I am…”
He swallowed.
“I’m… Not, doing great.”
He saw Sans’s gaze itself soften.
So he immediately looked away from it, burning holes into his pan of eggs.
“I am… Hurting. A lot.”
. . .
The eggs were done.
“Do you want your eggs?”
“What’s hurting you?” Sans asked instead.
Papyrus froze.
“You said someone told you you’re stressful,” he went on, “is it that?”
…
“I don’t have to… Tell you that part?”
It was more of a question.
Sans looked confused.
Maybe…
Maybe upset.
“You— You just told me you’re hurting, why wouldn’t you tell me why—”
“I don’t have to tell you that part! I didn’t promise to, I don’t have to, I don’t have to, all I had to say was…”
“Are you— Wh—” An almost anxious-sounding laugh broke out of him. “The Hell are you talking about?”
“You made me promise just to tell you! Only about if I was hurting, not about why!”
…
Sans…
Stared at him.
Like.
Like he was.
. . .
He dropped the pan. It clattered.
And the eggs scrambled all over the floor.
“Shit,” Papyrus whispered.
Sans was there in an instant, and Papyrus simply stood there, while his brother cleaned up his mess for him.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I can make you more. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”
His throat felt even thicker. If he didn’t stop this, he was going to cry.
If he didn’t leave right this moment…
He had to leave.
He had to
In the exact moment Papyrus ripped away towards the door, Sans reached out for him.
The last thing he saw was the panic in his brother’s eyelights.
“Papyrus!”
He couldn’t tell if Sans sounded sad or mad or
Papyrus ran.
He ran and he ran and he ran and he ran, until there was no way Sans would be able to find him. Until he was hidden away, somewhere deep into Waterfall, somewhere Sans would never, ever, ever know where to look.
He sat in a bed of echo flowers. He brought his knees into his chest, just about hugging them against his Soul.
He wanted to…
Something.
Make himself smaller.
Make himself not be so stressful anymore.
Not be so stupid anymore.
Not be so TOO MUCH anymore.
. . .
But.
That would require disappearing entirely.
Wouldn’t it?
A light pop! sounded from somewhere around him. He wasn’t sure exactly where, having his eyesockets buried from the world.
He knew who it was, even before the voice.
“Hi there, bud!”
A withered breath blew through Papyrus’s teeth.
“No bad puns right now, Flowey. Please.”
…
“Noted!” the bright voice chirped, after a too-long moment. Strange. Flowey didn’t often hesitate. “Everything alright, oh pal o’ mine?”
. . .
Out of everyone Papyrus knew, Flowey was… The easiest to talk to about things like this.
Which, didn’t make a whole lot of sense, knowing what he knew.
But.
He took it as a good sign.
“I think…”
He lifted his head from his knees, searching for his friend. He found him right next to him on his right.
“I think,” Papyrus told him, “that I’d like to disappear.”
Something weird happened right then.
For Flowey, anyway.
And that was that his usual, cheeky, all-knowing grin, faltered a bit.
Like Papyrus had said something he wasn’t expecting for once.
“I… See!” A couple of blinks, and Flowey was back to his normal cheekily grinning self. “Well, gee, I could help with that! Just say the word, Papyrus!”
Despite his own words, Papyrus hesitated.
“Not that kind of disappearing.” …Well. Mostly. (It didn’t seem like the worst way to disappear…) “I mean I… Wish I didn’t exist? Maybe??”
“Oh! The Gaster kind of disappearing!”
“The what?”
Flowey just smiled.
“That really sucks, Papyrus. I’m sorry you’re feeling that way.”
“No you aren’t.”
He… Wasn’t sure why he said it. He was feeling too many things at once, maybe. And he knew Flowey wasn’t sorry.
…
Even before he saw Flowey’s smile falter again, he was.
“Sorry.”
“What happened?”
“What?”
“What happened?” the flower simply repeated. “Why do you want to disappear?”
Papyrus ducked his gaze into his knees again. “I think Sans hates me.”
The immediate reaction was a laugh.
He shot his head up again, glaring. “Why are you laughing at me?”
Flowey giggled even more, wiping a pretend tear with a stray vine. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just… That’s hilarious! That you would think that!”
“Why?”
“Sans? Hating you?”
“Yes!!” Frustrated tears began to prick at his eyesockets. “Why wouldn’t he? I’m not great, I’m not even— I’m not even The Decent Papyrus anymore! I’m,” a laugh of his own tore out of him, “I don’t think I ever was The Great or Decent Papyrus to begin with. I’m just Papyrus.”
Flowey tilted his head.
“And… That’s a bad thing?”
“Well, you tell me. I’m your favorite, right? What makes me your favorite?”
“That you’re Papyrus!”
…
“I mean. ‘Great’ and ‘Decent’ are just regular old adjectives!” Flowey went on. “They’re not you. Papyrus is you.”
“What if I don’t like being him? What if I don’t like what is Papyrus?”
“Well! Then that’s your problem, not mine!”
. . .
“That’s… Easy for you to say,” Papyrus sniffed, digging the heel of his glove into his watering eyesocket. “You don’t think I’m loud.”
“You are loud.”
“Then why don’t you hate me for it?”
“Why would I hate you for it?” Flowey asked. And…
It.
Sounded so genuine.
He almost believed it.
“Some people do.”
“Who?”
What?
Papyrus stared at him.
Flowey was… Acting very very strange. In any other instance he’d be mocking him, saying something to the effect of, Of course some people hate you, why are you surprised?
(He’d never said something as cruel as that—but he would. He should.)
It was… Kind of scary, actually.
“You’re not going to hurt anyone, are you?”
Flowey hummed, tapping his “chin” with a leaf-hand. “Depends.”
Papyrus sighed. “On what?”
Flowey shrugged.
…
“I should go back to Sans.”
Slowly, he felt vines twisting around his boots. Not too tight. Just there.
“Do you want to?”
“…Not really.”
He wanted to be anywhere but somewhere Sans could hate him.
“It’s easier if he does, though,” Papyrus murmured to himself. “I no longer have to pretend to be something he thought I was.”
Flowey said nothing more. The vines curled tighter over him. Weighing him down.
They felt… Grounding.
Comforting.
He let them lull him into a false sense of security.
Enough to close his eyes.
Enough to rest, for once.