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At one time in his life, Papyrus looked forward to Christmas.
Monsters had their own version of the holiday then—"Gyftmas," it was called—but it was just the same. A bit less materialistic, probably, but the same customs, the same feelings and warmth. As a babybones, Gyftmas felt like the most magical time of the year; not that the rest of the year couldn’t be just as great, of course. Everything then seemed fun to him—he didn’t have a care in the world.
And even when he grew older, he didn’t have a care in the world! Sure, Sans ran the risk of falling down every day, but he’d be fine!
Sure, he didn’t have many friends now, but wait until he can prove himself to everyone!
Sure, he wasn’t as great as he claimed himself to be; sure, he lied to himself a lot, but...
...
It’d be okay.
He knew that, because then the human showed up.
And even when the human didn’t listen to him, he still had Gyftmas to look forward to the next timeline—the next dream that wasn’t truly a dream.
He...
Had those dreams a lot, nowadays. He never brought it up, but he knew Sans was having them too.
When had they begun to be anything but dreams?
When had the human started feeling like an enemy, and not a friend?
When had they become a blockade between his brother and his happiness?
When did he start feeling... Empty?
...
No. This wouldn’t last, surely. He wasn’t feeling empty, just tired, for he always worked to be his best!
And now, they were on the surface! They had so many opportunities now—so many years still ahead of them.
Still a lot of Gyftmases—or Christmases, now—to look forward to!
He could wait until then, certainly!
*
No.
He’d been wrong.
He’d always been wrong.
He wasn’t a child anymore.
He wasn’t living a lie anymore—telling himself he was “The Great Papyrus.”
Christmas had come,
and it felt like nothing, for once in his life.
For once, he didn’t want gifts.
For once, seeing others was almost painful, almost a chore for his tired bones—saying things at all felt like a chore, like the lie he’d kept up for so long was granting him the revenge it deserved.
When had Christmas started feeling this way?
When had it become something that just... Happened, something that he just had to live through?
When had he stopped caring?
Why had he stopped caring?
He was supposed to be strong.
He was supposed to keep up his act—the act everyone knew.
They were familiar with it, he couldn’t just...
He couldn’t just throw it away.
So he didn’t.
He waited for the following Christmas.
It’d come back to him.
He’d find himself next year.
He had to.
*
The snow began taking him back, the following Christmas.
It seemed less and less like frozen ice from the clouds, and more like permanent, magical ice, not quite the same. It looked more and more like particles of memories, particles of people. Dust.
...
He couldn’t throw it away.
He couldn’t possibly throw everything that was him away.
...
...But, couldn’t he?
Could he leave? Could he not have to worry anymore, not have to worry about being great all the time?
Could he fly up, and up, and disappear among the stars, joining the snow on their descent?
Would things be simpler that way?
Would it feel like Christmas again?
He hoped so.
*
Papyrus’s dreams now were plagued with happy memories; only glimpses of them, but with no traces of silver mixed with blue and pink. No more snow. No more cries.
No more waking up, wondering if his brother would be here this morning, wondering if the human would eradicate and take him away anyway.
He thought about those dreams at this moment, alone in his room, huddled up against his old racecar bed. He needed to replace it soon, he supposed. This year they’d spent everything on simple lights to string around said room, and the living room, too. It had been Sans’s idea. Papyrus liked it too. It gave him fleeting happiness, for the first few days.
Then he was back here, like always—pretending day-in and day-out, all bright smiles and signature laughs, only to retreat to his carbed and stare at nothing long into the night.
It was the same thing, over and over. Like his old dreams.
In a way, he missed those old dreams—because at least then, he could find happiness for just a short while. Now he was left with nothing. Now, he wanted to find somewhere else to go.
Granted, he couldn’t. He knew that. He’d miss Sans. He’d miss everyone, and they would miss him too, probably.
But the urge didn’t go away.
He’d learned Christmas was now the saddest time of year for him. The time where these thoughts would truly get to him, hooking their claws into his skull with little difficulty, turning him cold like the winter wind.
Oh, what Papyrus wouldn't give to be a babybones again.
What he wouldn’t give to wake up on Gyftmas morning, back underground, with no threats and no human child to make a wrong choice; to be shaken awake by his excited brother, beaming but tired, and in a good way. And they’d run downstairs together, taking turns tearing open presents, and Papyrus always had more than him but he never seemed to mind.
He missed when Santa sent him his usual gift every year, along with an extra one just for him, because he was The Great Papyrus.
He missed getting to see his brother truly happy, and getting to feel happy himself; with no cares in the world, a whole new year to look forward to—and with it, an entirely new merry Gyftmas to look forward to.
He didn’t want the weight of the world on him. He didn’t want to feel like he didn’t belong anywhere.
He wanted this to feel like home.
...
But,
if it couldn’t be, no matter how hard he tried...
He truly might just have to leave instead.
“Pap?”
The voice came softly through the door, just barely audible amongst the music and talking downstairs.
Papyrus found it impossible to respond—not quickly enough, at least.
Sans continued.
“You’ve, uh... Been in there a while. You okay? You want me to come in?”
“No.”
It was said too quickly, ironically enough. His voice crackled in his throat, barely even a shell of its former self.
There was a pause of silence, and simultaneously Papyrus felt both a wave of relief and panic, suspecting Sans to have left. Did he really hate him that much? To have given in so easily?
But then there was a whoosh.
Papyrus removed his hands from his eyes, looking to see his brother standing in front of him.
For a moment, neither of them said anything to each other. It was almost like a staring contest, a rather rueful one at that. And Papyrus was likely the first to lose when Sans knelt down and tugged his slumped form into his arms, holding him as best he could in that position.
An odd sound left Papyrus’s jaw in that moment—a strangled noise, positively the beginning of a sob. Briefly he didn’t care he was being weak, or selfish for doing this to Sans. He merely hugged him back, burying his sullen face into his brother’s jacket like he really was a babybones again.
And Sans held him like he was a babybones too, comforting him, and nuzzling the top of his skull in that protective-big brother way of his. “It’s okay,” he kept muttering to him, over and over, “it’s okay, Papy. I’ve got you.”
He wanted to say he didn’t; that he thought about leaving, and Sans wouldn’t even know about it.
But, at the same time, Sans did have him in a way. At least right now.
It felt a little better to let things out, even if it cost his brother his own contentment; and he did continue to let things out, and cry, for he could only keep the dam in tact so long.
Sans seemed to want him to, anyhow. So maybe it was a good thing this time.
...Even so...
“I-I’m sorry, I—I didn’t me-mean to make you—”
“Hey, hey—you didn’t make me do anything. You didn’t,” he insisted gently, when yet again Papyrus looked ready to protest. “I want you to feel better.”
“But you’re happy now.”
Sans stopped, eye-lights fuzzy in concern and confusion.
“You’re happier,” Papyrus pointed out, only a bit raspy this time. “I’m—I don’t want to get in the way of that, and I am, I—”
Sans interrupted once more, tugging his baby brother as tight as he could against him. “No—no, you’re not. I love you, I—I love you so much, I don’t want anything to happen to you. I want you to be happy too, you’re not—y-you’re not getting in my way.”
His voice was notably shaky now too, wavering worse the more he talked.
He wasn’t happy anymore.
And that was Papyrus’s fault.
That was his...
“Please don’t leave.”
Sans had choked it out, yet was still firm in his tone, despite wavering.
The firmness startled Papyrus, enough that he let him continue without complaint:
“Don’t. I still w—you’re still needed, we still love you.”
“But what if I’m always sad?” he blurted.
He finally blurted it out, finally revealing his fear—the fact he might be too weak.
The fact he’ll never feel happy again.
“What if— What if things don’t get better and I— What if I don’t get better?”
Sans’s eyelights fizzled out for a moment, as though that had been his fear too; but quickly, they returned.
They returned bright, and determined.
“You can—you will. It’s—it’s going to be okay, I promise.”
Papyrus wasn’t so certain, but he was too exhausted to fight Sans’s next embrace, and further whispers of encouragement.
“You’re gonna be okay, Papy—you’re gonna get better, I promise.”
At least he knew he meant it, for he kept repeating similar things—making several more promises, which was far from normal for him, even now. He made promises he seemed intent on keeping, and even if he couldn’t, Papyrus knew he’d still try his best.
As for Papyrus himself...
He did feel better, for the most part. Maybe even okay.
Not great, but okay.
And maybe, he'd only ever be okay.
Maybe, just like everything else, this moment was a fleeting thing.
...
But maybe not.
...I learned that from you, y’know.
It was a last assurance from Sans, residing in his soul this time. Wordless, but somehow more meaningful than anything he could say aloud.
And he was right.
Somewhere within his own soul, Papyrus knew things could still be better. Somehow, he might be able to find a part of himself again.
He didn’t feel like he was home yet. Maybe he never would, but...
Having his brother with him was the closest thing to it.
So, he wouldn’t leave to find such,
and Christmas would come again. One day.
Until then, he’d dream about it.