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…It looks like Snowdin out there.
That’s… Probably a given, with snow being as plain as it is all-encompassing. Even if it has been hundreds of years since Monsters called The Surface “home,” it’s not like everyone has forgotten snow was even a thing up here. And, generally, it’s just… Silly, to compare common Surface weather to something so specific as an entire terrain Underground.
…
But even then.
He watches the snow fall, each delicate, singular flake, continuously, like it will never stop.
It looks like Snowdin, and…
It’s because of that that Sans isn’t feeling particularly festive.
Only three days away is Christmas—the human equivalent of Gyftmas, that is. Everyone’s more or less combined the two holidays into one event (not that some humans ever care to know the difference), since Snowdin itself was left Underground with every other town and tradition.
And, maybe it’s that.
Maybe it’s just that, and…
Sans is just homesick.
Everything does feel alien.
Everything feels…
. . .
Not alien, not in the way it should.
To any other Monsters, it feels alien but in the right way; in the way that they’ve never had such an experience as it before. A good kind of alien experience, new and surprising, but not at all unpleasant. Not after so long of darkness, and loneliness. And Hopelessness.
There will be homesickness, and anxiety, but overall it’s… A good thing. That’s good, that’s normal. Everything they’re going through is normal. Everything can be adjusted to with enough time. In a year from now, they’ll be happier than ever.
In a year from now, Sans tells himself. In a year from now. Because he has no other words to fall back on when he’s alone and trapped in his own skull.
…And, for him, that is the part that’s alien.
Because as much as he wants this to be normal, and strangely pleasant—it’s far too different for it to be.
He’s not homesick. Not truly.
He doesn’t truly miss home. Or what was considered home, once upon a time.
If he’s being honest, his “home” has only ever meant one thing to him, one thing only. One that’s with him now. So it’s not that.
…
At first, he thinks it’s just something wrong with him.
But that would only ring true if he was the only one feeling this sort of alienness.
Papyrus doesn’t want to go out and buy lights, either.
And when he comes in after diligently shoveling the driveway for almost an hour, now covered hat to boot in white powder, Sans can’t miss the way his bones are shivering.
They don’t feel the cold, after all.
“you okay?”
Even to him, his voice comes out unusually soft. Papyrus looks unusually weary, too. And he doesn’t respond right away, causing Sans’s concern to only grow more.
Something is wrong. They both know as much—they both had felt off the second the first flake had fallen that morning.
“I’m fine,” he says at last, at length. Nothing more.
Sans knows, though.
“…Are you okay?”
And, really, Sans thinks they both know the true answer to both questions.
He doesn’t answer by metaphorical mouth—instead, the shorter skeleton pushes himself off of his seat and goes to him.
Without a word, Sans takes his brother by the hand, and leads him back over to the couch. Papyrus comes without any protest; a further sign, really. He gently urges him to sit down and joins him, all the while Papyrus doesn’t quite look at him.
“you wanna talk about it?” Sans asks him, gently.
Papyrus gives a rueful smile in turn.
“I should be asking you that, brother,” he murmurs. Sans shrugs.
“well. we could both talk about it.”
…
Papyrus hugs his arms around himself.
“I don’t know if… I want to,” he swallows, “I don’t know…”
He trails off, but Sans doesn’t expect, doesn’t need much else anyway. He simply moves forward, pulling his brother into a warm embrace that his self-imposed one surely can’t manage on its own. The breath in Papyrus’s throat hitches, and, soon his arms return the favor.
. . .
Minutes pass, without much a change. Though Sans holds him just a bit closer when a sniffle breaks through, and finally, the dam as a whole crumbles.
“I can’t— C-can’t think of anything else, it won’t leave, I can’t think…”
“i know,” Sans murmurs, in mutual understanding. Mutual somber tones, as they are. “i know, Papy, i know, it’s okay…”
It won’t leave.
It won’t leave.
It won’t…
He sobs too, and soon, they’re both sobbing in collective anguish—because amidst all that white powder outside, a different powder plagues their minds even more.
Logically they know, they know it’s not the same; and to think it is, to imagine it ever could be is nothing short of fruitless. Imagining it settling in a jar instead of melting, imagining it falling like sand instead of clumps of ice, imagining it coating their very own hands as though even in death their brother was saying…
. . .
It’s winter in all the most wrong ways.
Even now. When all is said and done, when it’s over,
when they had promised.
It can’t be shaken that easily. As easily as the human had shaken everyone off.
And,
maybe,
it will never leave.
Maybe…
.
.
.
Sans buries his tear-streaked face into Papyrus’s shoulder. Hoping against Hope he won’t fade away from him.
Not this time.
please.
“i love you,” he chokes out, weak, tired.
His brother gives him a tired nuzzle in response, echoing the same in his Soul.
They don’t need to say anything else.
All they do, in that moment, is remind themselves their brother is still with them.
Despite everything…
…
It will be okay.
It will.
Sans promises that.
He promises Papyrus, nuzzling the side of his skull. His Soul hums a tuneless tune; an assurance to him.
…Slowly, Papyrus nods.
“It will be okay,” he promises him, too. “One day.”
Someday.
“…However long it takes.”
His voice wavers.
Sans nods, tearing up all over again.
“i hope so. i hope…”
…
He’s still afraid.
Afraid of everything.
But, he’s always been.
They’ve always been.
So they will be afraid together.
For a while, they stay like that; unable to do much more than cry in each other’s embrace. Not because it hurts, necessarily—but because it hurts less when they’re here, together. Together to lift each other up. In spite of their fears.
Sans, eventually, leans away to brush at his cheekbones and sockets. Brushing the liquid pain away, he laughs a bit. (It’s humorless, of course.)
“hey… y’know what i’m thinkin’ sounds pretty good right about now?”
Papyrus looks at him, wearily yet curiously. “What?”
“hot chocolate.”
…
The other skeleton smiles.
“I’m thinking you’re right.”
With that, Sans sets out for the kitchen to make both of them a mug—and minutes later he returns with two in hand, handing one to his brother as he plops back down next to him.
All he’s expecting is a simple thank you in return, or perhaps nothing at all given the still-somewhat morose atmosphere (and Sans wouldn’t mind either way), but…
Papyrus reaches to pull him into a sudden hug, awkward as it may be with one arm only. (And the abrupt motion jostles Sans’s mug.)
“Thank you, brother.”
. . .
“you made me spill my hot chocolate.”
…Papyrus laughs.
A genuine, carefree one. For the very first time that day.
And Sans chuckles back, none too happy to hug him back with the arm not occupying a leaking mug of cocoa.
“but, uh… you’re welcome,” he murmurs, after a moment.
His smile softens further.
Even if it takes them all of next year to be okay, and to not be afraid any longer.
To not think of anything other than Snowdin when the Surface winter comes, and all that was once left there in one point in a different time.
…
However long it took. However long it continues to take.
They are here, now.
And a warmth takes up Sans’s Soul, warmer than even the drink in his grip, as he settles his head just a bit longer atop Papyrus’s shoulder. (Never, ever to truly let go even after.)
“…thanks, too.”
They will be okay.