Chapter Text
Note:
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This is Frisk.
This is Chara.
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"Face your life,
Its pain,
Its pleasure,
Leave no path untaken."
- Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book
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“so. this is it, huh.” He sighs, arm wrapped around his midsection.“welp. i’m off to grillby’s.” Sans staggers past them, leaving the scent of vinegar and tomatoes in the air. The ragged edges of the scarf trail behind him. “papyrus, do you want anything?”
Frisk drops the knife. It clatters noisily to the floor.
“Frisk?”
I… I can’t do this anymore, they sign. Their fingers are grimy, and there is white powder under their nails.
Chara’s voice hardens. They can imagine the edges of their smile, razor sharp, frozen in place.
What do you mean?
Frisk kicks out a foot, watching the dust around it billow in a cloud of white. There is a morbid beauty to it. These… pointless actions. I hurt, and I hurt, and I hurt others. It doesn’t feel good anymore.
Chara is quiet for a while. Their silence is compounded by the emptiness of the halls. Sans is long gone, leaving only a trail of red that ends sharply, like a slash of paint. Frisk slumps, leaning against one of the pillars. It is cold.
I’m tired, Chara.
Me too, Frisk. Their silence is dark and bitter.
Frisk huffs. The sound bounces off the walls. It sounds like a sigh. Should we even return? Is there any point?
Chara is quiet, but Frisk can feel the agitation bubbling inside.
Chara… Frisk’s fingers attempt to sign, they fumble. They curl into fists instead. Chara giggles, turning into a hysterical laugh that sounds half crazed. Their panic feels like a rising scream.
We can’t leave this godforsaken place. We’re trapped here! Ha! The one problem we can’t murder our way out of, time! Their laughter dies down. Then they fall silent.
Chara? Frisk asks. There is no reply. Chara is still there, judging by their pounding headache, somewhere in the back of their mind. Do you think Sans was right? That we’re the type of people who’ll never be happy? They shudder, pulling their knees towards their chest.
Now you’re agreeing with the comedian? They snort. He’s getting to you, Frisk.
He’s not wrong. Frisk’s fingers still, lost in thought. We were happy before, on the surface. But that too, ended.
And now we cope by killing our so-called friends. Frisk stiffens. Sorry, that was a low blow. Chara sends Frisk the equivalent of a mental apology. It tastes like dust and regret.
I thought you’d be more angry with me.
I used to be. But I’ve come to a realization, that nothing truly matters. Not even consequences. Their voice is dead. Asgore awaits, Frisk. Are you going to complete the collection?
No point. Frisk cups their hands, drawing out their soul. Words, warm and gold, etch themselves into the air. Reset? it reads. Yes/No
We’ll find our happiness, they vow, and reach for the glowing ‘Yes’ without hesitation. They are filled with… determination. It is a part of them, Chara muses, feeling a pale shade of Frisk’s own echoing in their soul. The world fades out.
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They fall. They face Flowey, and are taken in by Toriel. She dotes on them like usual, and they never grow tired of cinnamon-butterscotch pie, no matter how many times they’ve had it. They know every nook and cranny of the Ruins, and Chara recites every line of dialogue Toriel says, their voice layered on top of Toriel’s warm words. Showoff, Frisk signs playfully. Chara only sticks their tongue out.
They walk down the snowy trail towards Snowdin. Sans is there to greet them, of course. He looks wearier and wearier every reset. His wide grin doesn’t fool them in the slightest. 'dirty brother killer', his voice hisses in their memories. They ditch him and Papyrus the first moment they get, heading straight to Grillby’s.
The bar is a din of activity and voices, and the air tastes like smoke. They weave their way through the huddle of bodies and monsters, ignoring the itch in their pockets where the knife rests, heavy and hungry. They are small and good at going unnoticed, and besides -nobody really knows how a human looks like here.
They climb onto a bar stool, and plop a couple gold coins down on the counter in. Grillby is somewhere off to the side, mixing a drink that involves copious amounts of fire and brown whisky. He tops it with a dog treat, sliding it towards a the canine-like monster. Grillby catches their gaze, and walks over.
ketchup, please, Frisk signs. Chara only shakes her head. Come on, choose something more exciting, they whine. I don’t see what you like about that. Sans is rubbing off of you.
You can choose afterwards, Frisk signs. Grillby walks over, flickering a warm orange-red. He sets the bottle in front of them. He seems amused. Or puzzled. Or both, but you can never tell with living flame.
Frisk attempts to chug the bottle. They only get through a third, before they set the bottle down. They swipe at their mouth with a sleeve, and check in the well-polished surface of the counter for any lingering stains.
Finished? Chara asks. They sound impatient. They slip from their bar stool, and walk towards an abandoned seat, somewhere far from the gaze of the bartender. There is a half-finished glass of spirits on the table. The smell is overpowering, and Frisk wrinkles their nose.
They snatch the glass, and down it all at once. It burns going down.
This isn’t a good idea…
When have you been a stickler for rules? they retort back. We’re old enough. We’ve been through enough resets. Besides, there’s no way we could acquire this on our own. Chara has a keen eye, and they repeat the process, with Chara acting as the sommelier. Bitter, they say, grimacing. Not a fan of this one. Tastes too much like cheap human beer. And another: Tastes like chocolate, but not chocolate? How confusing.
They feel…strange. There’s a buzzing in their scalp and a warmth that radiates all over their body, and they stumble outside, basking in the cool winter air.
No regrets, Chara slurs, and they fall to their knees.
The world seems awfully... spinny…
I don’t feel so good… The ketchup and stolen alcohol comes up, red puddles in otherwise pristine snow. They close their eyes, and sleep.
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They wake in a warm bed by the fireplace. Their head is pounding, and their mouth tastes like vomit.
We’re never doing this again, Chara groans, and sits up. Frisk only sends a murmur of acknowledgement. Now, where…
Footsteps approach. They see dark dress-shoes, black slacks… They follow their gaze up towards Grillby. He looks stern. They squint. Yep, Chara notes. Definitely a sign of disproval.
There is a tray in his hand, with a mug of water, a hunk of bread, and a small bowl of vegetoid soup. They accept it, signing thank you with one hand. Then they sip the water, small and hunched.
Grillby pulls up a chair and watches as they finish the glass. “More?” he asks. His voice is quiet.
No thank you, they sign back. He nods, and they take that as a cue to dig into the rest of their meal. The bread is crusty and flavourful, and they feel better after having a couple spoonfuls of the soup. The meal is gone quickly, and Frisk clinks the spoon against the bowl, wishing for more.
Grillby takes the tray from them and returns. He takes a seat. They feel hot, under the scrutiny of his gaze. “Would you mind telling me why?”
Chara tenses. Don’t you dare tell him anything, they hiss, but Frisk had already starting signing. I wanted to see what it felt like, they say. I was curious. Sorry. They look away.
He seems unconvinced, but takes it for face value. ”You are welcome to stay here. For now,” he says, reaching over to touch their forehead, “rest and recover.” The flame passes over their skin but does not burn. Satisfied, he withdraws it. “You are welcome to any part of this house. Do you have a cell phone?”
They pull it out of their pocket, and tap on the screen to create a new contact. Chara flushes. He didn’t see the knife, right?
Our stuff looks untouched. I doubt it.
He inputs his number, and returns it to their waiting hand. “Call me if you have questions. I’m a little busy in the moment, but I’ll be back around,” Grillby checks his wristwatch, “nine, briefly.” He hands them a key, then walks out, closing the door gently behind him.
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Grillby steps back inside, footsteps clipped and soft. The child is still in his mind. He readjusts his glasses, which had slipped down his nonexistent nose, and turns to find Sans in his usual place by the counter. He’s slouched, with hands tucked into his pockets.
“hey grillz,” he says, and waves lazily at him, “the usual, ya know? put it on my tab.”
Grillby brings the bottle and sets it in front of him. On closer inspection, he looks like death. There are shadows under his eye sockets, and there are faded ketchup stains on the front.
“say… have you happened to see a little human, wandering around? just a pipsqueak.” and he draws both hands apart in a crude estimation of their height. “they gave papyrus and i the slip. it can’t be good, wandering around like that in the cold.”
He nods. Unconsciously, his flames start to flicker.
Sans sobers. “i’m going to have to ask you a favour. a, uh, pretty big one.” He knocks back the bottle and takes a gulp. “keep an eye on the kiddo for me, won’t ya?”
“I will.”
“thanks, grillby. also, a word of advice from friend to friend: keep them away from sharp things.” Sans winks, then slips off the stool, dropping his hands back into his pockets. He saunters off.
Grillby exhales, grabbing the empty ketchup bottle. Leave Sans to play cryptic and confusing.
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Well, says Chara. That was something new. Frisk can feel the excitement thrumming in them. They rise to their feet, wobbling. Each successive step fills them with determination. Feels like a new chapter, Chara notes. They begin to explore.