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The first thing he realises is that he's staring at a wall.
Then he realises he understands the word/concept 'wall', and that it's tied to other concepts - 'floor', 'ceiling', 'room', 'house' - and oh, 'words' and 'concepts' are also tied to other concepts - 'language', that's a good one, and 'communication', and 'understandable' which isn't quite the same as 'comprehensible' - (he doesn't like those. Why do those concepts make him feel 'disgruntled', like he's 'insufficient' or - or 'defective', that one feels 'familiar' 'unwelcome') -
He turns his attention back to the wall. It's a good wall, he decides with a swell of 'fondness' for it. It's doing a marvellous job of supporting the ceiling!
He cranes his head - his 'skull', he's a 'skeleton'! - back to look at the ceiling that is being supported by the admirable wall.
That isn't a ceiling.
He snaps his head forwards quickly enough for a sharp 'crack' to reverberate round the room, looking to the surface he's stood on. An expanse of plain white tiles, 'interspersed' with 'recessed' (oh, that's an interesting word!) lights -
He's standing on the ceiling.
He feels 'embarrassed', possibly 'foolish' ('foolish' feels familiar, but not the same way 'defective' does. Was he surrounded (not quite 'surrounded', the implications feel slightly off, but he isn't sure what would be more appropriate) by 'foolish' things at some point?). Ceilings are not for standing on!
The door that he hadn't really noticed till now opens. He feels a surge of 'panic' - he can't be seen standing on the ceiling, it's - ('undignified'? Does being 'dignified' matter?)
He springs off the ceiling into a perfect half-flip, landing in a crouch on the floor just as the person enters the room.
"whoa, that's -"
One look, and he's beaming. He recognises this person! This other skeleton is 'family', he's 'brother', he's -
"SANS!"
He claps his hands over his mouth. They stare at each other in silence, letting the echoes of his voice fade.
That wasn't his voice. He doesn't know whose that voice was.
Sans tries to look relaxed, but he can see the tightness in the corners of his omnipresent (ooh, that word's pretty!) grin. "not feeling like yourself, bro?"
"I THOUGHT I WAS," he says ('despondently'? no, not quite, he's too energetic for that. It's closer to) helplessly. "WHO ELSE COULD I BE?"
"a papyrus, it sounds like."
He considers the name. Does he feel like a 'Papyrus'?
Who should he feel like?
He tries to remember that - his 'font', his name -
d̷͝aŗ̕k̵̴̢e̶̷rd̵ąr̨͝͡k͏e͘͘r͏d̴҉ar̷̛k̸e͠r̢͡d̨͝a̸͏r̛͝ķ̴̡ȩ̢̢rd̕ą͞͝r̷̕kȩr͟҉d͜͡ar̨k̷̴̶ę̶̴ŗda̧͡ŗ̵ke̸҉r̨͟d̡̛͘a̢r̕͢k̴̕ȩ̴r̡̕͡
d̸̶̛҉͝a̶r͡͏̶k̢̡̕͟e͢͟͏r͞ ̴̛̛y̡̨ȩ͏t̴͘ ̸̨͢͞d̢̕͏͟a̷̡̛r͏̧̡k̛e̴̛ŗ͏̡ ҉̨y̶̶̡e̷͞͞t̷̸̡ ҉͟d̶͡ą̸̨͘͜r͡͏̷k҉҉̷͝e̴̷̸͡r̛ ̧̡͡y̛͢͝͏e̷͟͠t̨͡ ̨͝d̕͜a͏̵̡̡ŗ͏͏̛͝k҉̸ę͘͝r̷̡͟ ̶̡y̷҉̕͢e̡̛̕͟t͢͞͏ ̛͢͏d̷̛͟͞a̵̧r̨͘͡k҉͘͜e͞͏̵̧͢r̨͘͠ ͢y̕͞e̶͢͝t̕͟҉ ̵̶͞d̸͘a̶͟r͏̵̸͜͞k͘͢e̶̷̶r͟͟͜͡ ̵̕̕͜͠y̵̧̧̕e̢ţ̷̛ ̷͠d҉̶̴̶a̵̛͢͞r̸̷̷̨k̨͠͝͝͝e͡͞r̵̷
"Bro!"
Oh. Sans is holding his arms.
That's nice of him.
"I WASN'T PAPYRUS," he says carefully.
Sans bobs his skull as if he can't tell whether he should nod or shake it.
"BUT - I THINK IT'S - SAFER? IF I AM PAPYRUS. FOR NOW! JUST FOR NOW, TILL -" ḑ̕͟a̕͟͏͢r̡̧͠k̢̡̕e̶̡͠͝͞r͘͡҉d͢͜a̶͠r͞k̶͞e͡ŗ̛͠ḑ̵͡a̴̷̶͠r̵̡̛͝k̶̨͢͠e̴͠r̷̨͜d̨̢͘҉͠a͏̶̴̛̕r̶̢̛͡͝k̷͟͟͡͡e̴̷̡̨͡r̶̷̕͞ "- WHATEVER THAT IS GOES AWAY."
They stare at each other for a moment.
"makes sense."
'Papyrus' spends the next few days learning about himself, and (re?)learning about his brother. He wonders if he's changed since he became a Papyrus instead of a ̷͜͠ ̴̢̡͘ ̨͝ ͢ ̸̵͢͞ ̡̕͠ ̵͡ ͝҉̡͏͢ ̢̢͞ ̷̨͢͠ ̡͢ ̴̷̨ ͢͞ ̶͡҉̢ ̷̷̨̕͢ ̷̢̢ ̢͘͜ ̸̢̧ ҉̡͟ ̢̨̨͝, but he can't think how to ask. (Would Sans know? If the changes were subtle enough, if they were internal, would Sans even be able to recognise them?)
Papyrus talks easily, words spilling out without a pause to find them, all ready at the metaphorical (oh, interesting word - he's not sure if he likes it or not) tip of his metaphorical tongue.
He thinks that isn't how he used to be, feels the pauses he doesn't need to make hanging in the air like speeding past an unneeded reststop (is reststop a word?) - and like speeding along a road, it's exhilerating!
(What's a road?)
Magic comes easily to him, power and precision both. He doesn't even realise how rare his control is until someone sees him horsing around with his brother, his bone smacking his brother in the ribs, and panics that he's going to kill him. (Sans is as confused by their reaction as he is, so at least he's not the only one who never thought to question whether his magical skills would be affected by whatever d̸͠ą̶͘͝r҉̴͟͝k̸̴̴̛͜e̸̶̢r̵̡̛͢d͜a͡r҉͜͢͝҉k͟͡ę͠͝r̸͞d̶̛͜͝a̢̡͜r͜͏k҉̨̡͢͝ę̷r̴̵̨̨͟ happened to him.)
Papyrus is good at physical skills, too; strong, athletic, energetic -
"͜B̧UI͢LD̶ ͘UP͡ THOS͢E ͘MUS҉CL͘E̷S,̵ ̛MI͞NIONS͠,̵ YOU'LL̶ BE TH̴A̛NKFU̸L ͞FOR T͞HE͢M ̛THE҉ D̕A҉Y Y͢O̶U͟ NEE͠D ̶TO ̢MOVE͢ ḨE̵AVY̨ ȨQUĮP͜MENT͡!"
͟"Y͟-yes̛, sir͏!̢"
- but at the same time it feels unfamiliar, as if whoever he used to be never bothered to put much effort into using his body.
There's something very comforting about knowing that he won't set off any of those unpleasant... hmm. He doesn't have an accurate word for them. He doesn't even have a semi-accurate one, and the description he thinks of - 'not-memories-but-feel-like-they-should-be' - is far too unwieldy to be practical.
Regardless, it's nice to have something he's good at that isn't associated with them. Mechanisms and devices are fraught with risks, a moment's consideration of whether a circuit is inefficient l̸ea͟dįng͡ ͠to ̧thin̕gs ҉h̶͝ȩ̶͡ ͝͠͡ş͡h̷o͠u҉̕ļ̵dn̵͡'͘͜ţ͜͝ l̴͝et̸̷̨ ̡͜h͠͡҉į̛m̷s̷҉e҉͠ļ̷f͟ ͘͘͢t̢̛h̶̶͢i̵͜n͝͏ķ̵̛͘͘ ̵͢͝a҉͏͏b͏͝͏̴͠o͘͜͡͞ư̶͞t҉҉͏.̵̛̛͡.҉̶͘͏.̨͢
̛͞
̵͟͞.͟͟͝.͏̵̕.͢͠
Sans is getting better at waking him up from those trances.
It still takes him half the day at best.
Papyrus hates Hotland. He despises it, he loathes it, he detests it, he -
"think i'm getting the picture here, bro," Sans says with a quirked nonexistant brow. "what's the problem?"
"EVERYTHING!"
The puzzles are terrible. Worse than that, they're wrong - out of pattern, off-sync, blue that should be orange should be - should be - ş͜͡ho̕u͏̸͏ld̶ be̴͘
Everyone looks at him weirdly when he skips the conveyor belts and steam-vents to run in midair, but it's the only way he can get anywhere!
(He keeps seeing how the puzzles work, the mechanisms behind them - and then he starts thinking about what he sees, and ho̷͞w̷͘҉ ͡͏to͡͠ a͟͡͝d̨͟͠ąp͘͠͞t̸̨ ̸͜i͢͞҉t̷ ̡, h̕͏o̴͘͟͢w̨ ̨̛͜͝v̷̸͝͝e͠͠҉̸r̷̸͠͡y̵ ҉̡͘͟ ̶̵̨̡͜i͢͡n̡͢҉t̢̛͘e̶̛͘͡͞r̛ȩ̡̛s̨͞t҉͘i͜͠n̶͟g̵̷̛͟ ̡͞͝ ͢ ͜͢͠i̷̢͝͠͏t̶̸̶̨ ̷̢̕͏ ͘ ̶̵͟͝ ̧͜į͜͡s̵̕͡
The laser burns have woken him up every time before he loses too much HP, so far.
He doesn't want to find out what'll happen if (w̵h͡e̷nw̷h̵en͠whe̛n)̡ they don't.)
It doesn't take him long to realise that his brother is - not entirely honest in his dealings with anyone. Including him.
He knows Sans doesn't mean it to be hurtful - he just prioritises consequences over, well, honesty. (Papyrus wonders if the-person-he-used-to-be did, too. He thinks of asking Sans, but some instinct makes him pause and reconsider till he realises why not to - if Sans doesn't know Papyrus can tell when Sans is lying to him, if he's genuinely trying to not hurt Papyrus' feelings instead of just following wellworn habit, then won't it hurt him to find out how useless his attempts are?)(And maybe who-he-used-to-be couldn't tell, maybe he just didn't care, maybe he's the one wh̨o̷ ta̷ught ̸t͡his͟ ̴̵̧͜͢t̷҉͢o̶̶̧͢͠ ̷͠S̵̡̧͠a̢̛n̴͘s̷̢͞͠͠ ̧͏̛i̕n͢ ͞͞t̴he̛̕ f̴i̸r͏̕s͝t̸͡ p̵l̨͏a̢cȩ͜͞ -
He pays Sans in kind, watches for the things Sans doesn't want him to say or admit to knowing and pretends ignorance.
It's not familiar, so he knows previous-him didn't bother.
He doesn't know if Sans treated previous-him the way he treats Papyrus-him, an unfollowed example of concern for another's feelings, or if this is a reaction to his becoming so... fragile? fractured?
He doesn't want to know.
"you need to sleep, bro," Sans tells him.
"OH. OH! YES, I DO, DON'T I?" Papyrus says as he finally identifies his flagging energy as a symptom of tiredness. Sans grins fondly, shakes his head, and leaves Papyrus in his room.
Papyrus lies ramrod straight in his bed, and stares up at the dark ceiling of his room, and slowly realises that he's completely forgotten how to sleep.
Part of him wants to call Sans, to ask for help, but he knows that this is something so simple it shouldn't be possible to forget it.
He doesn't want to admit he's still defective.
Sleep. Somnambulation. Dozing off. Drifting off.
He drifts off when he enters those trance-states, doesn't he?
(There's silence where there should be a voice in the back of his head telling him how bad an idea this is.)
C̴͘̕O͜M̵̸̨͜͟E̵̢͢JǪ̕I͟͟N̸̨T̸̶͘H̴͞Ȩ͢͟͏F̷̵Ư̴͟͢͠N̵̵ knifeflash afishwomanheshould(n't)knowisnamedUndynestandsinfrontofaburninghouse "Ohhhhh, YESSSS!" theflowerisnotaflowerisnotnotnotnotnot "ALAS, POOR PAPYRUS!" thefoodisgreasythefoodistoogreasy King Fluffybuns disintegrates into Dust hewantstobeaRoyalGuard"̶͡A̢N͘͢҉D̕͜ ̨͟͞҉T̵͟H̡͜͢E҉͝N͞!̸̢͡͠ ̵E͏V̵̴͟͝Ę̵R͡͏̴Y̵̨̨͞͠O̷̢͝҉͡N̴͞E͘҉̕ ͘͘͡W̧͡҉I̕͏L̡҉L̵̷̛.̸̢̡.̶̛͘͟͟.̢"̨̧͘͞
forget
Forget
"̶͞D͘O҉N̸͝'T̛͟ FO͘͏R͏G̕̕E̛͡҉T̵!͜"̷
"hey, bro." Sans is trying to look relaxed, trying to seem at ease. "you back with me?"
"WHERE WOULD I HAVE GONE?" he asks, mind slowly resurfacing from...
"goooood question. lemme know if you figure out the answer," and Sans is looking at him too closely and the truth slips out before he can think to censor it, "I WON'T, DON'T WORRY!"
Sans sits back, hurt flickering across his face, and Papyrus doesn't know why he said that (doesn't know why it's the truth). "DID I TELL YOU ANYTHING USEFUL?" he asks, trying to derail the conversation. (Why would he be telling Sans anything when he was supposed to be asleep?)
Sans sits back, eyelights unforgiving. "guess we'll find out, won't we?"
With a certainty that even Papyrus finds eerie, inexperienced as he still is with how his world is meant to work, Papyrus knows that Sans will never tell him.
(He never does relearn how to sleep. Sans starts tucking him in when he goes to bed, reading him bedtime stories - anchoring him, giving him a pathway he can use to find his way back - and Papyrus never asks if he only does it so he can chat with Papyrus while he's not-sleeping, hear whatever hints and clues not-sleeping-P̷̡͡a̴̡͠p̷̶̧̨͞y̶͝ŗ̴͜u̡͏̶͠͏s͏͏̶̛͜ can give him.
He wants to believe he doesn't ask because he knows Sans wouldn't use him like that.
He wants to believe that so much.)
(At least there's one reason for Sans to choose who-he-is over who-he-was.)
Papyrus starts keeping a list of facts in the back of his mind.
PAPYRUS-HIM: Has excellent (possibly unequalled!) control over his magic. PREVIOUS-HIM: Obviously had the same!
PAPYRUS-HIM: Is developing his natural talent for physical activity! PREVIOUS-HIM: Seems to have ignored it for some reason? T̢h̵̨e͘r̨̛e͏ ҉w̵͜a̡s̷͜҉ ̵̢a̶̵l̛̕w͟ays͘͠ so̢m̵ȩth̴i͜n̷͟g ̵̨m̧o̧̕͜ŗ̷e͏͏͏ i͜m͏͟p̶͢or̸̶t̡ąn͜t̶ ̛t̴̶͜o͘ ͟w̴o̵r͜͠k̴̛҉ ͏͏o̵̧n͟..̛.͏͏̶
PAPYRUS-HIM: Cannot stand anything about Hotland. PREVIOUS-HIM: Must have liked the place, or why would he and Sans live there? S̕͝҉o͡ c̸o̵̶̕n͡͞v̧e̷͠ni̶e͘͡͠n̢͝t͜͏l̛y̧͏ ̷̵ç̵l҉͠o͞s̢e̛̛ ͘͞to ̵t̢̨͜͞h̨e̸͘ ̴̸l̡̡͜͏͢a̴̡b̵̨͘s̡̨͜.̴̢͏.̶̷̡͜͝.̢͟͡
PAPYRUS-HIM: Is liked tolerated liked loved by his brother, Sans, even on those (rare!) occasions that he gets things irreparably wrong. PREVIOUS-HIM: ...? (Did he get ever get things irreparably wrong? Before the acci̸d͜en͞t?)
PREVIOUS-HIM: Must have had a very strong relationship with his brother! PAPYRUS-HIM: ...Is getting there?
PREVIOUS-HIM: Was a highly-respected s̡̨c̡͢͞i̷̧̧e҉̵͢n̴̡̕͟͞t̸̶͠͞͡i͏̶͞s̴̛t̵͘̕ who even managed to inspire Sans! PAPYRUS-HIM: Is going to find a suitable role for himself, he really is, just as soon as he can think of something interesting that d̡oesn̕'͞t lea̴d ̴h͘i͠͏s̷͘͜ ̨m̷̡͝i͏͘n̸͝d̢ a͡͏s̷̵̷̶̡t҉r̴͢͠͠a̷̴͞͡y̨͢͏̴͢.͏.͢҉͞.̷̧͘
PREVIOUS-HIM: Had goals and ambitions! PAPYRUS-HIM: ...???? Would like some? Quite a lot, actually, it's surprisingly unpleasant to have the drive to achieve and nothing to focus it on!
Papyrus doesn't like the list. If Sans knew that (if Sans knew about the list at all) he'd say that was a great reason to stop keeping it.
He wouldn't understand how much Papyrus needs to know who he is (and how much it isn't who he used to be).
Sans probably wouldn't like it, either. Because Sans loved who he used to be. (̧̕...D̶i̕d̢͜n̢͟͠'̷t̷̴̶ ̨҉h̕e͘?͜͝͝)͝
The question he doesn't ask nags at Papyrus, lurking in the shadowy corners of his mind (and there are so many of them), waiting for him to let his guard down so it can sink its fangs deeper.
He wouldn't ask. (He's not that stupid.) But he keeps thinking about it, becoming distracted enough Sans notices - distracted enough that Sans asks him what's wrong.
Papyrus gives Sans an uncertain smile. "IF, HYPOTHETICALLY, YOU WERE TO PREFER WHO I USED TO BE TO WHO I CURRENTLY AM, AND IF I WERE TO ASK YOU WHETHER THAT WAS THE CASE, YOU WOULD BE HONEST, CORRECT?"
Sans smiles, eyesockets a little crinkled with his expression of lazy amusement. "'course i would, bro."
Papyrus smiles back, as blindingly as he can. "WONDERFUL!"
He doesn't let himself react till that night, after he's sure Sans is asleep and unaware.
And then he hugs his pillow tight and screams into it, till the screams taper off to sobbing.
Eventually, the sobbing dies away as well. And Papyrus puts down his pillow, and takes a deep breath, and uses his smile to lock away all the horror and pain he feels at knowing his brother will lie to his face and think he can't tell.
The smile doesn't last very long. But that's fine! He'll keep working on it!
He can already tell he's going to get plenty of opportunities to practice.