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You want to kiss someone, and it makes you want to throw up.
Your stomach churns with nerves. Your palms are getting sweaty from the way you’re rubbing them on your jeans. And you’re pretty sure that you’re going to make your lip bleed with how much you’re biting on it.
This is… a lot more daunting than you’d thought it would be.
To be fair, you didn’t think that this would be a particularly difficult conversation at all. Even now, logically, you know that your worries are largely unfounded.
But…. that little nagging voice in the back of your head keeps whispering doubts to you, feeding your nervousness.
What if he hates you?
What if he thinks you’re gross?
The idea of Sans - lazy, slobby, ketchup-drinking Sans finding you gross is so absurd, but you find that you can’t unstick the thought from your brain. Sans is so, so very important to you, and even just thinking about him looking at you with anything else than the fondness you’ve come to know is devastating.
…
You have to remind yourself that Sans loves you just as much as you love him. The concept is so crazy to you.
Love.
When you were younger, you were a hopeless romantic. Hell, in some ways, you still are.
Roses, chocolates, candle-light dinners… cuddling, sharing your life with someone special… you wanted it. You wanted it all. And you still want it.
And… you have it.
Somewhat.
As you grew older, you waited for your very own romance to start. For the missing piece of you to be filled by someone with an easy smile and maybe a cute face.
Cute faces came and went, showing varying levels of interest in you, but… you never found yourself being able to reciprocate in the ways that they expected. When others had professed their feelings for you, you felt… hollow, almost. Maybe not hollow.
Broken, a little. Because the feelings they described… you’d never felt them. A desire to be closer to someone, yes, a desire to have a life-partner, certainly…
But you’d never felt the want to touch someone all over, the desire to kiss someone breathless, the desire to take a relationship with anyone further than friends. The concept of relationships - of having someone to call yours - was appealing, but when you began to apply it to yourself… it fell short.
Your relationships had never lasted long. It felt like you were pretending.
It was so frustrating.
Love, for you, comes easy. You love a lot of things.
You love the flowers that your neighbor grows, you love your family, you love your cat. All these feelings of love are different, but they each fill a piece of your SOUL. They fill up your SOUL and they make you you.
And yet that one piece, the one you were so sure was missing… none of the partners you’d taken had filled it.
Love, for you, comes easy….
But being in love is something you’ve never experienced.
Once you realized this, you were distraught. Heart-broken.
All of your childhood dreams… finding a partner to talk to freely, to hold in the quiet, to live with, to love… they were gone.
It took a long time for you to discover that romantic love isn’t the singular, most important love out there.
It took a long time for you to discover a word for people like yourself, people who didn’t feel romantic or sexual attraction. People who had learned that love was flexible.
You’re aromantic. And asexual.
The discovery was freeing. To know that you weren’t broken, to know that this was normal.
… And to know that all partnerships don’t have to be romantic.
Just because you can’t fall in love doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve to love and be loved in turn. Once you let yourself accept that you’ll probably never love someone like a lover does, life has been so much brighter…
It helped you accept more friendships, helped you open up more, helped you get closer to the friends you already had. Helped you get closer to yourself.
By the time that monsters had been freed from underneath the mountain, you were confident in your identity and what that meant for you. That little missing piece of your SOUL? It was with you all along, almost forgotten. A life without romantic love does not mean a life devoid of any love at all.
A life without romantic love does not mean a life of misery.
And all this came just in time to meet Sans the skeleton.
He’s a funny little skeleton. Just barely shorter than you, with a penchant for puns, whoopee cushions, and any other manner of immature humor.
He guzzles ketchup by the bottle, wears the same clothes for days in a row, and refuses to replace his pink slippers with actual shoes, no matter the terrain. He winks too much and he laughs like a hyena if you mention farts.
And, importantly, he’s like you. Aromantic, asexual. And not broken at all for it.
(Of course, there’s other places where his strength falters. Memories of his past that he’s not ready to talk about. The nightmares that frequent him. His aversion to kitchen knives.)
It could have been anything and everything that drew you to him.
After months of friendship and a heart-to-heart, the two of you entered what’s known as a Queer-Plantonic Relationship. Not quite friendship, not quite romance. Something in between that’s especially for just the two of you.
You rent a small-ish apartment together. It has two bedrooms but you often find yourself in his, or him snoozing with you in yours. It’s nice. Pleasant. To sleep beside another warm body (even if Sans would argue that he doesn’t have one).
Someone who you love. And although the two of you will probably never be in love, your love isn’t any weaker. Doesn’t change the fact that you can see yourself spending the rest of your life with Sans.
But recently… it hasn’t been enough.
You find yourself wanting to… kiss Sans.
The feeling is completely new and utterly mortifying. You’ve never, ever wanted to kiss someone out of any feeling other than curiosity.
It was scary to find that you wanted to press your lips to his teeth.
You were horrified to think that now, out of all times you were finally gaining romantic feelings out of all the times you didn’t want to! Sans surely wouldn’t feel the same way if you developed romantic feelings for him… you'd just make it awkward.
So you kept it to yourself, hoping it would disappear.
To your relief, you didn’t start thinking of Sans romantically at all. He remained your funny, more-than-best-friend. Your Most Important Person. You didn’t want to touch him more than usual, didn’t want to put your tongue in his mouth. Didn’t find the sudden urge to purpose.
… But you still wanted to kiss him.
And you still want to kiss him.
You have to stop yourself in the mornings and at night from pressing a chaste kiss against his teeth or his cheekbone or his forehead. And every time you stop yourself, a little piece of you wilts. You love Sans. You want to show him how much you love him, but you aren’t sure if kissing crosses an unspoken line.
Which is why you want to ask him.
And why you’re so afraid of him thinking you’re gross. Sans has never expressed any desire to kiss you.
The two of you touch plenty - the both of you are always down to give or receive massages or cuddles or hugs - but the idea of kissing seems like it’s a new level of physical intimacy that’s reserved for romantic partners.
Obviously not. You don’t feel romantic-things for Sans at all.
You just want to kiss him.
So you’re going to ask him. The worst that will happen is he can tell you he never ever wants to kiss you in a thousand years, and although the prospect makes your heart ache, you can live with it.
You slide off your bed - where you’ve been contemplating for the past half hours - and head towards the tiny living room. The term living room is generous: it’s more like a small, empty area between the kitchen and the hall that leads to you and Sans’ rooms. But there’s a couch and a TV, so a living room it is.
On the couch, which is ugly and green and a relic from the underground, sits Sans. He’s stretched out on the cushions, wearing only one sock and a white t-shirt that has a giant grease stain on the hem. His shorts are wrinkled almost to the point of looking like paper.
A sharp stab of fondness fills your SOUL.
“Hey, Sans.” You call out.
Sans’ skull lifts from the arm of the couch and he grins at you. He nods his head to beckon you in his direction. “‘sup, bud? looking for some snuggles?” The normalcy of it strikes you right in the softest part of your heart.
You are always looking for snuggles. From Sans, at least.
So you quickly pad over and sit next to him, reclining until your head is wedged into his shoulder and your arms wind around his rib cage. Sans throws a lazy arm over you and rubs your back in small circles.
But you can’t help the tension that remains in your shoulders.
And Sans notices.
“you okay?” He murmurs and tightens his one-armed grip on you.
“...” The words won’t seem to come.
Your silence seems to fuel his worry. Sans brings up the hand that’s not holding you to poke your nose “not gonna talk, huh?” He hums, “gonna make this old bones guess?”
Before you can refute his statement, Sans begins a long tirade of possible problems. All of them are ridiculous and hilarious.
“did we run outta japanese candy? didja get your nose stolen? lemme guess… your bitcoin stock crashed…” Sans goes on as if he’s discussing the serious illness of a loved one rather than silly suggestions.
You have to hide your grin by nuzzling further into Sans’ shoulder. The way your own shoulders bounce with silent laughter can’t be hidden, though.
“maybe you built a friend out of spaghetti but he pasta-way… or an annoying dog came in and stole all your bones. you can patella me if he stole your kneecaps, pal. i gotta femur you can borrow.”
Finally, as Sans starts breaking out the puns, you push away from him slightly, the silent laughter turning into choked little giggles.
“No, I…” You start. But one look into Sans eye lights - so small and bright, like stars in the night sky - and you lose all of your confidence. “.... It’s nothing.”
Sans’ grin falls a bit at the edges. He looks down at you with furrowed brow ridges.
“come on, bud. i ain’t fallin’ for that. what’s eatin’ ya? and don’t tell me it’s the spaghetti-cake mixture paps gave us last week, ‘cause i threw it out yesterday.” The previously lax arm brings you close to him once again. You sigh as you lay next to Sans.
You don’t want to change this. Don’t want to make things awkward. But even now - especially now - you feel yourself longing to kiss your skeletal roommate.
“Have you ever wanted to kiss someone?” You ask quietly.
“...” You almost lose your nerve completely when Sans doesn’t speak for a while. But it seems as though he’s only choosing his words. “... i dunno. i used to kiss paps on the head before i put him to sleep.”
You frown a bit as you pick at Sans’ shirt.
“No, not like, family kisses. I mean like… if you really like someone and you want them to know how much you like them, so you give them just a… tiny smooch.”
“... i guess not, then.” Sans replies casually.
Whatever hope you’d been harboring in your SOUL slowly drains. Of course not.
“what’s all this kissin’ talk about? you wanna smooch someone?” Sans sounds a little uncertain when he talks. You can tell all this talk of kissing has made him slightly uncomfortable. He sounds a bit less casual than only moments before.
“Yeah, just one person.” You tell him.
Sans pulls you into him even further, and curls around you.
“i, uh… don’t wanna sound like an asshole, ‘specially since i don’t got one... but i don’t think i like the idea of you goin’ around smooching someone.” Sans admits. “... i like bein’ your favorite.”
Relief fills your body at his quiet confession.
“You are my favorite. Always.” You reassure your companion. “I actually wanted to know if I could kiss… you.”
Sans’ confusion is almost audible.
“... ya wanna… smooch…. me?”
The uncertainty in Sans’ voice sparks your nerves all over again. You pull out of Sans’ arms, suddenly feeling like they’re too much, and sit up on the couch. Sans is quick to follow your motions. Soon, the two of you are sitting face to face on the couch.
He grabs you by the shoulder gently to keep you from leaving. “hey, hey, don’t run.”
“I - I’m sorry.” You’re in a rush to explain yourself. You knew you shouldn’t have asked. You've made everything so awkward - “You can forget I said that. We don’t - you don’t have to… y’know. Smooch me or whatever.”
Sans only stares at you with those pretty eye lights.
Then, lightning quick, Sans’ face approaches yours. You barely have a second to think before his teeth are on your cheek, a gentle imitation of a kiss. He can’t do it properly since he has no lips, but Sans gently nuzzles you before he retreats.
You stare, dumbfounded, as Sans grins at you sheepishly.
“you can smooch me.” Is all he says.
When your brain finishes recalibrating, you smack Sans lightly on the shoulder.
“A little warning next time!” You admonish playfully. Sans chuckles a little and you lightly touch the area on your face where Sans had kissed.
You’re glad he doesn’t think that kissing you is gross… but you wanted to kiss him on the teeth.
“... Can I kiss you?” You ask again hesitantly. Sans’ laughter pauses as he looks at you curiously.
“uhhhh…... yeah. thought we were over that part of the convo?”
You shake your head, “I want to kiss you, like, on the teeth. Is that alright?”
Sans’ eye sockets widen in realization. His eye lights blip down to your lips then back up to your eyes. He looks away for a few seconds, then back again.
“yeah.” He says, finally. “yeah, you can kiss me.”
A tiny smile takes over your face. “Right.” You tell him, “because kisses don’t have to be romantic or whatever.”
“nope.” Sans pops the ‘p’. “nothin’ romantic about a couple of roomies smooching.”
You snort and lean forward, taking Sans off guard much like he had done to you only a moment prior. You press your lips to his teeth.
When you pull back, you smile brightly at Sans. “That was a completely non-romantic kiss.”
“yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And you kiss Sans a few more times - on the teeth, on his cheekbones, on his nasal ridge and on his forehead until he’s giggling. When you pull back, Sans is quick to lean forward an treat you to the same affection.
He presses a particularly firm nuzzle to your forehead and sighs, “i love you.”
“I love you too.” You smile slyly at Sans, “Even if you taste like ketchup.”
Sans sputters for a few moments before he finds something to say, “but,” he counters after a little, “you still wanna smooch me. you like smooching the ketchup skeleton.”
“Unfortunately.”