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Today, your heart is heavy. It’s not a foreign feeling to you—when you think about it, you have plenty to be sad about. But you don’t normally like to think about it. Instead, you like to distract yourself by dancing—specifically the kind of dancing your dear friend Sans likes to do. You have been hoping that someday, your skills in hip-hop will match his. These days, you’ve really felt like you’re almost there.
But today, you really feel a weight in your chest, and the distraction… just isn’t working.
You’re trying to do the moves on a mat in your living room, and they’re just not what you want them to be. They’re not quick enough, not graceful enough, not as on point as usual. And it frustrates you.
You’re almost ready to quit when Sans comes through your back door.
This doesn’t completely surprise you, as you’ve given him a key to let himself in whenever he wants. Normally, though, he gives you a heads up when he’s coming over.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
“I sent you a text,” Sans says, surprised. You look at your phone, and sure enough, there is a text. You must have missed it while you were trying to practice.
You flop down on the couch, miserable.
Sans slowly sits down beside you. “Everything okay, [Y/N]?”
“No,” you admit. “But I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Sans nods; he’s not one to be too open about his problems, either.
You two sit in silence for a while. The thoughts are building up in your mind, and you can feel the tears coming—but you really don’t want to cry in front of anyone right now.
Then, Sans shocks you by asking you to dance with him.
That has been your dream since… well, since you first saw all his cool moves. That was why you started practicing—you wanted to impress him, show him how cool you could be.
This is the worst possible day this could have happened.
But, strangely, you don’t refuse.
Tears abating for the moment, you go and stand on the far side of your mat. Sans takes the other side. You reach for your phone and pick a song fitting for the kind of dancing you’re about to do, and wait for Sans to give the okay to start it.
Sans begins to move his shoulders, and despite yourself, you find yourself aweing over his moves, like always.
But when he gestures to you, you’re startled, and end up losing the beat of the music.
“Sorry,” you say, and stop the song.
“S’cool. You mind startin’ it again?”
You do so.
Sans begins again, moving just a little differently, and the next time he gestures to you, you’re ready.
Or so you think.
Your thoughts keep returning to your frustrations from earlier, and after only a few seconds of dancing, your foot catches on the mat, and you stumble.
Sans catches you, and you apologize, again.
“Hey, no worries. We can try again, if you want.”
You take a deep breath, sigh, and start the song over again.
This time, you two make it a little farther into the dance before you mess up again. This time, you shut the song off. “I’m sorry, Sans. I can’t do this today.”
“Hey…” Sans reaches up to your face, and you realize there are tears on your cheeks. He gently wipes them away. “I dunno what’s goin’ on, but I wanna help. What can I do?”
You shake your head and shrug… and sniff.
It takes Sans only a moment to think.
He takes each of your hands in his and pulls you to the middle of the mat with him. Then, he rocks gently back and forth.
You blink in surprise. “You don’t usually dance like this.”
“Yeah, but you gotta be versatile in situations like this.”
Eventually, the positions both of you are in change to the classic ballroom dancing positions, with one of Sans’ hands on your waist, the other still holding your hand, and your hand on his shoulder. You imagine you would look a bit funny to anyone who might peek in the window, as Sans is shorter than you. You giggle at the thought.
Sans grins. “I haven’t even told any puns yet.”
“You don’t have to, I can imagine how bad they are.”
There’s no music on, but you two waltz around the mat, and you realize how light your feet feel right now… and how much less heavy your heart is, knowing that Sans is doing all he can to make you feel better, not even knowing what the problem is.
When you slow down, you break away from Sans and sit back on the couch, gesturing for him to join you. He does.
“I’m ready to talk a little, now,” you say.
Sans sits back and listens as you explain everything that’s been going on.
“That’s a lot,” he says at the end of it all. “I wish I could do more about it… but, hey.” He winks. “I know what you got in you. You can get through this, and not just that—you can come out on top, too. And I’ll be with you, telling puns and pulling pranks the whole way.”
“Sans… you’re the best.” You throw your arms around him. You’re crying again, but for a completely different reason than earlier.
“Ya know, you weren’t doing too bad earlier. Hip-hop’s pretty hard when you can’t focus. We should try again on a better day.”
You straighten on the couch. “We can try again right now.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” you insist. You stand and go back to your place on the far side of the mat. “I think I’ve got a better song for us this time, though.” You pick a song that you know you and Sans both love, and hold the phone out to him.
He gets up and takes it, his permanent smile growing genuine when he sees what’s on the screen. “You got it, boss.” He tries to hand the phone back to you.
“Actually, I want to start this time.”
“Sure thing.” He waits until he’s sure you’re both ready, then hits play.
This time, when you dance, it isn’t to distract yourself, or to impress Sans or surpass his skills. It’s purely for the joy of the art, for the expression of yourself. While your heart is still a weight in your chest, it can’t compete with the rest of you, especially your feet, which feel lighter than air.
You know you’re never going to let that frustration get the better of you ever again.