Work Text:
You’re sitting on the couch, sniffling. Crumpled tissues cover your lap, your hands clenched tight into fists around them, shaking. The rest of the house is silent; there aren’t even crickets chirping outside though the night is stiflingly warm. There’s no sound other than your heart beating in your ears, too fast, too loud, and your pitiful little whimpers. If your self-deprecating thoughts could make a noise, they’d drown out the sickening rhythm of your own pulse. (But they don’t, of course, they’re only thoughts, so you’re forced to listen to everything and think everything and just keep on crying.)
The gentle creak of the couch and the gradual sink when someone seats themselves next to you startles you into hiccuping, a few of the tissue balls rolling off of your legs onto the floor. Slowly, you turn to face whoever it is and see Sans, staring down at the tissues on the floor. He glances up to you, that perpetual grin on his face, though something about his expression strikes you as incredibly sad. Sensing that he’s about to talk to you, you take in a deep breath and try not to sniff or hiccup, with questionable success.
“hey, kid.” Though you just tried to prepare yourself for something, a lecture, a barrage of questions, you still tense up when he speaks. It’s stupid--when he talks, it’s gently, softly, not a hint of accusation in his voice. “you okay?”
Now that’s a question. The two words take some time to work over in your mind before you can even begin to think about answering. Your first instinct is to nod, but that’s obviously not right, you’re not okay. At the same time, bringing yourself to shake your head, to admit it, isn’t simply difficult, it’s impossible. You pick the safe route and shrug, looking away from Sans.
“yeah, that was a stupid question.” In the silence after he speaks, you try to riddle out what’s coming next. Maybe he wants you to sign something, but before you even try to move your hands you stop yourself. They’re shaking too hard, and you hate that. If you try and sign anything you’ll end up crying, and nobody wants that.
So you nod, and make a noise that’s a poor attempt at a laugh. Sans catches your eye and seems somewhat pleased. “you want to talk about it?”
The thought of telling him about it makes your whole body freeze up (again). Emphatically, you shake your head no.
“can i ask you something then?” Apparently taking your pause for a ‘yes,’ or an optimistic ‘maybe’ perhaps, he goes ahead anyway. “you know what upset you?”
Not really, you try to put into your shrug. You’re not sure how well you get it across (you’re no expert at shoulder communication), but Sans seems to understand you well enough.
“was it what she was saying?”
As you begin to shake your head no, you stop. Not--not quite. More slowly, uncertainly, you shake your head no.
“...is that a no? you gotta be clearer, kid, i’m not a mind reader.”
You compromise and shrug.
“feel up to talking yet?”
Not yet.
Sans doesn’t seem entirely sure what to do now. An uneasy silence falls, heavy and cloying like your choked-up throat that keeps you from talking, keenly uncomfortable like your shaking hands still, still in tight fists. It’s with great difficulty you lift them from your lap, stretch out your fingers, begin to move them properly so you can finally say something.
“I--” you sign with your hands shaking, straining not to cry, not again, then take a deep breath and continue on-- “I don’t know.”
And then, despite all of your effort, you sniff. After the sniff you feel your eyes starting to get damp again and within a matter of seconds more tears are falling down your face, salty water getting in your mouth. You rub at your eyes desperately and try to stop, stop crying, stop being a baby. It never works.
Logically Sans’ shoulder should be bony, but his jacket is soft and warm and you really couldn’t care less at the moment. His right arm trapped in your grip, he raises his other arm and gently pats your head.
“it’s okay, frisk,” he mutters, and even as those words encourage you and fill up the empty despair in your chest, you feel like some greater, heavier sadness hangs over you two. You don’t stop crying for a long time.
*~*~*~*
It wasn’t a lie, when you told Sans “I don’t know.” No one ever accepted it, but that didn’t make it a lie.
Of course, there’s a reason why you got so upset. Of course, you didn’t start crying just because your eyes were feeling a little dry. But whatever that reason is, you just can’t wrap your head around. As far as you’re aware, no one’s capable of reading your mind. Sometimes you don’t understand it either.
As far as lectures go, Toriel’s barely qualified. She spoke to you very gently over dinner and patted your hand and you nodded along and told her yes, okay, and meant it, but somewhere along the way you just--
You just started crying, and it was wrong, you were wrong, and you just didn’t know why. You couldn’t even make up any stupid reason to console Toriel when she asked you, genuinely concerned, you just kept on crying and choking and you couldn’t think of anything to tell her. She was so worried. She didn’t do anything wrong.
(But then why were you crying? She must’ve done something.)
(Toriel didn’t do anything wrong, though. That’s ridiculous. It’s just you. It was always you.)
(It was always you.)
*~*~*~*
“hey, frisk?”
“Yes?”
“you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but i was wondering… why’d you climb mt. ebott?”
“...”
“i get it, that was--”
“There’s a legend about the mountain. Those who climb it never return. I wanted to find out if the legend was true.”
“did you want it to be true?”
“I don’t know.”
*~*~*~*
Standing at the base of the mountain, looking up, you can tell that it's going to be a long journey. Your feet are already sore, but you can't really bring yourself to care all that much. There's a sense of unfamiliarity and disconnect when you look down at yourself. The dull throb of pain exists at the edge of your consciousness, barely perceptible. Inhaling slowly, you rock from foot to foot.
You start to climb.