Chapter Text
Long ago, humans and monsters lived above.
Long ago, monsters became greedy and pushed the humansdown…down…down…
Time passes, and a tiny little monster with broken wings fallsdown…down…down…
Onto a bed of golden flowers and wishes unspoken.
The first thing they know is a word.
Determination.
The second thing they know is song.
There’s a soft humming, melancholy and a bit mechanical. It brushes gently against their thoughts, pushing them to wake. They flutter the little feathery appendages at the sides of their head for good measure, and finally open their eyes.
They wake to brilliant gold and the bitter scent of crushed buttercups underneath their trembling grip. Golden petals scatter all over; on the wool of their striped sweater, on the hem of their shorts, on the tousled strands of their brown hair, on the the delicately dark scales that cover their thin legs.
They try to bury themselves in what they feel in this moment, digging their clawed and feathered fingers into the loamy earth beneath the bed of flowers.
This leg is fine. That arm is okay. Little by little, movement by movement, they take stock of their mobility. And when they try to move their weighty wings, they feel it all then.
A sharp, lancing pain ricochets up their spine and makes their head throb and their wide eyes brim with tears.
“Ah…” They lament, fluttering the mass of ruffled feathers that lays heavily on them. They brace themselves and push past the ache to get into a sitting position.
The humming has stopped. All is eerily silent, save for the soft whispering of the wind through the crevice above them.
Mournfully, they raise their throbbing head to look at where they fell from. They weep; warm big tears rolling silently down their scratched and raw cheeks as they look up at a star strewn sky that is no longer theirs to have.
“D-don’t cry! Please…”
The reedy voice comes from somewhere behind them. Fear wracks their small form when they realize that they are not alone. They tremble again, vulnerable and fearful because they have never felt more alone than they are now.
Slowly…slowly…they turn their body, remaining on their knees to look at who is speaking.
It never occurs to them that their sharp little claws might easily be a good defense. They just weren’t built to think that way.
“A doll?” They breathe quietly, and curiosity drives them to move closer.
It’s an odd looking thing, certainly nothing like any of the monster dolls they’re used to. It’s wearing a striped green sweater and settled against a cluster of buttercups. It has a strange visage, smooth and pale.
They get closer, clawed fingers nearly touching the porcelain face when the tiny thing begins to wave. They yelp and fall back onto their arms, scrambling to get away.
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you!” He smiles widely. “Howdy!”
They remain silent, shock etched across their dainty features to the point of hilarity.
“Name’s Flowey. Flowey the Doll.”
With a few staccato movements, he stands stiffly. It’s a struggle, but he somehow manages, and his smile grows soft and welcoming in a way they hadn’t been expecting.
Flowey stretches out a tiny porcelain hand, friendly and encouraging and a little bit sad.
It’s the sadness that settles it for them. They reach forward with a shaky hand, and gently wrap their slim digits around Flowey’s in a show of goodwill.
“Frisk.” They say quietly, lips curling into a hesitant little grin.
And so it all begins with this and a whisper of determination echoing somewhere in their soul.
——-
Toriel is a kind SOUL. She is warm and she is sad.
She has forgotten patience and forgotten that sometimes to love means to let go.
Forgetting is a wonderfully, terrible thing.
It’s certainly blissful, in a way that Frisk never would have considered before falling down…down…down.
But Toriel has forgotten, and in her desperation to keep another innocent (her words, not theirs) from dying, she clings too hard.
“Stay here with me. You’ll be happy.” She says with a wide smile deepening the slight laugh lines that ring her pleading mouth. Her skin is unmarred save for this. She has dark, kind eyes that reflect the dim light of the Ruins with a shattered kind of pretty.
She’s strange and lovely for a human. Of course, she’s the first human they’ve seen outside of worn tomes and dusty legends, so it’s hard to judge.
Despite it all, the bandages wrapped around Frisk’s broken wings and their bruised torso are too constricting. The dead, heavy silences of Old Home are stifling. They want out.
Something in their thoughts whispers determination, and a new line.
‘You are the hope of monsters and humans.’
Frisk doesn’t talk about this to anyone. They spend a few days wandering the Ruins, clutching a silently encouraging Flowey to them with both hands. The whispered conversations they sneak seem to be the only thing that feels right.
They gather courage. And try for out.
“You’re just like all the others! So determined to leave. You’ll die.” Toriel shouts, grief and loss and forgetting-how-to-love make her dangerous.
Their red, red soul floats vulnerable, warm and earnest in front of them, but she is too blinded by memories to see.
Frisk tries to run, but all they hear is a despairing cry of warning from Flowey before they are burning.
(Pain…pain…pain…pain…is all they know.)
Flowey is gone from their grip, probably thrown haphazardly against one of the dark walls. There’s a nauseating smell, like charred flesh and burnt feathers.
They think they hear Toriel’s hitching sobs and they think they feel her soft cradling fingers on them before the black begins to edge in.
“I’m so sorry. What have I done?”
This is the last thing they hear before they die in her arms.
Forgetting would be a blessing. Forgiveness is all they know.
But they remember all too well when they wake in a dark, little room in a small bed with bandaged wings, and a worried Flowey slumped against them.
“A-are you okay?” He asks fearfully. He pats their side with a gentle questioning motion, smooth porcelain cool and real.
They are trembling again, wracked with the faint memory of burning feathers. There’s a phantom sting on the back of their neck…a dull ache that spans their left shoulder and tingles uncomfortably.
Slowly, they trace the sensation up their arm until they feel something smooth and disconcertingly thin. They poke at it, straining to see over their shoulder until they can make out gold in their periphery.
A buttercup sways jauntily with their erratic movements, sprouting from where they are sure Toriel’s fire had burned them to the bone.
“Oh…” Frisk lets loose a sigh of numb surprise, not quite sure what to think.
Out of habit, they rustle the feathers on their bandaged wings and pat the flower again to make sure they’re not dreaming.
“I…I think you died. I think that’s what it means.” Flowey ventures, trepidation and fear of this new development making him more nervous than anything. He moves rigidly, balancing himself against their side. He looks at the flower with severe distrust.
“It’s okay…we’re here. Another try…tomorrow… We can do this.” Frisk smiles gently, despite the memories that still rock them to their core.
Their determination is stronger. It rings loud and bright and clear like the sun or the stars they once flew against. The flower on their shoulder reminds them of it all, and they will take it as a sign of this gift of a second chance.
Flowey is stunned into silence, because it’s been a long time since he’s been included in a “we”.
And it’s been a long time since he’s been filled with such hope.
With Frisk so optimistically determined, he can’t help but look at the happy little bloom as a sign of good things to come.
So they try again.
Toriel has forgotten how to let go.
Frisk always remembers to forgive.
Flowey’s good opinion of the flowers is short lived as their number grows.
Frisk never fights. Toriel always…always loses control…forgets…hurts…clings too hard.
Flowey looks at her with the strangest regret sometimes, a warped nostalgia lacing his carved features. Frisk never asks about it, but they do feed him some pieces of snail pie when they get the chance.
They repeat the cycle.
Wake in bed, check the new flower, ask about snails, try to leave, spare, mercy, mercy, mercy, die, forgive
Finally, they dodge just enough times…speak enough times…forgive enough times that Toriel gives up.
They struggle to stand, tired and weighed down by the flowers sprouting proudly all over them, covering nearly the entire left side of their face. But they stand, clutching Flowey to them so tightly, that they can hear his sharp, little gasp.
Toriel is crying again, and this time her fire is out. She has that same look of shattered pretty in her eyes, and she moves to embrace Frisk.
“You are strong, my child. Determined and so…kind. There are monsters who will try and kill you. I can’t…tell you what to do. ”
Her worn fingers, just as gentle as the first time they died, brush back hair and petals and feathers to look at them fully.
“I’m sorry, my child.”
She whispers this into their ear as she pulls them close. She hides her tears in the lovely white feathers that edge the sides of their head and these same tears roll down…down…down… until they water the golden blooms that trace each and every hurt she has ever given her child.
“I forgive you.” Frisk says into her shoulder, burying their nose in the scent of the silvery hair that falls onto her robes. They relish the gentle kindness that comes from a love that is strong enough to let go.
And so…Toriel does just that.
The doors to the Ruins slam dishearteningly loud behind them. Flowey’s gaze is more glassy than usual. Frisk’s lower lip is shaking. But still…determination is stronger and they move forward, snow crunching merrily under their delicate avian legs.
“I’m sorry.” Still lingers in their thoughts, but it’s in the same voice that whispers about determination.
Frisk wonders what it all means.
“Hey there, Sweetheart.”
The deep, rolling voice comes from behind them, much too close for comfort.
Frisk turns around rigidly. The feathers of their wings rise the slightest bit due to a long held instinct. But broken wings are useless, and all they have going for them is the stick held in one hand and a living doll in the other.
Their thin nostrils flare in fear, the sharp scent of winter nearly painfully fresh. The snow is cold, but they think this human’s smile might just be colder.
Sans the human has a wide grin. One of his teeth glints a cheery gold that seems to mock them. The color in his eyes is a wavering red, without much conviction and without much menace. His skin is stretched at the edges of his smile, full of too much existential humor to be welcoming.
His calloused hand is outstretched in greeting. His other hand is tucked into the pocket of a voluminous black coat, resting just below where a scintillating SAVE star dangles from a gold chain. His shoulders seem to shake with mirth, but it’s hard to tell underneath all the white fur that rings the hood.
Frisk looks at him, warily, and clutches a quietly shaking Flowey closer to them. This catches Sans’ attention, and red eyes swerve to land on the porcelain doll that the little monster holds close.
His grin widens, and he shakes his offered hand again, beckoning.
“Don’t you know how to greet a new pal, Doll-face?”
The joke is forced. But it reminds Frisk of Toriel’s awkward humor and they find themselves dropping the stick to accept his greeting. Slowly, just like snow falling, they inch forward to shake his hand.
(Flowey whispers something…but their heart is thrumming so fast, they don’t hear him.)
Small feathered fingers are nearly swallowed up by the human’s larger grip. They have a total of half a second to register three things.
Flowey is shouting now. “DON’T TRUST HIM.”
Sans’ hand is very warm.
Electricity is a painful way to die, maybe more so than fire.
A current sweeps through them, rattling their teeth and drowning them in a flurry of hurt too much to fully feel.
The snow is cold against their cheek, but the human’s smile is definitely colder.
“Stupid kid. Don’t you know? I t ’s k i l l o r b e k i l l e d.”
The black edges in again, familiar and almost comforting. The last thing they see is the SAVE star shining like a wishful hope.
They take their time to wake up.
They shut their eyes tight, fold the feathers at the sides of their head over them for good measure. Then they press their palms into their sockets until they see starbursts and lament because those are the only stars they can see for now.
Their soft keening comes out as silvery chirps, sad and heartbreaking.
Flowey says nothing. He understands wanting to fall away into the dark. To sleep and let it be over, please…please…please.
But determination is strong again, and eventually the red behind their eyelids reminds them that out is waiting.
Hope of monsters and humans…
Frisk doesn’t understand, but it’s enough to make them dig their ineffectual claws into the damp earth and stand up shakily.
The bloom at their right hand is a bitter reminder that trust is something to be given sparingly.
“It’s okay. We’re here. No shaking hands this time.”
They smile tremulously at a worried Flowey. Then they gather him up tenderly, and exit the Ruins once more.
Sans is waiting. Sans is giving that same cold smile.
Instead of accepting his handshake, Frisk merely drops the stick in their hand to show that they mean no harm and nods their head in greeting.
It catches the human off guard, and his smile turns wry. He looks at the harpy and the doll with grudging admiration, and then he laughs bitterly.
“That’s kinda rude of you, kiddo.”
They say nothing, merely take in his appearance with a wide and wary gaze.There’s details now that they can fully take in. Odd little things like the skull-shaped mask strapped to the side of his head, settled against hair that is as white as the snow that crests the trees around them.
When Sans begins to move forward, instinct grabs ahold of them in a vice-like grip. They hop backwards, one step, two step. (Very much like a sparrow, flighty and scared.)
He passes by them, slipping the mask into its proper position. The wide grin on the skull is impossibly identical to his real smile, and it sends a frisson of fear down to their very marrow. Flowey shivers too, burying his head deeper into the warmth of Frisk’s shoulder.
“You’re gonna freeze if you stay out here, Sweetheart. There’s a town up ahead..”
When Frisk doesn’t move, but merely fluffs their feathers in fearful confusion, Sans shrugs.
“Suit yourself. No need to get your feathers all ruffled.”
The levity in his comment is jarring to say the least. He’s already killed them once, but again, forgetting can be a blessing. And it is one that sadly is not bestowed on Flowey or Frisk.
When he’s almost a dozen feet away, they choose to follow.
They cross a wooden bridge uneventfully, small enough to slip in between wide bars. Flowey is quiet in his anticipation and Frisk is wrestling with the fierce sense of self-preservation that wants to freeze them to their spot.
Sans stops abruptly. He turns to give a glance over his shoulder, red eyes winking from the dark holes in his mask.
“you should have been dead by now. as a sentry, it’s my job to kill any monsters that come this way.”
He chuckles darkly.
“but I guess…since you’re not so stupid, I’ll let you go for now.”
They don’t know if the strained smile they give him is from genuine gratefulness or a manic reaction to the fear rising and choking their words. All they know is that the flowers are heavy and that they really don’t want another one so soon.
Sans stalls for a bit and then seems to decide on something amusing, because he laughs a little harder. The sound is eerily muffled underneath his mask.
“now my brother, Papyrus…he ain’t so nice. he’s a monster-hunting fanatic. in fact, here he comes now. good luck, Birdie.”
They never get a really good look at Sans’ brother.
All they can really make out is a tall, lithe form. Sharp shoulders cutting a dark silhouette against the bracing white of the snow. A red scarf, tattered and flowing starkly against silvery hair. Cruelty and burning.
Then they die, red magic and long bones piercing them over and over again.
As they die, they wonder if Sans’ also has similar abilities. It would certainly explain the mask and the jokes.
Mundane thoughts are oddly comforting when they’re choking on blood.
———–
Papyrus has forgotten how to be merciful. Sans has forgotten how to care.
Still, Frisk tries again and again, until the flowers have climbed their way down their left shoulder and claimed spots on their wrists and on their wings.
Frustration makes them want to shout and trill. Flowey’s pitying remarks add a little to their discomfort. His apologies are met with kind, but tired denials.
When they finally find the strangely shaped lamp on the side of the road, it’s with much exasperation.
The conversation they overhear is amusing. They have to press their hands to their mouth to stifle their laughter, despite their fear.
“this job isn’t easy. i’ve been putting my incredible monster-hunting skulls to good use.”
They hear hard plastic being tapped lightly, most likely Sans pointing to his mask to reinforce his joke.
“SANS!”
And then just like that, it’s over.
They slip out from behind the lamp, grateful that their white feathers blend in so well with the snow. Frisk thinks that Sans looks a little shaken up, despite the wide smile still plastered onto his face. They recognize fear…better than anyone. And even if he’s killed them once before, pity stirs in them when they look at the trembling edges of his lips.
They have always been expressive. And the pity beams like lamplight (ha ha ha) from their large eyes.
Sans seems to resent this. He clicks his tongue, and points ahead.
“Snowdin is just past there. Do what you want.”
He turns to leave but is stopped by a quiet-
“Thank you.”
For a second, his smile slips and then, he is gone. Lost somewhere between the flurries of snow.
Snowdin is quaint.
The houses and businesses are set in neat rows, edges softened with piles of snow and glowing cheerfully with brightly colored lights.
It’s almost jarring just how much the atmosphere clashes with the demeanor of the humans that reside here.
They come in all shapes and sizes. Some small enough to just reach Frisk’s hip, some towering high over them. But they all, save for a few children, have the same look of bitter hopelessness.
Magic sustains them, has warped the humans until it isn’t strange to see small things that give away the nature of their abilities on their person.
Here a woman with leaves in her hair. There a man with a sharped-toothed smile. A child with yellow scales that run up their neck.
Things like this make it a little easier for Frisk to blend in.
Magic also gives the air here a strangely poignant feel.The pervasiveness of it all makes their feathers stand on edge. It’s akin to static, disconcerting and alien.
Frisk is torn between awe and wariness. Flowey is just as scared, and together they curl up in the dark little room of the inn, dreading the morning. Despite it all, they try to remain hopeful. They have second chances at their disposal.
“Maybe tomorrow.” They venture quietly.
Something whispers ‘Stay Determined. ‘
There’s a word that floats on the slight wind…Angel…They don’t know what it means, only that the sentiment it carries is ambiguous at best. Magic with malice is never a great combination, and Frisk feels the villagers’ gossip crawling down their back. Settling between golden petals and pretty feathers.
But the gold is enough to remind them of out.
(Flowey says the gold reminds him of the sun. Frisk refrains from asking how long the doll has spent in that bed of flowers under an unreachable sky.)
They keep going. The snow seeping in wet and icy through the same slightly musty sweater as always. They are cold, but they move their still aching wings to shelter their sides and Flowey a little better.
Beyond the edge of the town, there is hardly any relief because the snow grows much thicker. A fog rolls in from seemingly nowhere and beyond it, there’s a splotch of red.
Their heart quickens, racing faster and faster at the thought that Papyrus has returned so soon.
“Where you flying off to, kid?” Comes a familiar baritone.
And soon, they can make out a thick, stocky outline and a wide smile.
The SAVE star glints bitterly in the dull glow of the snow and Sans adjusts himself on the large boulder, leaning back against it in a show of lazy curiosity.
“Out.” Frisk answers politely, still unsure what to expect from this strangely uncaring human.
Sans’ smile grows large.
“Even if you used those,” He points to somewhere behind them, “ you wouldn’t be able to pass the barrier.”
They frown in contemplation. Flowey’s eyes widen in surprise, realization striking him when before he had been filled with blind expectation. He knows what has to happen if they intend to cross.
The silence stretches, strained and frigid.
Frisk seems to mull over a response, their full lips thinning as if they are tasting something foreign for the first time. Eventually, they give a tiny little trill in satisfaction
“I think I’ll just wing it.” They finally answer, a strange humor lacing their quavering voice. Their self-deprecating hum curls into warm condensation as they speak.
Sans answering’ laugh is low and unexpected. It seems cruel and blunt, reverberating from the naked tree branches and ringing with disbelief. And yet…
“Papyrus has some traps ahead. You should try and figure them out before he comes back.”
They’re one death away from losing the sight in their left eye, but still they try their best to gaze at Sans from underneath the cover of the buttercups. The look in their eyes is earnest, bright and clear.
“Thank you.” They tell him a second time, and grasps a petulant Flowey closer to them as they make their way forward.
“He doesn’t deserve your gratitude, Frisk.” mumbles the doll, his voice growing fainter as the pair walks away.
Sans doesn’t turn around to stare after them, but clutches at the golden star around his neck. It eventually gets cold enough, that he digs his chin into the folds of his large black scarf.
He struggles to understand.
Frisk discovers a way to tuck in their wings neatly beneath their sweater. It helps a little with their disguise and makes trekking through the village that much less harrowing.
Flowey gives a tiny sigh of disappointment because it is much colder without them, but he understands. He settles it by perching on their shoulder, just beneath their tufts of hair and the feathery appendages where ears would be.
The days pass by in a blur as incomprehensible as the weather.
Eat breakfast, leave the inn, check the puzzles, come back for the night.
They manage to solve a few, partly by thinking and mostly by sheer dumb luck. (And stomping in frustration for some of the way.)
The Dog guards are perhaps the hardest part. Petting doesn’t seem to work at all. Play is all but ignored. Their best shot is dodging and fleeing when they can, with a strongly clinging Flowey flapping behind them, utterly undignified.
Somewhere in the third week of respite, they skid across the icy path of a puzzle and run into Papyrus.
They catch a glimpse of glinting red eyes before bones materialize in the air around them. They’ve learned a bit from before, dodging one, then two, then three strikes.
“Keep going, Frisk! You can do it!” Flowey cheers, hopeful and holding on desperately to the collar of their sweater.
A misstep, and an attack pierces through their thin left leg, snapping it with an audible crack.
Pain…black…awake…I’m sorry.
The golden flower looks starkly pretty against the dark scales of their dainty little foot.
“It’s okay, Flowey. Maybe tomorrow.” They say cheerfully, their smile wide and too bright to be real.
Flowey doesn’t say anything…he cries himself to sleep that night, looking at the flowers that ring their head.
They skip breakfast.
Leave the inn, find Sans.
It’s different this time. This is an iteration-
He’s not on the boulder. Instead, he’s standing in front of it. Hands tucked into his coat, a lazy smile etched onto his face. His mask is back to the side of his head.
He’s expecting them.
“Still winging it, Birdie?”
Frisk quakes, cursing their erratic heartbeats and nearly mind-numbing fear. Their words stopper their air. Their breaths are shallow and quick, but for some reason, they are filled with Determination. Their toes dig into the snow, clawing to brace them against an onslaught of adrenaline.
They raise their head to look at Sans’ red gaze, and meet his challenge.
They shake their head and then ask-
“Can you sparrow a moment? I have a question.”
Sans’ eyes widen, and momentarily they are pleased to see the smile freeze on his face.
(Score 1 for Birdie.)
Flowey’s giggles reverberate quietly in their chest as he stifles them into their shoulder.
The same low laugh as before echoes before them, and this time Sans’ has to take a moment before responding.
“That was good, Birdie. Alright, I’ll bite.”
The dim lighting of the forest does nothing to obscure the shine of the sharp teeth in his mouth, and Frisk wonders if he’s really serious or not.
(They hope not. They’d probably taste like chicken, in all honesty.)
“When does Papyrus come back?”
Sans crosses his arms and makes a show of trying to remember. But his deviation has given him away. He is not blessed with forgetting.
“Tibia honest,” His gaze flickers with dark humor to the flowers sprouting on their left leg. “I don’t know. Three out of four weeks, he’s in Waterfall doing patrol. He only comes here for food and sleep.”
Frisk frowns slightly, matching up previous encounters with this confirmation of the patterns they had observed. They accept the information with a grateful smile. It just barely crinkles their good eye, and Flowey’s scoff is muffled as they press him closer to their sweater.
“Thank y-”
Sans moves before they can finish the thought. His amusement is filled when he sees how jittery he makes the little monster. They stop in their tracks, avian feet bouncing nervously, at the ready to hop back a few steps should the need arise.
“Relax, Tweetheart. I just wanted to invite you to eat. Ever been to Grillby’s?”
His question is friendly enough, but the memory of painful electrical currents rattling their teeth is still fresh. Unfortunately, their stomach chooses this time to remind them that they haven’t eaten breakfast and the thin growling breaks the tension.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Sans laughs, full and a little less cold. He offers his hand again, and this time Frisk does jump back…one step…two step.
“Don’t trust him, Frisk. Let’s just go.” Flowey hisses, but it’s loud enough for Sans to overhear.
“I’m not toying with you, this time.” Sans looks pointedly at the Flowey doll, a lazy curiosity lighting up his red gaze.
Flowey glares right on back, his glassy eyes narrowing as best as they can.
Frisk’s head is spinning with the dangerous humor that seems to have fallen over the situation. For one part, the mortification of their hunger noises has not died down, for the other the puns were just too much…
They chance a dubious look at Sans’ hand, and he raises his brow as if to ask ‘seriously?’. He sighs dramatically, as if he’s accomplishing some Herculean task. Then he pulls back his dark sleeve a bit to expose…nothing. Just skin and freckles dotting their way up.
Still, Frisk takes a middle course and simply falls into step with him, refusing the hand once more.
They trio trudge their way through the snow, a temporary truce lingering between them.
The warmth of indoors is much welcomed. The frigid nature of the atmosphere is not.
The inside of the small pub is spanned with richly colored wood, smooth and cared for. The tables are spaced fairly well and while very crowded, the clients tend to keep to themselves.
When Sans enters, he receives a few nods of acknowledgement, a few of disdain, but not much else. The low hum of dreary conversations resumes almost at once.
Frisk is torn between relief and sadness at the whole affair. It’s such a shame that a lovingly cared for establishment doesn’t have the cheer it deserves.
The bartender/owner/sole employee is fairly ordinary looking for a human. He has wildly curling hair that sways like fire and shifts between blue and purple hues. He polishes a glass with a clean rag, taking care to keep it away from his sharply tailored vest.
Sans seems to know him well, because he greets him with a casual-
“Hey Grillbz. Two of the usual.”
Grillby nods, but his face is otherwise expressionless behind his glasses.
They settle on seats towards the end of the bar, with Flowey plopped unceremoniously on a third stool all by himself. The silence while they wait is much welcomed.
The usual, much to Frisk’s surprise and Flowey’s disgust, seems to be freshly made French fries drenched in mustard.
“You want some, kid?” Sans asks, waving the yellow bottle in the air between them.
Frisk avoids wrinkling their small nose, choosing to shake their head politely to refuse. Flowey simply mutters about humans with poor taste.
Sans shrugs before proceeding to devour his own plate.
Frisk searches the bar for the red bottle instead, and are marvelously in shock when Grillby passes it to them without a word.
Their grateful smile is brilliantly blinding, edging into their good eye and golden as their flowers.
“Thank you.”
The color in Grillby’s cheeks blooms forth and seems to go all the way up to his wavering hair, changing the hues to something more maroon than blue.
Sans gives Frisk a strange look, bordering on angry confusion.
(He still can’t understand.)
“So…where are ya headed, Birdie? You say out, but…” Sans trails off, leaving many implications tangled into his statement. He wonders if they’ll understand.
Frisk’s smile drops, and the flowers on the left half of their face seem to wilt with their expression. They aren’t stupid. It all doubles back to the same thing. He hunts monsters. He won’t help them.
“We’re going out.” They answer, their tone probably the most determined Sans has ever heard them speak.
Then curiously-
“Don’t you want to go out too?”
“Yep. Why do you think everyone’s out to get you, honey?”
His tone is hopeless, playful and angry all at once. But their truce still holds for now, and he merely encourages them to finish their food.
Frisk later asks what exactly Sans meant.
Flowey explains.
“Seven monster souls…then they can break the barrier.”
“Is…is that what you want?”
“Does it matter? You’re my friend, Frisk. I want you to live. And for that, I would give up a chance to break the barrier.”
Their eyes brim with tears, a fierce tenderness and love for Flowey overwhelming them. Support and care…things so severely lacking and yet they’ve managed to find someone who offers it to them with no metaphorical strings attached. (Flowey has plenty of string. It comes in handy)
And then Frisk is gripped with an visceral need. To fly with Flowey, to feel the warmth of the sunbeams against their widespread feathers, to dip their toes into the ocean spray and trace the paths of the stars to find land.
Determination fills them, but just as quickly it is replaced by a deep sadness.
No one deserves to stay in the dark. Not even dangerous humans.
Flowey contemplates.
“Besides…maybe it’s better this way. Humans are…volatile. They hold onto things for so long and become consumed with so much anger, that they forget lots of things. I think…if they were free, monsters would be in a lot of danger.”
Frisk hums in thought. Something whispers-
Stay determined.
Another deviation. Their three weeks devolve into a week and a half without warning.
They’re solving puzzles again. The blizzard howls angrily, buffeting the doll and the harpy with stinging dashes of snow and hindering their progress across a rickety bridge with a multitude of death traps.
They die a few times. The flowers creep up their right hand.
Finally…finally, they get through after Flowey extends a few of his strings to pull them to safety. They both are tired, breathing heavily in the safety of the other side of the bridge. Flowey is slumped over against their neck, underneath the cover of their feathers.
Frisk ruffles their newly exposed wings a bit to shake off the excess snow. They have healed well enough to glide short distances and had come in handy for dodging a few of the suspended armory. They are exhausted, but happy.
The celebration is cut short when the blizzard breaks a bit, and just beyond the sheets of snow are two blurred silhouettes. Colors of red and black dominate the clearing.
“See Papyrus, I wasn’t just ribbing with ya. They’re here.” Sans points out languidly. “Now you can kill two birds with one bone.”
His posture is the same as always, slumped and apathetic. But there’s underlying note of pleading in his voice. He seems to have opted for wearing his mask again, but it’s not enough to hide the frequent glances he chances at his brother.
‘Approval. He’s looking for approval.’
The realization strikes Frisk with profound pity. It surprises them. They find that despite the thorny brambles of betrayal clawing at their chest, they can still find sympathy for Sans.
Flowey’s bitter mumbles of ‘I knew it. Don’t trust the smiley trashbag.’ are lost in the howling of the wind and the fear of the moment.
Pain is imminent.
“Die little monster.” Papyrus merely remarks before raising his thin hand to summon his attack. The red magic blazes agonizingly, and it sends out disconcertingly strong pulsations of murderous intent.
Yet Frisk finds that a new emotion rends them from their motionless state. A fierce iron hot grip of anger and Determination courses through their every sinew.
They don’t think.
They hold a panicking Flowey doll closer to them.
They narrow their eye and hope that all their betrayal and anger and pity can be conveyed with a single glance at Sans.
And then, their wings flare, aching and slightly misshapen with a few flowers.
They fly.
“Bothersome.” Papyrus grumbles before sending three bones after them. One through their right wing, one through their left. One through their soul.
They fall.
They have to wonder how it all looks mixed together…red blood and golden petals and white feathers on fresh snow.
It takes them a while to open their eyes again.
They press their palms into their eyes and fold their feathery appendages over them.
They can only see starbursts on the right.
Flowey says nothing. His apologies only hurt.
He presses himself closer to their shoulder on the bed, tiny porcelain hands smooth back their petals and feathers and hair in wordless comfort.
Determination is as silent as the dark.
He’s at the boulder again.
“Thank you.” They say, and this time they make sure to look at him fully on.
The gratitude in their gaze is gone. Instead, Sans can see the sympathy there…the understanding to prove and to fail and to succeed in something. And perhaps, in this world, Sans and Papyrus are heroes and Frisk knows this and takes it into account.
So they thank him, because despite his record, he’s still helped them sometimes.
The anger in him…the memories and the fact that he is being pitied by the most pitiful creature he’s ever met cause him to snap.
The roiling feelings of confusion and refusal and self-loathing all coalesce into an ugly bitterness.
“I don’t need your pity. What are you trying to prove?!”
Red magic, this time something intensely more volatile…more emotional…sweeps up the harpy and the doll.
They struggle.
“Frisk!” Flowey cries, reaching weakly for his friend as he floats higher and higher.
A sweep of a hand throws him against a nearby tree. The sickening noise of shattered glass rebounds through the forest.
With a pained cry, Frisk flares their wings in an attempt to escape. They reach, hands trembling out to where Flowey lies motionless in the snow. Tears rolls down their eyes, but they refuse to stop struggling.
An angry growl and soon their wings are pinned to the snow with bones.
“Think that being nice will get you out?! Think you can make us let our guard down and you can kill us then? ”
They can’t help the shrill, hacking caws that tear from their throat. It hurts so much. Flowey isn’t moving. They are scared. They are hurt. They can’t fly. Blood is pooling under them. Instinct makes them struggle against their bonds.
It seems like forever before they finally settle, their heart beat deafeningly slow in their ears. Sans is angry. Sans is waiting. Sans is wavering…they can see his raised hands trembling slightly. The red flare in his left eye flickers weakly...in…out…
The black begins to edge in. Sans is shaking. The need to reassure him is overwhelming. Before they pass out again, they gather enough strength to say-
“It’s okay. It’ll be okay. See you again…maybe tomorrow.”
A sickening crunch and they wake up again in the inn.
There’s a new flower too close to their right eye for comfort. Flowey keeps patting the edges of his perfectly smooth face, absently feeling for where it had caved in after impact with the tree. His breaths are shallow. They come faster and faster until he’s gasping and tears fall from his wide eyes.
“It’s okay. You’re okay, Flowey.” Frisk sing-songs melodiously. They gather him up tenderly, cradling his head to their shoulder and rocking back and forth.
They chirp a few bars of the song Flowey had been humming when they first met.
The tears plip plop onto their sweater. But still they keep telling themselves and Flowey the little white lie…
“It’s okay.”
They don’t say tomorrow.
They say thank you again and when he flinches, they offer.
“Grillby’s? I’ll pay.”
Sans is too stunned to do much when they voluntarily take his hand and lead the way back.
This trip to Grillby’s is awkward as all hell.
Deviations aside, Sans knows that they know that he know…confusing and irritating.
There’s also the intense feeling of self-disgust that writhes and wriggles just below the surface. He glances at the flowers, dozens and dozens swaying happily as they bounce through the snow.
Their hand on his is warm and…tiny…so small.
He loses count of how many times he’s opened and closed his mouth to say something. They don’t really look at him except for the occasional smile they dart his way.
“It’s a beautiful day, today.” They offer when the silence grows stifling at the bar. Small talk…good skies, they’ve fallen back on small talk.
Sans takes a moment and stares at the dark whorls that ring the pretty wood of the bar. Anywhere but at that piercing, terribly earnest look Frisk is giving him.
“Yeah…where’s your dolly? Did you finally outgrow him?”
They don’t miss the furtive glance he gives to the golden flowers sprouting gently from their head. Clever, a pun on two levels.
They can’t hope to match it, so they give a straight answer.
“At the inn.”
“I thought you wanted out, not IN.”
His tone is snarky, but broken. the pun is weak. The way he clutches at his SAVE star is telling.
Frisk merely laughs a little, and gently offers him the mustard bottle. They look around out of habit for the ketchup and light up brightly when Grillby hands it to them wordlessly.
“Thank you!” They cheer and proceed to draw a smiley face across their fries.
Grillby’s hair changes color. Sans gives a derisive snort.
“Why do you do that, Birdie?”
They glance up, surprised. They cock their head, pointing to their fries.
“No! Not that. Even if it’s pretty childish…” Sans corrects. “I mean…why do you thank people? You don’t owe it to anyone. No one here is gonna be nice to you.”
Frisk pauses for a bit and then proceeds to give a small smile.
“Can be rude…dont want or have to.”
Sans still struggles to understand, but something changes.
They die. Many times.
So many times that their entire left arm becomes covered in golden chances. They can barely move it and they alternate between Determination and Irritation and Sadness.
Sans doesn’t help them. But they try anyway, reaching for him when Papyrus pins them down.
They can’t stifle the terrible bird-like shrieks that come from them when they’re in pain, but they try to speak past them.
They even invite Papyrus.
“Out, want to come?”
It doesn’t work.
But they always hug Flowey closer and say “Maybe tomorrow.”
And something whispers “Stay Determined.”
“Do you think even the worst person can change?” Sans asks.
Without hesitation, without skipping a beat…
“Yes.”
And so remembering becomes a blessing.
Frisk and Flowey have another run-in with the brothers.
The snow is wild and cold, harshly stinging against their skin. Where the flowers grows, there is no sensation save for a tingling numbness…almost like the feeling of magic.
“Die little monster.”
They prepare for the pain, wings flared and at the ready to try and fly again. They fear that too many flowers and any aerodynamics will be too messed up to work…but it’s the only way they know how to escape. It’s all they’ve ever known.
Just maybe this time…a little higher, a little more strength…it fills them with determination.
But…the fight goes sour. The bones are at the ready to pierce them.
They’re trapped again, wings pinned to the ground, straining. But the red magic blazes bright in the corner of their sight. Flowey screams.
They screw their eyes shut, waiting for it…
There’s a terrible, wet tearing noise. And they open their eyes to see…
Sans…Sans facing them, arms spread out and his back to Papyrus. The horrible ivory that has pierced through him is smudged in inky dust. He’s grinning still, but oh is it fading fast. The magic burning in his left eye flickers…in and out…in and out.
One…two…three bones have impaled him.
“Fly away… Sweetheart…don’t make me egret this.” He chokes out, his body trembling…slowly…slowly breaking into dust. His humor…oh gosh…it’s the one thing he keeps even in the end.
They can’t quite hear him over a harrowing harsh keening noise or over Papyrus’ anguished scream…but…
They shake their head furiously, white hot blinding tears burn their scratched cheeks. Their mouth is open in horror…refusal…they refuse to let it end like this.
Sans’ eyes widen before he coughs out a laugh. He pitched forward, white hair falling softly over his eyes. He is reaching for them…his hand outstretched, straining.
They’re just about to reciprocate, their fingers nearly brushing his…then…
“I-it’s okay. S-see…you t-tomorrow then, Birdie.”
And then he’s gone.
The dust is all encompassing, stark black and staining the tips of their claws. A pile of it rests haphazardly underneath a black jacket and the skull mask. It’s all so horrendously quick…nothing left but ashes and dust and a stupid bird pun.
Flowey says nothing. He sits on Frisk’s shoulder, his jaw flapping open and shut.
Frisk realizes the keening is coming from them. They are crying. They are hurting. Oh it hurts as much as having their wings pinned down.
But They Refuse. Determination fills them within, corking their cries until they are only letting out soft chirps.
Papyrus’ steps come quickly, menacingly.
Frisk doesn’t have to look up to feel the rage, the sorrow…the desperation that wracks him.
“I’m sorry, Papyrus.” They whisper, kneeling and looking at the mask and the dust and the snow.
They welcome the red and the pain and the new flower because it means Sans is alive again.
“That was…different.” Flowey offers when they wake up again.
For once their claws aren’t ineffectual. They dig into the thin sheets of the bed deep enough to pierce the mattress. They raise their head, throat stretched and twined with flowers peeking sorrowfully from their sweater.
No sound comes with the tears.
Bile rises, because they remember black dust against snow…that stupid grinning mask almost mocking them. Papyrus’ loss.
Dust…humans are so fragile. They die…they are done. Nothing left.
Flowey says it’s because humans have been sustained by magic for so long…it is essentially all they are.
Frisk fights back the screams that threaten to rip from the bottom of their heart.
They didn’t want this. They didn’t want anyone to die for them. Anger and sorrow mingle darkly in their heart. Soon the small alarm clock rings the A.M and they start their day, wordlessly.
They offer a kind smile to Flowey, but their voice refuses to work. Only the barest of chirps comes out, and their emotion stifles all the rest.
Leave the inn. Find Sans.
Sans on the rock again, but he’s not smiling. He’s contemplative and when Frisk merely looks at him long and hard, he falls back on humor to break the tension.
“So…you were dying to see me that bad, huh?”
He rubs absently at the left side of his chest and abdomen where Papyrus’ attack had ripped through. His joke is in very poor taste, but he would do anything to get them to do something other than stare so blankly at him. He can’t read their expression and he wonders if he’s doomed to be a failure at everything he tries.
A self-deprecating laugh.
“Guess I can’t even sacrifice myself right, huh kid?” He whispers.
No answer.
He tries one more time, sliding inelegantly off his perch and landing with a soft thud in front of the monster. He offers his hand, fingers reaching…smile hesitant…
“Grillb-”
“How dare you!?”
They interrupt him quite loudly. The anger and the horror of dust on their fingers mingles with their voice. It cracks as they accuse him, laced with a soft screech that follows the syllables a bit eerily.
“W-what?!” He gasps, breathless because he’s never seen them so livid.
Their teeth are bared, and though duller than his, they gleam. Their good eye is narrowed, burning with feelings so riled up, his head spins. The feathers on their head and back seem to have risen high, making them seem so much larger than usual. Even their flowers are standing at full tilt, blooms unfurled fully and swaying accusingly.
They stalk forward, one step…two step…bird claws scratching against the ice fiercely.
“How. dare. you. How dare you die for me?!”
He backs up, each step of theirs reminding him of all the warnings. ( Monsters are violent…cruel…strong. Inhuman…they’ll tear you apart.)
But those are lies…
They stop a foot away. They drop their glare. Sink to their knees. Bury their face in their hands.
“I c-can’t…please…please d-don’t. ”
Their weeping is heart wrenching, twisting his gut and lashing thorns of sorrow through his reasons and his levity.
“W-Why?” He asks.
(Why does it matter? Why do you care so much? Why are you crying for me?)
Frisk’s sobs turn heavier when they remember Papyrus’ screams and his desperation and his anger. Maybe Sans hadn’t heard or hadn’t realized…but someone cared. Someone noticed when he was gone, apart from them.
They explain between hitching sobs. They pull their face from their hands, look up at him from the snow.
“You need to t-take care of yourself. Someone really cares about you, Sans.”
“I…I…”
He’s left without words. They’ve all seemed to have flown away, on the same wings that had swept him up in a zephyr of world-turning choices. All he’s known…all he’s worked for…all he’s believed…it’s all been wrong.
They say that monsters are vile. Say that they would rend you apart the first chance they got.
But those are lies…
He understands.
He clutches his SAVE star in one hand and helps them up with the other. His calloused fingers brush up against the golden blooms on their arm, marveling at their fragile tenacity.
He decides that remembering is a blessing.
“Tomorrow…meet me here, tomorrow.”
Stay determined.