Work Text:
It is maybe ironic that Napstablook is a DJ, when they often can’t stand being around loud noises for too long. They’ll be fine for a while, but eventually it’ll be too much and every little sound will start to feel grating, like a ghost sandwich swallowed wrong and hurting against their insides before it dissolves.
In a world that’s never silent, this can be a problem.
Because the world is never really silent, even when other monsters might think it is. Napstablook can never understand how they don’t hear their surroundings. Napstablook hears it all: In Waterfall, it’s the waves lapping at the riverbanks and the rush when it falls into the abyss to who knows where, the echoing slap of boulders and trash falling with it, the whispers of the Echo Flowers, the conversations of monsters in the distance, the rattle of Undyne’s armor when she walks by and the many different melodies she plays on her piano, the rustle of grass, the splash of feet hitting water, the creaking of wooden planks above, the bells of the bridge seed puzzles, the somber song of a music box, the pattering of rain, the Riverperson passing by in their boat, bartering with Gerson, the shouting of Mad Dummy - It’s all there, always, and it’s entirely too much.
And this doesn’t change when they leave.
Hotland: The hiss of steam and the clanking of iron, the creak of the conveyor belt, the dull growl of lava, the crunch of boots on cracked earth, the metallic grating of the elevators, the hum of lasers and force fields, the groaning stomping clatter of the Core at work, and Mettatons voice in his many many shows.
New Home: Too many monsters talking, the noises of large crowds; breathing, walking, shifting, murmuring, eating, crying, sniffling, chewing, twitching. The gurgle of the filters in the aquarium, the echoes of monsters on the streets, the faint sound of birds from above - the quiet hum of the barrier.
Snowdin: The crunch of snow, barking, cracks and creaks of wood in the forest, the dull sound of snow falling off trees, children playing and throwing snowballs at each other, carols, the crackle of fire and the noises of a bar, glasses clinking together, silverware against plates, chairs scraping over the floor, loud conversations and laughter, one particularly loud skeleton on patrol, the snap of puzzles being reset.
The Ruins: The crinkle of leaves, the soft footsteps of people meticulously trying to be silent and ending up being very conspicuous, a quiet house where a lonely old woman snaps her fingers to light the fire for another pie, the clatter of her pots and pans, the rustle of the pages in her book when she reads.
All in all, the ruins are by far the quietest place.
They like to lie down there often, and pretend that it really is quiet, like everyone says. Some of their best pieces had originated in this place.
But it’s not the only possible place of inspiration.
When Napstablook holds still and is quiet - and they’re better at that than anyone else - they can sometimes hear order in the chaos. Rhythm in the cacophony. Beauty in the crudeness. Not always, sometimes they will listen and their head will start to hurt and they have to flee and find the safety of their home, or another sequestered place where they can press themselves against a wall and try to plug their ears until they stop feeling so overwhelmed that they want to cry.
They feel like that a lot, not just from noise.
But when it works, when they still and hear more than noise, when they hear music…
Then it’s worth everything else.