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It’s dark in his room. Almost darker than dark.
He watches the shadows dance across the chipped paint of his walls, sockets drooping with the effort to keep open. If he lets them close, they may never open again.
That’s not a thought typically capable of worming its way into his skull.
Things were different, before they moved here. He had tried, tried so very hard. Despite Sans always being a social monster, Papyrus knew deep down that his brother needed him to try. His moods would sometimes render him utterly bed-bound; in a state where leaving his room would feel like stepping into hell itself. Sans was so strong, but Papyrus knew that his brother needed him to be strong enough for both of them. His hollow praise and feigned pride almost worked- almost lifted him high enough to reach the stars.
Almost.
He did try. Every single day. There wasn’t a person in their old town who didn’t know how hard he tried. He had dreams. Ambitions, goals, things that meant something. He could be a little overzealous at times, he’d happily admit that, but it was all part of the show. Part of the act.
If he simply wasn’t good enough to achieve these things, he could damn well act like it. That’s the least he could do for his brother. Sans had given him so much, given him his entire life, and what was Papyrus supposed to do? Accept it? Simply let that sacrifice go unnoticed? Continue to suck every drop of energy, time, money out of his older brother, like a parasite? The guilt gnawed at him like bedbugs; chipping away at his demeanour until the cracks were too big to ignore what lay beneath. Something ugly. Something disgusting. Something so needy and so dependent that it may just shrivel up if left alone.
The way Sans would look at him when he’d get up early to train, or come home excitedly shouting about a new recipe, the pride, the almost overwhelming hope that radiated from his eyelights, that almost made the guilt dissipate.
Now all that his brother looked at him with was pity.
He couldn’t blame him. He used to be something good. Not great, no, never great. But good enough. Good enough to stand tall for them both on Sans’ bad days. Good enough to lift his brother up and keep him from drowning. Nowadays, he’s more a husk. A zombie who stumbles around, seemingly content to watch the bubbles disappear as his brother sinks down. He should be better. He wants to be better.
It started slow. Papyrus had never been someone to lose hope, to lose who he was. He understood perfectly the role he needed to play. He was Sans’ anchor. He needed to be someone steady, reliable, someone capable of keeping his brother happy enough to function. The looks never used to bother him, because that simply didn’t matter when compared to Sans’ importance. He could be a laughing stock so long as it benefited Sans.
Then, one day, it changed. He had always been just a little too good at reading his brother. A look, that’s all it was. One little glance over to the crows of whispering neighbours, was enough for him to stop his monologue dead. The townsfolk may not have mattered, but if Sans thought he was too much…
Well. What was the point in trying? What was the point of working for a goal he was never capable of achieving?
What was the point of him?
Sans tried to talk to him. He could tell he was concerned. The first time he’d brought it up, with a lazy grin and a casual “you’re lookin’ bone tired recently, bro. feeling okay?”, Papyrus had almost been tempted to launch back into their familiar banter.
“SANS! OH. MY. GOD. IF YOU TRULY MUST USE THAT RIDICULOUS MANNER OF SPEAKING TO “CHECK UP” ON ME, AT LEAST PUT A LITTLE MORE… BACKBONE INTO IT! NYEH HEH!!!”
Again. Almost.
When, instead, he’d simply looked at his brother with sockets devoid of anything sentient; he’d noticed the way Sans’ grin twitched, just slightly, to form an expression nobody else would have been able to recognise.
Concern.
It oozed from Sans’ usually relaxed smile like oil, thick and scalding, almost ugly to look at. So, Papyrus didn’t look. He simply turned and went back to bed, getting halfway through a half-assed excuse before the door closed firm behind him. He didn’t fully register it. He felt like a passenger in his own body, just going through the motions. The last thing he wanted to do was shut Sans out, but he was incredibly tired. It was almost as if they had switched as the years went on.
Except even when Sans was tired, he worked and had the decency to keep up appearances. Just another place where Papyrus fell short.
There’s none of that old pride in Sans’ looks now; only that horrible concern, that suffocating pity. If Papyrus had any pride left at all, he’d force himself out of bed and do something just so he could stop being looked at like some kind of wounded animal. He just wanted to lay here and rot, what was so pitiful about that?
He can hear the front door close downstairs, the familiar shuffle of his brother’s slippers meeting the carpeted living room floor. It’s quite messy down there. He doesn’t do well with messy. If he could see it now, it’d probably make him sick- just another reason to stay right where he is.
Sans is coming up the stairs now. He hears the shuffle pause right outside his door, before a couple of soft knocks rap against his door. The knocks seem to be following a tune, likely trying to make him laugh; though it’s halfhearted, almost as though Sans knows there’s no point in trying. His voice comes next, the usual monotone with a sickening layer of tenderness to it that makes him want to either throw up or sob. He’ll likely do both later on.
“bro?” The voice says, “you okay in there?”
He doesn’t respond. If he does, Sans is sure to hear the cracks.
“i, uh, brought ya some oatmeal. thought it’d be nice for breakfast tomorrow, y’know? or right now, it’d be nice to eat together.” The voice gives a soft chuckle. “just one of the many perks of bein’ a janitor. don’t tell my boss- swear i’ll pay ‘im back at some point.”
Yes. He would love that. God, Sans is so funny. He loves his jokes. He loves his puns. He loves his brother. He doesn’t respond.
The shuffle comes back, left and right as though Sans is pacing, figuring out a next step. He pauses again. Papyrus hears a soft sigh of defeat.
“ok. maybe you’re sleeping. hey, can’t blame you, bro. don’t worry, i’ll leave ya to it. we’ll have it tomorrow. you can tell me all about your day.”
A moment passes, and he thinks Sans has gone to bed himself. Then, nearly inaudible, he hears one last mutter.
“i love ya, paps. ‘m right next door.”
He doesn’t respond.
He distantly hears Sans’ door closing, the house going quiet once again. He really hates the quiet. He wraps his arms around himself in a tight squeeze as he curls up; as if being small enough will make him disappear. He tugs gently at the covers of his plain, twin sized bed, and feels something wet drip from his cheek to the pillow below. He squeezes his eyes shut. He can almost pretend none of this ever happened. He’s not a disappointment. He’s not a failure. His brother still loves him.
Tomorrow is another day.