Work Text:
There is a certain duality, triality, multiplicity, maybe, to your brother.
Some sort of nuance, yeah, you'll call it that. There's a nuance. He's scatterbrained and held together all at once. He has no real aspirations, but he has more jobs than you can count. All of which he seems equally invested in— which is not at all.
You don't get it.
How can you devote yourself to so many things at once. How can you oh so willingly go on with life knowing you'll amount to nothing!
…
No, that's too harsh, even for your brother. Lazy as he is, he does his best. His best isn't quite good enough all the time, but he does try. He tries really hard!
He's still weird, though.
All of his hims are weird.
And yes, you are categorizing them like that. Hotdog Sans, telescope Sans, at home Sans— there's more, you think, but you will categorize it like that. The differing brothers you have that all love puns so much you want to tear your hair out.
You don't have hair.
If you did you would be tearing it out.
So instead you look at your brother, sprawled on the couch, and simply ask him how the jobs going.
"Which one?" Is the simple reply you are given as he tilts his skull back to look at you.
"Whichever," You curtly answer back, tone sharp.
A hum. "Dunno. Why don't you come ask me when I'm doin' it. I'll definitely know then."
"Sans!"
"What?"
"Oh. My. God! You are so annoying."
He laughs.
What a dick.
-/-/-/-
Sans the Skeleton does not answer to his name all too often.
It's more the tones of the voices that he answers too.
The lady behind the door, his brothers, Undyne's— it's easier like that. Names are too hard to memorize, even if ya only got the one. 'Sides, he can tell a lot more about who it is and what they want right off the bat if he's focusing on how they say it, not what they say.
So he answers to the tone.
The distinction makes enough sense to him that he doesn't care to try and explain it to anyone outside of his skull.
-/-/-/-
Sans doesn't remember the time you spent with him down below.
Which, you wish he didn't. Lucky bastard. Ha ha.
He isn't lying about it either.
No, no he actually earnestly doesn't remember.
You try to jog his memory, desperately. And he repeats himself, he doesn't know what you're talking about. At all.
That's fine. It's fine fine fine—
He agrees to get you kibble though, because you need it for some reason he really doesn't understand. You're his friend though, right? Friends help each other out, so he'll help you out.
He also really urges you to not talk about it. Says it makes his head hurt. So you don't talk about it anymore. He also says that if it did happen and he was part of it, he didn't mean it.
You're not sure if it's a comfort or a discomfort.
-/-/-/-
"So," You start, leaning on the counter of the hotdog stand, sarcasm thick, "Hows work?"
Sans hums along, "Works great."
"Made any sales?"
"Yep."
"What?!"
"What? You really think no one would buy hotdogs? They're a hot commodity, Paps."
"Hotter than the telescope."
"Way hotter," Sans states. "The telescope's pretty cold, speaking of."
"Your shift isn't over—"
"Eh, I'm not well suited enough to be a hotdog seller."
Confusion twists up in your body. But he. Sans. You. What is up with him?
And he leaves before you can ask any further questions.
-/-/-/-
You are Sans, Sans the Skeleton.
And so is he.
She is too.
They're all inside of the same skull as you that they answer to the same name.
It's that simple.
He likes the cold of snowdin. She likes the heat of hotland. And you like the humidity of waterfall. It all works out nicely.
'Specially cause everyone likes puns, really helps keep it under wraps when you can all crack a really bad one to get on your brothers nerves.
You wonder if your brothers noticed yet.
…
Eh.
Who cares.