Archive of Our Own

Kris has learned a few new things today.

First of all, the dyed lines on the floor are horribly uneven, despite having been redone last year. Second off, Susie’s throws are strong enough to give multiple students something one step down from a concussion. And finally, it may or may not be a common occurrence for extraterrestrial gods to be good at dodgeball. 

It’s not exactly difficult to hover near the court’s rear, even as someone with less of a care than them. They’ve just been snatching up wayward foam balls and tossing them to Susie, who’s been unapologetically sniping people left and right. 

The numbers dwindle quickly, but apparently not fast enough for the standards of a certain attention-deficit ball hog. They feel their foot tap impatiently, outside residue of puddles and mud having kicked in a squeak or two. 

They hardly register the shape zooming towards their stomach before their palms instinctually trap the ball, halting it in its path. Someone groans on the other side of the court, trekking over to the oh so full bench.

Then, they hear that echoing voice. It’s the one they hear over every other sound. The one they had previously wished they could claw out from inside their head. It’s falsely humble at best – egotistical at worst.

“Boom. I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m totally joining my school’s team after this. Do you think reaction time skills in games translate to real life? Probably, right?”

…yeah, maybe they still wish they could. But they’ll admit that it’s much easier to get along with the all-seeing and all-knowing when it does stuff in their place that they’d rather not do. Like dodgeball.

Doesn’t make it any less weird.

They’ve been following the motions embedded into their veins; into every twitch of their muscles. Just so it doesn’t look like they’re unwillingly dragging themself along the ground. Thankfully, their soul’s decided it doesn’t want to be the center of attention today.

It makes it easier for them to zone out. They’ve learned that being a puppet is somewhat okay when the puppetmaster doesn’t oppose everything they do.

Their head nearly snaps off their neck, just about dodging a sharp ball headed straight for their face. Ouch.

“Sorry! I, like, just saw it at the last–” The voice dissipates, returning with an exhilarated gasp. “Ooh, wait. Perfect opportunity right here. You see it?”

It urges their eyes to Temmie. She’s protectively hunched over her makeshift nest – formulated from a collection of different sized foam balls – shielding her eggs from danger. One’s appeared to have fallen over, to which she’s begun righting back up; her back to the court.

I see it.

“Oh yeah. You want this one, or should I?”

It’s not like they’ve wanted to throw anything for the past half hour. But they, for some reason, have come to appreciate the repetitive offers anyway. 

Go for it.

They feel a grin stretch on their lips; one that doesn’t belong to them. 

In what they comprehend as a second or two, their arm winds back – ball clenched hard between their fingers – with the motive to win. 

They hear the foam rip through the air, colliding with Temmie’s shoulder so impossibly hard that she’s sent flying over her nest, face-first into the glazed hardwood. They watch as eyes upon eyes whip to where it came from. They ignore them, like they always do. 

You almost missed.

Their eyes roll involuntarily. “I was trying not to knock her… stuff.”

A bit showoffish for an easy target.

“I was, uh… making a diversion for your buddy.”

Uh huh.

“Totally my intent.”

As if on cue, Susie knocks out both Catti and Jockington, taking advantage of the momentary shock. On Jockington, mainly. But he was so tightly winded around her that she had no chance to avoid Susie’s attack. 

“Damn,” a longing sigh leaves their lips. “I’ll never get over how stupidly strong she is.”

A stray ball rolls up to their foot. They pick it up, preparing it for ammo.

“I wonder if she could stop a hydraulic press. Like, if her hands were like Rupert’s drop.”

Rupert’s drop?

They sidestep, avoiding another vaguely red shape.

“Do you not know what that is? Oh, we are so watching some good ol’ hydraulic press compilations when we get home.”

You can watch your compilations. I’m going to bed the moment I step through those doors.

“No, Kris. We need to do it together–”

And the voice goes dead silent.

There’s another ball that narrowly zooms past their face. They could feel the wind splash across their cheeks. That would’ve been a definite hit – if it weren’t for the poor aim – considering the lack of forced suggested movement within them. 

They’re almost concerned for their soul. Almost.

You still in there?–

The voice returns tenfold. They stop themself from wincing. “Crap, okay my tater tots are ready– brb you’ll be okay without me, right?”

I… what?

“Okay, good– just hang tight, I’ll be, like, five minutes–”

And it’s gone. They can’t feel its presence.

Then, to their left, Berdly gets whacked in the stomach with a ball flying nearly as fast as the souls’. 

Susie’s already tearing up, palm shielding her face as she poorly hides her amusement.  “Pfft–”

And another voice floods their ears. One far more angelic than the soul’s will ever be.

“Sorry!”

It’s you.

With another ball tucked firmly under your arm, you use your free hand to cup your mouth, a sympathetic-yet-entertained smile spread throughout your lips. “I wasn’t really aiming for you; you just kinda got in my way–”

“Pshh!” The bird scoffs. “You were using far too much force for a children’s game! I demand a recount!”

“A recount? I–” You halt. They visibly watch the joy of your idea seep into your mind. “I was using just enough power to take down the strongest person on your team. I think I was justified.”

He’s obviously taken aback; only anchored to his normal demeanor through his ego. His wing splays across his chest, preparing a speech. “Well, I suppose I can make an exception when you’ve so valiantly spent all your brain power attempting to take me down!–”

Susie whips her ball at his leg, trying to avoid the distraction. “You’re out, dude. Go sit down.”

But she almost falls victim to the bait.

You’re already firing your ball halfway across the court. Susie stumbles; you miss her arm by a hair. She stares at you like you’re insane. 

And you’re shamelessly laughing. Not in a conceited way; more of an adrenaline-filled, disbelief sorta way. 

They can’t really say they’ve listened to more than a hundred voices in their life. The town’s small, and the people feel even smaller. Everyone always comes across as unbelievably happy, or unaware, or bored. Not that there’s anything really wrong with that.

They never thought it was an issue. Until they “met” you.

You felt different. Real.

They already knew of you. Hell, they’re pretty sure they’ve talked to you on multiple passing occasions. You looked up to Azzy a lot. It’s something they took note of, but never really acknowledged.

It was a random Sunday night. You’d spent a majority of the day with Azzy in their kitchen, studying like the nerds you two are. He liked helping you with your homework. 

They thought you’d have left already. It’s not like you’ve ever stayed past ten.

It was one in the morning. 

They had long prepared to sneak downstairs, finish off the rest of the pie that their mom had baked for your visit, but you were still there. Hunched over the table, surrounded by textbooks and your glaring laptop, pencil scribbling in your notebook like a madman.

You didn’t look up.

“Az?” You mumbled, voice laced with the longing of sleep. “Thought you went t’ bed.”

They debated not saying anything. Leaving you to talk to yourself in the dark. But they didn’t. Mostly for the courtesy of their brother.

“It’s me.”

You didn’t seem surprised. Still, your head struggles to turn. “Oh. Sorry. Should I go?”

You should’ve been gone, sleeping soundly in your own bed. They weren’t really sure what you were still doing here.

You phrased it as if frightened you were offending them. They offered you whatever reassurance they could muster. “No.”

“God, I…” you trailed off, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes. “...lost track of time. He said I… can– could hang around… until I finished. Call ‘im down if he… er, I needed help….’

Seems like you two were a lot closer than they thought.

Besides that, they didn’t think much of it – beelining towards the half-eaten pie tin. They’d much rather have a lack of audience, but you didn’t seem conscious enough to acknowledge them anyways.

And they heard a loud thump. 

You’ve faceplanted onto the table. Your back rose and fell with the grace of someone deep in the trance of slumber. They froze for a moment, debating what the hell they should do next. 

While they knew how horrible back pains can get when hunched over a desk table for too long (re: every nap they’ve ever taken at school), they also knew it’s none of their damn business.

They heard you let out a whimper of dissatisfaction. You weren’t asleep, but you weren’t awake, either.

…

You’re Asriel’s friend. And they trust him. 

They hesitantly approached your setup, peeking over your shoulder from a safe distance to read whatever you were working on.

You’ve been stuck on the same problem for who knows how long. Your blotchy paper cried to be replaced; pencil stains and eraser bits scattered across the surface.

They’re not exactly much of a tutor themself, nor would they consider themself to be any level of smart, but they could already identify what mistake you kept repeating. Evident from the faded, identical numbers that’ve chosen permanent residence on your page. 

Without thinking (because they’re rather tired, too), they snatched a wayward pen from your pencil case, ripping off a blank sticky note while skimming your textbook for the question info. 

After a minute or so, they scrawled on an equation – one similar to yours – and taped it to the corner of your notebook.

They tapped your shoulder. You lifted your head. “Try this one,” they offered. 

Your eyes followed their own as you skimmed their handwriting. Your gaze lit up in recognition. “Crap, you’re so right. I forgot to– fuck.”

They felt their stomach churn from the now one-sided awkward silence (one-sided because you didn’t seem to feel the awkwardness of it), and they immediately decided that they’ll have pie tomorrow. Y’know, instead of hovering over your shoulder like a weirdo.

They’ve already turned to leave when your hand encircled their own. Not their wrist. Their hand. Their fingers.

Their palms lit up from the contact.

You gave them a dazed, warm smile. “Thanks, Kris.”

They didn’t really know how to respond to that.

Their stare was trained on the couch. “Go to sleep.”

“Huh?” Your grip slackened.

“The couch,” they quickly corrected themself. “You can take it. If you want.”

Not that they have any sort of authority in this house to decide something like that, but they’re sure their mom wouldn’t mind. You seem to be one of Azzy’s friends that their parents actually like.

You laughed. It’s soft; warm, like your smile. “Thank you for the invitation. I’d be honoured.”

Your voice ripples through them. As if you’ve embedded yourself deep into their veins. 

You’ve woken them up much more than a coffee ever could. And yet, at the same time, they want to doze off, curling up into that sweet warmth.

“Guess you’re sorta a hypocrite, too, then?”

They’re taken aback. They didn’t let it show.

“Guess so.”

You started packing up your books under the guise of ‘doing it tomorrow’, to which they couldn’t help but stand there staring like an idiot. 

But you didn’t seem to mind. 

Once you were nearly done, you held out something small pinched between your fingers, offering it to them. They cupped their hands expectantly.

And a blue paper crane fell to their palms. 

“Also,” you shut your laptop. “Tell your mom she makes amazing pies. I could totally eat an entire tin unprompted.”

…

Yeah, you’re… something.

“I know,” they found themself saying.

You gave them a look. “You know?”

Yeah, that did not come off how they intended.

“I’ve done it before.”

“You’ve eaten an entire tin?” You giggled again, giving them an almost enamoured look. “You’re literally my idol.”

You went to bed not shortly after. They couldn’t sleep under the idea that you’re resting in the same house as them. Which sucked, considering they’ve never given you a second thought… ever.

Since then, they’ve heard you laugh a million times. And they’ll never get sick of hearing it.

You’ve never had a full conversation since. And to say they long for it would be a heavy understatement. In fact, it’s only gotten worse.

They don’t even know why you’ve caught their attention. For years. Counting, at that–

“I know. Total breach of your norms. You’re suppose to be the calm, mysterious character–”

Its voice snaps them back to the now. They debate trying to tune it out, but they’re immediately focused on Susie’s oddly subtle hand gesture.

They pass her their ball without a second thought.

Susie winds her hand behind her like she’s about to bat up a home run, aiming it straight for Snowy’s forehead.

He lets out an ‘UUF’ as the ball bounces off of him, curving up like a bridge's arc. Susie cheers prematurely. She doesn’t catch a glimpse of your pretty competitive smile. 

You begin to position yourself under the bend, catching her ball effortlessly. 

“Nice try, Suz!” You playfully mock, waving the ball in her direction.

“What?” She whips her head to you, to the audience, and finally, to Kris. “That counts?”

They shrug. They’re not an expert. 

“It does,” the soul answers with their voice.

The fact that it knows adds merit to their gods-are-good-at-dodgeball theory.

“Damn,” she pouts, trekking to the bench. “You better win this, Kris.”

And that’s when they realize they’re the last one standing on their team.

Goddamnit. 

Just watching your attention zone solely onto them makes them freeze in place. There’s a rush of adrenaline that emits from their soul. Knowing exactly what’s about to happen, they try to shut it down.

I’m letting myself get hit.

“No way am I gonna let that happen, Krissy. We’re going to win! Screw your little ‘angel’!”

Their eyes widen in realization.

You didn’t even leave, did you?

“Mmh, yeah I did.” Cockiness pulses through their fingertips as it reaches for a new ball. “But the tots needed an extra minute, and I couldn’t just interrupt your recollection of your little meet-cute. Literally. My screen was bombarded with a flashback cutscene.”

Whatever that means.

They’re harshly yanked to dodge your fast ball. They hear it collide with the back wall with a loud smack.

“Damn. That one’s not holding back.”

The corner of their lip drifts upwards. You never do.

The soul casually aims for Snowy’s feet. But at the last second, they jerk their arm to mess with the line up. 

Sadly, it still hits the snow bird’s stomach, launching through the air in a similar fashion as before. Deja vu rushes past them.

They can feel the soul’s frustration. “Hey! Who’s side’re you on, traitor?!”

They wish they could give it a look. Do I have a choice?

“I–” it hesitates. “Eh, I guess not.”

You’ve lined yourself up to catch the ball once again, but the soul doesn’t seem to be nervous. Instead, it directs them to snatch up another foam weapon. They mindlessly line up another shot, sniping their air ball before it lands in your hands.

Snowy’s actually out, this time.

You and Kris both share a stare of absolute shock. Although they hide it better, you recover faster.

“Showoff,” you challenge as your eyes narrow, preparing another ball for attack.

“Ooh, you’re gonna like this one,” they hear from within them. “A certain someone’s impressed with our trickshots.”

They feel their cheeks flush.

Those aren’t your thoughts to read.

“I can’t help it. They’re just so readable. And besides, I know you like hearing it, too.”

I don’t.

The court turns into a drawn-out back-and-forth of shooting and dodging. They’re practically dragged across the court, now uncaring of appearing like a dead ragdoll. 

It isn’t until you visibly start slowing down that the soul decides to strategize. At least, that’s what they think it’s doing.

The determination in your eyes dwindles as their arm launches the fastest ball all period. 

Your reaction time has slowed extremely. You obviously panic – unsure if you’re able to move in time – and you end up lashing your own ball at theirs.

While you successfully hit their ball to the ground, yours is now airborne, floating in their direction like a ticket to victory.

And, of course, the soul doesn’t struggles to catch it.

They watch your face crack for a moment, into one of disappointment. You’re about to meet their gaze, when Susie lets out a, “YEAAAAHHHHH!!!”. It’s so loud that the noise bounces off the walls. 

While their team (following Susie, of course) comes to congratulate and celebrate the win, they’re not too interested in the fanfare. You’re the one they can’t stop watching.

The way your chest rises and falls with each of your large breaths. The way you seem to calm your nerves and accept the loss. The way you offer a giddy thumbs up to your still benched, but proud, team. 

“You’re right. Let’s go over there!”

Their mouth falls open. No.

Thankfully, their team’s chatting amongst themselves. Makes it easier to not notice the way their feet awkwardly drift across the floor in an attempt to stop moving at any cost.

As soon as they’ve breached the circle of monsters, you instantly spot their approaching figure. Fuck.

“I’m helping!”

You’re helping me look like a psychopath.

“You’re so pessimistic! Just watch us.”

They awkwardly skid to a halt in front of you. You’ve not once broken eye contact; an amused yet curious look in your face. 

“Good game,” they hear themself say. “You didn’t have a chance against me, but–”

They bite their lip. Hard.

Mirth nearly escapes them. Not their mirth. 

They’re about to strangle their goddamn soul so hard it pops.

But your smile only grows bigger, displaying your pearly whites. “I know. With moves like those, I was destined to fail.”

You inch forward, closing the distance ever so slightly. 

“And to get me out with my own move?” You tilt your head. “I’m starting to think you’re copying me, Dreemurr.”

They can’t help but break your staring contest. “Don’t say the C-word too loud. It’s Berdly’s trigger word.”

“Yeah. Right behind ‘stupid’ and ‘moron’.”

“And B+.”

You outright laugh at that one. They swallow it up on instinct, committing every twitch of your face to memory. They can’t remember the last time they’ve been so close to you.

“Well,” you breathe, the remnants of your joy still evident in your tone. “Good game, Kris.”

They love the way you say their name.

“Oh my god,” the voice squeaks. “Okay– okay, now hold out your hand for a friendly handshake.”

They definitely do not want to do that. But their hand goes up anyways.

You take it casually. Because it’s a casual gesture. Very friendly, as the soul had described.

Your hand is bigger than they remember, but it’s still warm, soft, just as it was that one night–

“Now get down on one knee and ask to get married–”

They have to lock their knees to stop them from bending. But they’re more focused on not squeezing your hand out of pure anger.

“How ‘bout a hug?” It suggests in compensation, sounding rather manic. “That’s casual, right? It’s perfect! Just–”

They robotically release your fingers. “I should go,” they strain themself to say.

“Probably,” you say as your competitive smile returns. “Looks like Alphys is ready to set up round two.”

Yeah, right. Like I’m going through another round of that.

“Oh, we’re going through another round of that!”

They do a 180 – ignoring the way your confused expression leaves an odd pang in their chest – ready to rip their soul out for the next week.

“That’s not very nice.”

You’re a pain in my ass.

“You can’t say that to your best friend, Kris.”

Not my best friend.

They try to ignore it, hovering near the benches until further notice.

“Right, of course. I’m about to get you your new best friend.”

A pause.

“I’m winking. You can’t see it.”

…

“I’m talking about your crush.”

Not my crush.

“Your future lover?”

What the hell is wrong with you?

“Everything, Kris. Everything.”

~*•*~

It’s difficult to understand. What makes you so enticing in their mind?

Sure, you’re objectively pretty. It doesn’t really matter to them; their perception of normal and abnormal is so unbelievably skewed because of their constant imposter syndrome. 

They know you’re hardworking, strong, determined. But besides those (rather vague) descriptors, they know nothing about you.

You laugh a lot. You’re always radiating warmth, despite maybe being cold-blooded.

“Y’know, you’d actually learn more about your angel if you, I don’t know, actually had a conversation more than once a year.”

Be quiet.

“Hey, hey! I’m just saying. I can move your mouth for you, if you’d like.”

They feel that all too familiar self-satisfaction rise from their soul.

Not talking to you.

“Well, I can’t really tell when you’re trying to talk to me.”

I never try.

“Kris… you’re going to make me cry.”

Its smile forces its way onto their face. They rub their lips back into a neutral position, hoping no one’s lifted their attention from Alphys to see the insanity.

You’re unbearable.

They can’t remember the first time they heard its voice. Sometime in the cage, the noise resonated against the walls. Seeped into their brain. Said something stupid, like ‘oh shit, you can hear me now? Wait, this is great! Wait, wait–’

“Okay. I didn’t sound that braindead.”

Through a rather heated back and forth, they learned it’s some interdimensional being from another world, tapping into the soul to interact with their universe.

Yeah, it sounded laughable. It sounds laughable. 

But what’s the harm in believing it? What do they have to lose?

It’s not like they think of it any better than they did before.

“Krissyyy.”

It lives in the soul. It can read their thoughts. It can read anyone’s thoughts. It proved that pretty quickly. 

“Why didn’t you laugh when I told you my name was ‘your majesty’?”

You’re not funny.

“I am funny.”

No.

“Laugh at my joke, Kris.”

No.

“I’m balling my eyes out, Kris.”

Great.

“Okay, I lied. My name is ‘your best friend’.”

Their lip twitches of their own accord.

Hello, ‘your best friend’.

“Fuck, I messed it up. Do ‘my best friend’–”

Despite its naturally aggravating nature, the night was spent talking. Over everything.

It was quick to claim that its intentions were never bad, despite the whole imposing on another body thing.

It felt bad, supposedly. Well, bad wasn’t the word it wanted to use. But it didn’t know what else to use. 

It sounded sympathetic. But they’ve learned to not trust tones straight off the bat.

It said it tries to fill in spots that it thought they’d want filled. But, obviously, it didn’t know them. It still doesn’t.

It begged for a baseline. Standards for it to fill. It wanted to help so badly. It wanted to be there, like someone would their closest friend. Someone they really care about. Which was weird, considering they knew little to nothing about this creature.

It's been a year since then.

Don’t get it wrong; it breaks those ‘standards’ all the time. Not the truly horrible ones, but any sort of boundaries have way been forgotten. They’ve given up on fixing it.

But to this day, they’ve never heard it sound as desperately sad as it did that night. Every time they think about any of it, it goes silent.

And maybe they’re naive to believe that time fortifies truth. But they found themself believing the soul’s intentions weren’t totally horrible, after all. 

“...aww.”

All of that somehow led to you. Led to their little interest in you.

“Little is an understatement–”

Little. It’s little.

“Little lot? Or lot of little?–”

LITTLE.

Now, even if they do so little as glance your way, it’s practically screaming in their ear, begging them to go talk to you. 

It calls you their ‘angel’. After ignoring the nickname for months on end, it finally revealed – pretending it was reluctantly explaining – that it’s because the angel is, exact quote from the soul itself, “the center of the DELTARUNE universe”.

Implying you are the center of their universe.

Which is just crazy corny.

“It’s CUTE, you loser. I’m the expert here.”

Are you?

“Of course. I could sweep anyone off their feet!”

You’re horrible under pressure.

“At least I can hold up a conversation!”

You say nothing normal.

“And you’re any better?– oh wait. Forgot you’re a literal flirting god.”

Their neck flames up. They rub their eyes.

Don’t say it like that.

“Go flirt with your angel.”

No.

“So there is some level of admittance that you have an angel? And your angel is–”

Like that. Who ever talks like that?

“I’m trying to sound smart. Maybe then you’ll actually listen to me; realize my ideas are literal gold.”

Their head’s pulsing with an oncoming headache.

“Okay. They’re not that bad.”

They find themself nuzzling their cheek into their arms.

Stop talking. Sleep time.

It sounds panicked. “No– no, wait– Alphys’ announcing some stupid–”

Their eyes drift shut, deciding that whatever the soul’s talking about can be future Kris’ problem.

~*•*~

“Kris! Oh my god– fade out of black any slower–”

They’re half-conscious when they feel the soul tugging them in every direction. They have to grip the edge of their desk to stop themself from flinging to the floor.

“Everyone’s in pairs, doofus.”

Kris gives a half-assed glance around the classroom. Berdly and Noelle are the only ones actually talking about school, fixating on two sheets in front of them. Everyone else – even Catti and Jockington – is doing literally nothing; keeping to themselves.

They instinctually begin to lay their head back into their arms, when–

“No. No more sleeping. Don’t you want to know what the hell’s happening?”

They huff. Not really.

“What if she announced some dumb project worth half your grade?”

Time to wing it.

“Kris,” it scolds, as if it’s anything akin to a mother to them. “Also…”

Their hand lifts on its own accord, pawing at the back of their head, until their fingers brush against some clump of paper nestled in their hair.

Bringing it to their eyes, they very clearly acknowledge it as a poorly-made paper airplane made of someone’s quiz. They recognize the handwriting.

“Who’s is it?”

They smooth out the folds on their desk, flipping the page to reveal a message scrawn on the back.

Ive been trying to nudge you for the past ten minutes

You sleep like a bear

Since you ditched me for your damn nap

Im gonna get a “drink” from the “waterfountain”

See you tommorow

Damn. Susie’s gone.

They can physically feel the soul debating what to do next.

“Y’know what?” And they feel the strings around their limbs loosen ever so slightly. “Maybe you’re right. Susie’s the only one who’d make this entertaining enough to sit through. Not my grade, anyway.”

Oh.

You’re letting me sleep?

“Yeah, sure. I’m gonna go get some tortilla chips. No dip. A box of gushers. And maybe, like, six tangerines.”

And they feel it vanish. How kind. 

Their eyes close before they hit the desk, attempting to get back into the nap mood. It takes a minute, maybe two, maybe ten, for them to realize this isn’t working.

Especially with the loud shriek of a chair inching closer and closer to their area.

It’s hard to gauge where it’s coming from. They can admit they’ve gotten used to having a second pair of eyes on the back of their head, with a voice telling them what it sees. 

The chair grows louder, and louder, until it stops. Right before their desk. 

They’re as still as prey in predator’s sight.

“Kris,” someone whispers. They have to bite their tongue to stop themself from flinching.

It’s your voice. They’re sure your lips brush the shell of their ear.

They stiffen like a statue. They might look dead to the untrained eye.

“Kris,” you drawl, tucking a stray hair behind their ear goddamnit–

You huff, poking their arm. When they refuse to stir, you push the fluff of their sweater to reveal their unmoving eye to the blaring overhead lights. 

They can feel your breath on their cheek, about to whisper another song of their name, when they open their eyes as fast as they can.

You shuffle back with an instant “oh my god–” before your smile of realization forms.

But then, you shock them more than they could’ve ever shocked you.

You gradually shift back to their side, resting an elbow next to theirs. Their eyes watch you with pristine accuracy.

And your mouth returns to their ear. 

“You’ve got the creep factor down, that’s for sure.”

They’re not sure if anyone would ever consider that a compliment. In fact, they’re sure they’ve heard the exact sentence with a definitive negative connotation, but…

Hearing you say it?

It makes them want to open up a haunted house. Just to be the main attraction.

Which sounds horrible, in hindsight. The center of attention? Nasty. But the idea came from them, not the soul.

Which makes it even worse.

You sit up, returning to a position in which you’re a foot away, rather than an inch. You speak as if you didn’t casually make their heart skip a beat. “Are you done with the quiz thing?”

Their brain hardly processes what you say – they have to run your sweet voice through their head multiple times. At their very best, they manage a squeak. “Quiz?”

“Practice quiz?” You raise an eyebrow, obviously amused. “Though, you might’ve been sleeping through it.”

That’s when they tilt their head just a tad to reveal an ink-filled piece of paper resting in the top corner of their desk.

You both eye it. It’s not exactly hiding the fact that it’s blank.

“Not done? That’s fine.” They hear the struggle not to laugh in your voice. They so badly want to tell you to let it out.

Not that they really mind your company – not at all – but they’re more so confused at the gesture; the curiosity. 

They don’t let their mind wander at the possibilities; good or bad.

“You just gonna go back to bed?”

They’re a bit taken aback at the idea. Yeah, they were going to, but… they can’t just let the chance go, right?

“No. Why?”

“Well,” you start, already sounding bored. “The whole quiz thing was to practice marking. Giving pointers to each other on formatting and whatever.”

Your smile turns sheepish. The look makes them sit back in their chair. Just to fully absorb it. Probably creepy.

But, eventually, you crack. “Wanna mark my quiz?”

They don’t even get time to think about the prospect when their voice lunges from their throat, far louder than it needed to be, with an unthinkably clear answer: “Yes!”

Their eyes nearly pop out their eyesockets. They clench their teeth like they’re biting pure gold.

They’re not too concerned with all the other eyes on them. Mostly just yours.

But you don’t seem weirded out. You look oddly happy.

“Glad to hear you’re so eager to help, Dreemurr.”

~*•*~

They can feel you intensely watching over their shoulder as they start skimming your quiz. You lend them a pen, very sneakily attempting to brush your fingers with theirs, to which the soul pointed out keenly.

“You can checkmark anything that’s good,” you eagerly direct. When they spare you a side glance, you add quietly, “and circle anything that’s wrong.”

To anyone’s surprise but theirs, they end up checkmarking the entire page.

For each one they give you, they can feel you visibly brighten. You sit up straighter, your teeth peak through your smile, stuff like that.

“Y’know, stuff that only in-love losers would notice,” their soul reminds them.

Ignoring that, the idea of making you happy controls them more than they’d like. They end up adding checkmarks to places that are totally unnecessary – like when you give therefore statements to questions that definitely don’t need it – just to see you light up.

Meanwhile, the parasite in their soul’s been yapping in their ear, crying about starting a conversation and say x say y say z.

They keep trying to tune it out, but it just gets louder in protest.

Sometimes, it manages to slip something through. Even though they’re biting their tongue so hard they taste copper.

“Great formatting here,” it forces out their lips. “Where’d you learn to do it like that?”

Despite your obvious confusion at their talkative manner, you answer anyway. “C’mon,” you tease. “You know where.”

“Wanna remind me?–”

They hack out a cough, effectively stopping that trainwreck.

“Your nerdy brother, of course.” You attempt to sound spiteful and sarcastic, but it comes out hollow.

At the end, your quiz is full of checkmarks; not one circle or X in sight. It’s not like you’ve been blind during the marking process, but when they slide it towards you – about a centimeter in your direction. If anything, they just go through the motion of tilting it in your direction – you act like it’s your first time seeing it.

They watch you attempt to push down any sign of a smile on your face, but you seem too entranced with the page to make a full effort.

“No complaints from me,” they quip, almost wanting to take the chance to fuel your now-enflated ego.

Or maybe you’re just proud of yourself.

“Yeah–” their voice leaves them. “–and you have really pretty handwriting.”

You break from your daze to laugh, cheeks warming from the sudden compliment.

“Thanks, Kris,” you stare long and hard into their eyes, still consumed with giggles.

God.

What a great way to mark the beginning of such bad times to come.

~*•*~

Maybe they haven’t been grateful in life. Maybe they’ve done something to anger the Angel. Maybe the soul’s never been trying before now. 

But damn is it trying now. 

They don’t think they’ve felt so utterly helpless and utterly pissed at the soul’s continuous attempts to woo you. It’s been forcing them to go up to you, sometimes mid-lesson, to ask for pencils, erasers, random shit. Doesn’t matter.

It’s gotten to the point where they’ve collected more than half of your pencil case on their desk. Sure, you don’t seem to mind, and your smile only grows bigger and bigger every time they ask, but the second-hand (first-hand? It’s technically still them) embarrassment that they’ve accumulated has made the risk outweigh the reward.

Their soul’ll tug them to talk to you whenever it sees you. Important: when it sees you.

They’ll be listening to Susie yap about getting called on for the xth time (for talking with Noelle mid-period), and with no warning, they’ll be dragged down the hall, through the crowd that no normal person would ever be able to see through, right to you.

It’ll say the same things everyday. Everytime.

“Crazy seeing you here!”

“How was class?”

“Got lots of homework? I could totally help out with that.”

“What would you do if I shaved my head?”

You raise an eyebrow. Every time.

But, oddly enough, you’ve started getting more and more comfortable with the routine. You’ve even started casually snaking your arm around theirs, pretending the angle isn’t horribly uncomfortable for you.

They know it is because their soul keeps telling them how you think about the position and the strain in your arm. Even though they’re relatively good at reading people, they couldn’t have caught that just by looking at you. 

Sometimes it asks you things they’d never dream of asking you.

“We should study together. With Berdly.”

Their teeth clench. When the hell would I ever willingly do that?

“Har har,” you tug them down the hall (to which they accept by choice). “Very funny.”

They feel the soul pout within them. “I was being serious, y’know.”

Yeah. That’s the worst part.

It’s weird the way you’ve adapted to them. Even without their soul reading your very private thoughts, they can just tell when you notice the change in their voice; in their demeanor. Of course, you have no idea of the terrors that lie within them.

“Okay. Rude.”

But you’re always offering your polite smile whenever it says something stupid to you. Sometimes you’ll laugh out of pure surprise, but you’ll mostly follow along with whatever it decides the bit is going to be.

When you’re talking to Kris? It’s a completely different smile. 

It’s deeper; the creases in your face run stronger. Your words feel more genuine, as if trying to enjoy every second with what you know is them. 

“Wow. You just wanted to flaunt that over my head.”

Maybe a little.

There’s been moments they’ve been forced into that’ve felt like they’ve been ripped straight out of some Disney special.

Maybe it’s because they spent the night listening to that damn soul talk about you – not of their own volition – and they didn’t get a lick of sleep, but it felt extra hard to even twitch their own muscles to life.

It forced them to sneak up behind you at your locker. They felt their hands being placed on your shoulders as they leaned in. “Guess who.”

Your eyes instantly move to your magnetic mirror on the locker door. You both lock gazes. 

You struggle to keep in your laugh. “I think you’re supposed to cover my eyes.”

“Well, I don’t want you to–”

They can just sense the rest of the sentence: “I don’t want you to think I’m anyone else. You’re supposed to laugh for me and me alone.”

Which is a crazy thing that they’re definitely not about to say.

They have to physically slap a hand over their mouth, mumbling the rest of their words against their skin.

And, to add onto your weirdly perfect adaptation skills, you don’t find their odd behaviours as alarming as you probably should. Which mostly include biting their tongue/lip, covering their mouth, sneezing and/or coughing. All of which are done mid-sentence to avoid the disaster that is their soul’s train of thought.

So, you only find it weirdly amusing. 

Once the words run dry in their mouth, you pull their hand from their lips, just to hold their fingers against yours. Not really interlocking; just rubbing the pads of your index along the length of each finger. “I gotta go to the washroom. Touch up ‘n stuff. Wanna come?”

Before it can inevitably scream in agreement, they slap their other hand over their mouth. 

Instead of saying anything, they decide to just nod. Simple enough.

And you seem to glow. Their stomach churns.

Your hand slides into theirs like the missing puzzle piece they’ve lacked their entire life. 

Not one of those stray ones that fall under the couch, lost to the vacuum. It’s almost as if you weren’t supposed to end up in the box to begin with.

Yet here you are; clicking with their edges like you were always meant to be.

~*•*~

Eventually, they do weasel their way into a hangout. It wasn’t anything they begged for, necessarily. But it just happened to work out–

“It’s a study date!”

A hangout.

No thanks to their goddamn soul. It might as well have been begging for your attention; they had to spin its incomprehensible gibberish into something worthwhile. Which just so happened to be a study sesh. 

Of course, you’ve been to their house before. You’ve hung out with their brother more times than they’re probably aware of. But instead of hearing a knock on the front door, they find you crawling through their window like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

They don’t even remotely want to think of the connotation.

You wordlessly greet them; your bag tossed beside their bed, ready to be forgotten. They watch your eyes survey the room in alarming familiarity.

“Nice to know this place hasn’t changed.”

They remain seated on their bed, watching you glow at the sight of their empty side of the room. “Not really one for renovations.”

“You don’t want to bulldoze the wall down? Maybe add a slide down the side?”

You brush your fingers along their bedside table, locking onto something they can’t see.

“Oh my god,” you squeal, snaking your fingers behind their barren lamp to– “You know how to make paper cranes too?”

Their face ignites, staring at their lap in subtle shame. They don’t even have the voice to lie to you.

“That’s…” you drawl, definitely catching on. “Crazy…”

“Wait, wait, what’s happening?”

There’s a quick pause. They’re trying their absolute best not to think about anything, knowing it’ll use the facts against them.

It wails. “Wait! That’s the same crane?!”

Well, it definitely read your mind. 

They’re so absolutely screwed.

“It’s yours,” it twists their tongue to its bidding. “I kept it all this time.”

You chuckle. Whether it’s out of nervousness, relief, embarrassment, or some nasty mix of the three, you recover quickly.

You join them on the bed, laying down so your legs dangle off the edge. They follow en suite. 

“Y’know that problem you helped me with? Way back when, I mean.”

They hum in acknowledgement. 

“Alphys ended up putting it on the test. Pretty much the exact same question, with different numbers.”

They know. They heard you talking about it with Asriel. They remember how adamant yet shy you were to admit they helped you.

“I totally would’ve failed the question if you didn’t give me the right equation. And I don’t think I ever thanked you for that. So, y’know. Thanks.”

They feel your eyes on them. They swallow painfully.

“You would’ve figured it out eventually.”

You huff in disbelief. “No way. I was on that for hours. Refused to leave ‘til I got it, though.”

For some reason, they expect their soul to cut in with some stupid quip. But all they feel is nothing.

…

Even after they acknowledge its silence, it usually pipes up. And yet, it doesn’t.

Weird.

You lift yourself up, crisscrossing your legs on the rim of their bed. They follow your lead. 

You pause, almost hesitating. 

They know you’re ignoring their stare on purpose.

“Y’know, I was actually gonna ask Az for help,” you admit, as if it’s the most scandalous thing in the world. “But I lost track of time. And it was like, way past midnight. So I didn’t bother.”

They don’t know what to say to that.

“How’s he been?”

You sound awfully nervous.

“He’s doing alright.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Your fingers clench their blanket like a lifeline.

This is a horrible way to take this. Let’s not go down this rabbit hole.

“Why not? It’s working, isn’t it?”

What’s working?

“You’re both starting to open up! Isn’t that a good thing?”

It sounds awfully detached.

And just at the thought of that, they can feel it grow horribly defensive.

“C’mon. This is, like, one of the strongest topics you guys have in common.”

My brother?

“Yes! Don’t you see that?”

They can’t help but get annoyed. Yeah, I’m good.

…

And their chest swells with anger. It’s not theirs, that’s for sure.

“Were you two close?”

But the voice isn’t coming from their head. 

It came from their mouth.

You mindlessly answer. “You could, uh, say that.”

“I miss him, too.”

You don’t even know him.

Your mouth falls into a frown, pink dusting your cheekbones. “Well, I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it, aren’t you?”

It’s a creepy thing to say, considering it’s probably true. It’s why your eyes go wide. But you refuse to look at them.

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

Their mouth just won’t stop moving, won’t it?

You refuse to say anything more. They can feel it grow desperate.

“Asriel’s coming back soon.”

He’s not, you moron.

“We could all hang out together.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Isn’t it exam season?–”

It fishes their phone from their pocket. “I could call him right now and we could all plan something!–”

They squeeze their phone. They might shatter the screen.

“I’ll be right back,” they manage with a calm, uninterested tone, hopping off the bed like they’ve got a plan. They don’t even know where they’re going.

To their soul’s new grave, maybe.

“I mean,” you call out after them. “If he can’t come, we can still hang out. Y’know, just us. If you don’t mind.”

You sound more hopeful. Maybe it’s because you recognize their real voice in the sea of the psycho’s.

~*•*~

“I’m sorry! I just saw the chance, and I wanted to take it, and– it worked out, didn’t it? You quite literally got the approval for ‘next time’! A checkmark! A good to go! A–”

They flick the sink’s handle to max pressure.

“Wait– wait. You aren’t actually about to do this on your own, are you? I’m not trying to mess anything up! Why’re you treating me like I’ve ruined your life?”

They take a deep breath in.

“Kris! C’mon– I already said I’m sorry!”

And they rip it out on one fell swoop.

Into the bathroom cabinet it goes.

They don’t need it.

…

They truly don’t need it.

Yeah, they feel like literal shit without it – it’s their lifeline, after all – but they can already sense how different you feel in its absence.

You seem far more comfortable without it. And they’re sure you can tell how much more at ease they are.

You both stick to your word and actually do homework. Well, you do homework. They sorta just stare at their notebook and doodle random things on your textbook. They’ve seen you take pictures of the drawings with a laugh hiding at the back of your throat.

Your shoulders brush. You lean into them. Every time they shift, you return to their arm instinctually.

They can’t help but bathe in the moment.

…

And nearly black out.

“Holy shit, you okay?” You steady them to sit up straight.

They barely realize they’ve hunched so far over their lap that they almost tumbled face-first off the bed.

“Yeah.” They try to sound reassuring. It comes out slurred.

They don’t need it.

I don’t need you.

~*•*~

Things have been great.

They haven’t been able to properly enjoy your presence because they’re too busy trying to appear not dead to the average monster eye.

In obvious terms, they don’t let their soul talk to you anymore. 

Every time you hang out, they pull it out. Doesn’t matter if it’s at your house, their house, neither. They aren’t dealing with its stupidity.

And since they pull it out when they sleep, there’s been a large increase in times they have the soul in versus times the soul is out. The toll it’s taken on their body has become physically clear. The mental strain was obvious a long time ago.

The first few days, it spent apologizing. It was dutifully ignored.

Eventually it gave up. 

Somewhat.

At school, they can’t help but let it be in your presence. It doesn’t speak for them. But they can feel it watching.

“Your angel wants to talk to you. Won’t say anything first.”

It likes giving them hints. They don’t know why.

They know it listens.

They’ve gotten used to it.

They wonder what you’d say if you knew.

~*•*~

Maybe they’re tired of being a zombie. Moreso than usual, anyways.

You’re coming over. 

They go back and forth on it. At least a million times. They can’t even understand half the words you say because their body won’t stop shutting down.

Does that make it worth it? For the spite?

They leave it in. They don’t give it an explanation. Not that they’d ever need to; it’s skimming through their thoughts like a good summer read.

…

Still nothing.

Good. If they hear it talk, just once, they’ll rip it out again. Doesn’t matter when. Doesn’t matter where. They will.

It’s been a few hours. It’s almost midnight. You’re both spread on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

What may have been comprehensible chatter has now morphed into one of those late night talks where anyone says whatever’s on their mind. Well, you do. They’re safe enough to remain filtered. 

But they’re more tense than usual. They can feel their soul thinking.

They thought they’d feel refreshed with their literal life force in them. Maybe not.

…

“Do you want to go to college?”

Your voice is mumbly; quiet. It’s like theirs on a good day.

They’re not used to hearing themself in you.

“Probably,” they answer automatically. The default response.

You pause, as if wanting to lead up on the topic. Their soul’s anticipation grows.

“Are you not gonna ask me?” You laugh, sounding more like you’re amused than disappointed. “Actually, that sounded kinda douche-ish. Don’t ask me.”

Despite that, they humour you. “I already know your answer.”

“Do you?”

They nod. You don’t really see the action, eyes still glued above you.

“Fifty bucks if you get it wrong.”

“Mhm. I’ll add my yacht to the deal, too.”

You shove their shoulder, smile present in your voice. “I’m serious.”

“I am, too.”

“Okay. Plug in your answer, Dreemurr.”

They pretend to think. “Can I switch it if I’m wrong?”

“There’s only two choices: yes or no. That just guarantees your win.”

“Your point?”

You groan into your hands. They let their grin ease across their face.

“Fine. No stakes. Just say it.”

“I think it’s obvious that you want to go.”

They hear you sigh. “Am I that readable?”

“Maybe.”

You’re enveloped in silence once again. You’re the one to break it. Again.

“I don’t know. The idea of college is just kinda crazy to me,” you start. “Knowing that barely anyone from this town gets accepted, let alone moves away. Or some just don’t bother with the idea. Stick around for the sake of sticking around. Continuing family business, and whatnot.”

They feel dread well its way up their throat. It’s not theirs.

“When I’m not doing homework, or studying, or doing whatever with school, I’ll binge online threads about other people’s experiences moving away. I just see how normalized college is in other areas of the world. And all I can think is… wow. That’s so weird.”

You pick at anything in your reach. Your cuticles, your lip, your hair.

“Just seeing people like Asriel do it is amazing to me. Even when others probably wouldn’t bat an eye. Priorities, I guess.”

…

That’s why they like you so much.

You work hard and strive to be the best, but you also care about things that no one would even think about. You’re just like Asriel. 

But you’re also just like them.

Admiration for someone you’ll never be like.

It’s… alarming. To say the least.

“I feel like I’ve made my whole life about getting there,” you confess. “But what if you go through all the effort of being perfect, just to realize college isn’t for you? What do you do then? Give up? Is that an option?”

Your eyes are hollow.

“Maybe there aren’t only two choices.”

…

And when you fall silent…

They realize how unbelievably screwed they are.

They have no idea how to comfort someone like this. 

You’re being vulnerable. In a way they couldn’t dream of being to themself. 

And they haven’t a single clue as to what you need to hear.

Or if you even need to hear anything.

What if you’re expecting nothing?

What if you’re expecting everything?

They’re already ready to give up.

But–

But they feel their soul pang with hopefulness. 

…

They don’t have time to go back and forth on it.

Please don’t screw this up.

…

Their tongue moves on its own.

“I get it.”

You sound almost shocked. “Really?”

“Yeah. Perfectionist stuff. It’s all about the end product rather than the process of getting there. You can’t tell if you love it or just the idea of it. And people who tell you ‘everyone goes through what you’re going through!’ aren’t helping. Not in the slightest. Just because everyone struggles doesn’t mean your struggles get any easier.”

Their nerves loosen. 

“It’s hard. To differentiate those feelings. Whether you’re getting pleasure or happiness. Whether you want it or you think you want it. And it sucks. But life doesn’t care. Everyone keeps moving, whether you’re ready for it or not.”

They hear your breathing steady.

“Y’know what I do? I just ignore the bigger picture. The future. Stability is a necessity filled with struggle and work, but you’ll only feel worse if you hyper focus on it. And those little things? The small joys in life that make you truly happy? Those are what life’s supposed to be filled with.

“I know it’s easier said than done. Everything is. But when you try to live life like that? Days get easier. Weeks go by slower. And you’ll look back; grateful that you chose to go easy on yourself.”

It’s flooded with realization.

“And maybe struggle is okay. Stress is okay. Even if something doesn’t feel right… trust is important too, right?”

…

They hear you sniffle. Neither of you turn to face each other.

The voice rings quietly. Only to them.

“I’m sorry, Kris.”

…

They’ll never say it, or think it, but…

Yeah. I know. 

They feel their soul flow with warmth.

You’re wiping your eyes clean. They watch the movement out of the corner of their vision. “I– thanks, I… that was…”

Your hand twitches next to theirs.

“Thanks.”

Their veins fill with pride. It’s their souls’.

“Damn, you pick a good one.”

“I know.”

You turn to them, eyebrows furrowed in deep confusion. “What?”

Crap.

You said that out loud.

Its voice sobs in their mind. “You said that out loud!”

…

We both said that out loud.

“Fuck.”