this is a rehash of bro bone and i don’t even like bro bone anymore? i wanted to do something else entirely and then i got stuck on this???
When you’re about to enter your new home for the first time, Papyrus insists on carrying you across the doorstep. “Insists”, in this case, is a polite way of saying that you were just about to take your first step inside when he flanked and tackled you like there’d been a sniper lying in wait, leaving the neighbour he’d been talking to just three seconds earlier to drop her watering can in shock.
“WE HAVE TO DO THIS PROPERLY,” he says, “IT’S BAD LUCK IF WE DON’T,” and then he does it properly, bridal style and everything. "that’s just for newlyweds,” is one of the last things your poor, unsuspecting, well-meaning neighbour hears before the door closes behind you, and you catch a glimpse of the kind of bewilderment in her face that only tends to spur you on, and you finish a sentence that would’ve stood fine on its own with “and we’ve been happily married for years.”
You haven’t been, of course. You’re brothers, and you’re inseparable, and you’re comfortable joking around like that.
Inseparable.
It must’ve been five years since you made it to the surface, now, and everyone is finally going their own ways, finding places to settle down or taking advantage of the unfathomable amount of space that’s opened up for you.
You weren’t really thinking about where you should go. You were mainly thinking about where Papyrus shouldn’t go, and you came up with a list that consisted of one entry saying “anywhere with me”. He shouldn’t feel obligated to drag you along forever, you thought. He shouldn’t let you stop him from finding independence and success. A family outside of you.
You attempted to express as much in your usual way, with feigned nonchalance and stupid jokes and ominous implications, but then, Papyrus did an unexpected, brilliant thing. He cut right through it all.
A proposal, he called it. Just to complete the wedding metaphor, you suppose. He took you to your favourite hillside, right around sunset, and he just started… talking. Maybe that shouldn’t be such a remarkable thing, but all you could do was sit there, scared half to death of whatever this was, this openness, this thoughtfulness, this thing that, for countless reasons, had never been a thing you did.
You don’t remember everything he said, but you remember how serious he sounded when he looked up at the darkening sky – “I JUST THINK WE’RE MEANT TO TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER” – and over at you – “I JUST THINK WE’RE GOOD FOR EACH OTHER” – and down at your hand – “THAT’S ALL” – before taking it in his own.
And some part of you was almost offended that he could discard the intricate framework you’d built around each other so easily, that he could simply tear down useless-but-supportive-Sans and hard-working-but-oblivious-Papyrus in favour of good-for-each-other-Sans-and-Papyrus, and as you had that train of thought, you realised something crucial.
Papyrus has grown up in all the ways you never did.
Papyrus knows himself. Papyrus wants to know himself. Papyrus knows what he wants, and Papyrus wants things at all, and he makes informed decisions based on those factors.
You concluded that you had no right to question his choices.
more flash fiction fluff continued from heeeerrrree
The first night, it happened because your brother was buzzing with joy and excitement, and whenever he’s overcome by any particularly intense emotion, he turns to you as a heat sink of sorts. Someone to be close to, share it with, transfer it to. He picked you up, deposited you in his bed and dove in after you, pulling you into a crushing sideways hug.
The second and third night, well, there was just so much to talk about. Papyrus kept you engaged in conversation until you were exhausted, and all he did then was tuck you in. Vaguely, you remember him lying down next to you, petting your back through the blanket, continuing to whisper about the plans he had.
At that point, you suppose it became another unspoken ritual. He’d call you over to his room for some unrelated reason, he’d brush against and tug at and push into you until he’d guided you underneath the blankets, and then he’d make it clear that he doesn’t expect you to leave.
It must’ve been just over a week when you first climbed into your own bed, thinking of how it was a single and his was a double, thinking about what you’d hoped that would tell him. He could find someone to fill that space. He doesn’t have to cut himself off from that part of life.
You stared at the ceiling for half an hour before your brother poked his head into your room. You steeled your resolve, certain that, this time, you’d acknowledge whatever pretense he’d come up with and then head straight out the door.
“SANS?” he said, quieter than usual. “IT’S BEDTIME. AREN’T YOU COMING?”
Oh, was all you could think. Right. That’s a thing he does, now.
Slowly, a permanent impression forms on the left side of your brother’s bed.
There was a reason Sans told shitty jokes all the time. ‘Sides the fact that they ruled, that is. But in particular, he told them around Boss because Mr. Femur Up His Ass pretended to be a punctilious killjoy all the time.
Sans knew him better. That screwy kid was still in there, somewhere, under layers of learned-self-preservation and thorny peacocking.
Sans told shitty jokes to get his guard down. Because every now and then, he’d come up with a real zinger. Something completely out of left field and so clever that it would make Papyrus pause, then break into startled laughter. And Sans would drop everything to just beam at him, in that dopey loving way, as he listened to a genuine, soul deep guffaw until the other wiped magic from his sockets.
“WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME WITH THAT GOOFY EXPRESSION?” But he’s not scowling. He’s grinning. And his eyelights twinkle closer to white than to red.
non-suspicious 