No. No no no, they were not doing this. His eyes, hidden behind the illusion, flick down to the hand and then up to Tokaku. He felt caught in a storm, yet outwardly he was composed and poised. Friends. Prickly had said it herself. Outwardly, it really did come across that way, didn’t it.
But was it true? Or was it just another role he played?
How highly valued did he really consider him? Any of them? The thought made him feel sick. It was why he felt so much guilt when Prickly kept insisting. He was willing to play the part. He wanted to be liked. He didn’t want them to be afraid of him. To hate him. He wanted to prove he was something more, something better, then any past experiences or history might of taught them. He was tired of hiding in the dark and feeling torment for things he had never been a part of. That weren’t his fault. And yet people pointed and spited for something he just was.
But he was never being who he was. Not entirely. He continued to watch in the background. He listened and didn’t judge. All the while keeping facts of himself locked away. Hidden from everyone else so they couldn’t be used against him. So they wouldn’t see. Clawbite had mocked him for concealing the truth. Hope, Nero taunted him for being a coward. If he knew what he’s done in the past, would he think it proved his point?
And suddenly, he knew why he was angry. It wasn’t the tapes. It was never about the tapes. He didn’t care that Tokaku discovered them. Not in the way he might think. He looks at the skeleton, looks at him, and he felt something dark.
“You only like what you see.”
He was glad for the illusion, but even then, he denied the tears that pricked at the back of his eyes. He swallowed them down. The walls became denser.
“Why did you keep listening to the tapes, Gaster.”
He had been afraid of him. Just like the rest of them. For no other reason then because he was human. Audio, Fred, HIM, he had to prove he was nothing to be afraid of. A g a i n.
“Which tape did you listen to first.”
He kicks the boxes back out. With such sudden force, they tipped over and their contents spilled on the floor. Days, titles, some had drawn pictures on them. He gestures at them without moving his gaze from the skeleton.
“Who am I, doctor? Who am I!”
His entire life, he always stood idly by. He always ran. His brother yelled, and he ran. Sans and Papyrus, manipulated and abused, needed help and he’d done nothing. He watched Webs and his family slowly falling apart, and never spoke a word.
“A scientist, doing his duty..?” He gestures to one box. “A loving father, who cares?” He gestures at the other.
“Someone who just obeys? A coward? A torturer? A friend?”
Tokaku didn’t know him. Knew nothing of him. None of them did. No one cared. Not until now. Why? They called him a coward, and never asked why. They accused him of avoiding, and never the why. And now, now, he’s suppose to just pretend it hadn’t happened? That it was his fault for hiding and doing nothing?
It was his fault. He knew it. And as angry as he was, as much as everyone claimed to hate him or what he was, none of them could possibly do so more than he did himself.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Tokaku won’t see the illusion anymore. He won’t see anything now.
Audio had vanished, and Tokaku will feel his hand slapped away and the brush of something passing before the room felt suddenly empty.
IT might as well have been a slap to his face.
Tokaku doesn't get a word in, he can't even get a thought in. Audio becomes a flurry, one he can't even see, but he can hear it. A flurry of stabs, to his gut, his chest, his throat, his head; were they blows struck by his words, but the final slap to his hand stung in a strange and terrible way.
It feels worse than the blade that had threatened to split his arm had felt.
He stands stunned for a while, staring at nothing, as though frozen in time.
It's only when he knows Audio is gone, that he falls to his knees and clutches his chest. It feels so tight. His fingers twist at the fabric of his sweater, and he tries to gulp in air he feels like he needs so desperately. Ah– that's panic. He knows that one. It's not all that's there but panic is the most dominant thing he feels right now; the panic that he might have pushed away someone he cares about a lot.
The tears flood now. He can't see anything. Maybe he doesn't want to.
"... m. my friend. my best friend." His voice is broken. Fitting, really. It strains out, faint as a whisper, to no one. "that's all i… thought."
He chokes back one sob, only for another to hiccup out of his throat. His horns hit the floor, and he covers the back of his head with his hands, so he can curl up and weep there, left without the strength to move or fight.
Those fingertips that had gripped and twisted at wool pushed against bone, wanting the same, to twist it for some kind of gravity. He gripped the bases of his horns and pulled down towards his brows. They wouldn't come off, it didn't hurt, but he could imagine they might.
Because a small part of him blamed them and everything they stood for.
