@gasteritis
Swapping the warm comfort of the blankets for the cold harshness of reality was truly one of the most loathsome things in the world. Yet here he was—yawning, stretching, feeling his bones pop back into their proper places—very much awake. Why was it that he always woke up so tired? (Maybe his exhaustion went bone-deep. Heh.) If he could burrow under the covers and sleep for a thousand years he’d do so in a heartbeat...if it wasn’t for the reason he was awake in the first place: Papyrus.
With a soundless sigh, the skeleton got to his feet, not even bothering to throw on his jacket before shuffling to the nearest shortcut. The world faded to black. One moment he was standing in his room, the other he was...falling? What? Momentum didn’t even spare him a second to react—before he knew it, he was crashing right into a stackful of boxes without so much as a glimpse of the place. His fall upset the already teetering balance, causing the piles to tumble down, himself included. Buried under cardboard and paper, he let out a groan, more disgruntled than surprised. He knew his shortcuts were unstable at times, but damn if it sometimes didn’t feel like they were messing with him in purpose.
A mound of boxes still weighed down on him. Extricating himself out of the mess seemed such a daunting, impossible task...—his sleep-laden eyelids were starting to droop. He let rip out a yawn. Only the tell tale sound of footsteps kept slumber at bay.
❝uh.❞ Droopy lids weren’t all that great for focusing one’s gaze, so the stranger’s shape was a blur. ❝sorta stumbled upon this new nappin’ spot. hope it doesn’t bother ya.❞ Another yawn. Not that he cared either way.
