*(He’s lost in the motions of this cruel dance. While Frisk’s SOUL began to calm itself, his had only just begun to pulse. He was not a man of strength, he was a man of escapism. First, it had been to a p a t h y; back when they’d been trapped beneath the ground upon which they all now stood day by day. It had been a blessed numbness, blotting out all this sorrow and uncertainty. A shield; a way out. Perhaps he had the foresight to construct it out of fear, or maybe truer still to cushion his mind from the timelines spinning him about like a top. He had seen the Surface countless times, seen the sharp edge of metal that spelled out his demise.)
*(Though he’ll never admit it, some tiny part of him believes he deserved to die at the hands of a human child. Not the demon; but if Frisk had slain him he would’ve accepted it. He has had the blood of countless Frisk’s—strung like puppets by that b r a t—on his hands; joined with the blood of the kid’s before them. Direct or not, the guilt clung to his bones much like the dust that had granted him life.)
*(But, with each RESET… The days became repetitive. Monotonous. A familiar yet bleak existence. Though, perhaps that’s why he has fallen to shambles. To know it’s coming is one thing; but to not know when is real torture. The figment ideal of a happy ending, one of permanence, is lost on him. He is jaded and far too aware of the cruelty of the world.)
*(Yet, he had tried to cheat fate. He had hoped, by keeping up his facade—by giving them everything they wanted—he could stave off his own paranoia. As if that beast was willing to give in to such pathetic attempts at caging. His efforts had brought him here instead. Here, shattered and in tears as he clings to the very child he had tried to appease for months now. To beat back his own fear; which had all but swallowed him whole by now.)
*(The tempo of his agony could only rise higher against his mind, strung out and sleepless—as it always was, as it always had been—in comparison to the slow descent of Frisk’s. As they relaxed, the tension in his own spine only became all the starker. But, even he was not immune to exhaustion, and soon alongside them—trailing behind as he always had—he too began to quiet down. Trembles still shook their way through him, even as tiredness clung stubbornly to his bones. The very same tiredness that had become like an old, uninvited friend; one that came and took what it wanted without consideration for the home it was defiling.)
*(His tears are slower to fade out than theirs, it’s his sobbing that teeters off into silence first. Then, his grip loosens only slightly; arms falling away until his fingers brush the ground below them, forming a uneven circle around the child pressed against him. His tears continue to run long after what little strength he has seeped out of him, pooling almost invisible on the concrete; unreachable to him in this pocket of time.)
*(When at long last his tears seem to have ceased, liquid magic disappearing much the same way as any spell; he’s left staring bleakly over their shoulder. And with the full weight of his exhaustion pressing down on him. But, this proves to be a blessing in disguise. His apathy hums to life, almost… Not quite. Perhaps it’s more he’s far too tired to feel anything but just that; tired. His thoughts cannot race, for they are just as tired as Sans. His joints click, the barest aftershock of shudders rippling through him as he lifts arms to press them gently to Frisk’s back once more. He slumps against them, insignificant weight upon their form; and his breath comes out in a puff.)
*(He wants to speak, but what is there to say? Sorry…? Thank you…? He had already apologized and begged forgiveness, but sorrow had carried them both off into a place that could not support words. And now they were on the shore once again, still wordless from being washed away.)
*(But, he must say something…)
*(His voice is raspier than usual, torn and used up; just as he is. Just how he feels. It sounds heinous, and he says nothing more. There is no more to say… He just wants to close his eyes and r e s t, but his sleep is plagued by things better left to the imagination. But, he is so tired… His sockets close, but he does not drift. Part of him is afraid he will miss words Frisk wants to say… After turning himself around and inside out for the child these last months, the habit has solidified itself. It will take time to undo, if he can even gather the will to ask if it is even needed any longer.)
*(The only sounds now, is the mutual pulse in the night of their breathing.)
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