When his brother, sixteen at the time, had asked, “Sans, aren’t you going to take home a partner someday?” Sans hadn’t known how the fuck to react.
He stared up at his brother – and wasn’t it annoying as fuck that Papyrus had grown taller than him? – before sinking into one of the luxurious, black armchairs of their private parlour. The parlour was small, meant for family rather than their father’s important guests, with dark purple wallpaper and family photos on the walls. Papyrus had followed suit, although he sat down on the armrest of Sans’ chair rather than taking his own, the little weirdo. Teenagers, right? Never mind that Sans too was a teen for another six months.
“Not gonna happen, bud,” he simply said, shrugging. The thought of pursuing romance had just never occurred to him, and he didn’t see why he would. It wasn’t that he disliked the idea of it: he just couldn’t see himself falling in love, ever. As Papyrus narrowed his eyes, confusion visible, he suddenly felt the urge to grab one of his cigarettes. But their father would kill him if he smoked inside, so that was a no-no. He really didn’t want to have to clean the lab again. Sans shivered at the thought. Meeting his little brother’s gaze, he leaned back in the chair, folding his arms behind his head. “Romance ain’t fer me. I just can’t see it.”
“But-” Papyrus began, his face scrunching up. Fiddling with his scarf, as he always did when he was confused, he studied Sans. “Isn’t that what a happy ending is? Finding a partner you can trust to guard your back and who loves you?”
Sans barked out a laugh, staring up at him in disbelief. “A happy ending? What have you been reading, Pap?” A blush rose on Papyrus’ cheeks and he averted his eyes, crossing his arms and pouting. Shaking his head in amusement, Sans patted his brother’s knee. “Nah. Can’t see th’ appeal. Perhaps you like the idea, but it’s just not fer me, yanno?”
After a few moments, where Papyrus stared at the wall in consideration, he nodded. “Well, alright then, asshole.” He was obviously still confused, but patted Sans’ head, grinning sharply. “You’re fucking weird but that’s nothing new, little brother. I mean, look at how you talk. Like a goddamn gutter rat.”
Sans chuckled, even as he scowled at the nickname. “That’s me. Th’ weirdo o’ the family. Ya love me.”
“I do, for some fucking reason.”
Aromantic. Red hummed as he continued to stare at the word on his computer screen. The sun shone in through the window, making the screen dark and difficult to see, but the word seemed to shine. Suddenly he didn’t remember why he’d gone on the internet to begin with, too focused on the word and definition he’d just read. Aromantic. He said it, tasting the word. Yeah, that seemed right. Not that he’d ever really felt that he needed to put a word on what he was feeling – or rather, not feeling – but it still felt kind of… nice. He nodded to himself, a smile spreading over his face. Nice. To know it wasn’t just him, it was a thing.
He grabbed the black hole-puncher on his desk – this was his working desk, so it had all that fancy office shit like hole-punchers and paperclips on it – and threw it at the door as hard as he could. A bang rang through the room as it hit.
“What the fuck, Red,” Edge swore downstairs, and soon Red heard his brother’s footsteps in the tiny staircase. It was only five steps, their home on the Surface was slightly smaller than any of their homes Underground: their house in Snowdin, and certainly the Gaster Manor in New Home. The door screeched as his brother jerked it open, glaring at him.
“Hey, asshole,” Red said, grinning widely. “I’m aromantic.”
Edge blinked, his face scrunching up in confusion. “You’re what, dickhead?”
“Ohhh, dickhead.” Red slapped a hand over his chest, sliding off his comfortable office chair. He saw Edge roll his eyes, but he was smiling. “I’m so wounded.” Heaving himself up on his elbows, he jerked his head toward his computer, and his brother stepped up to it. “Aromanticism is the lack of romantic attraction,” he quoted, his grin growing wider as he teleported himself to his feet again. The air cracked from the shortcut. “That’s me.”
After quickly scrolling through the page, Edge nodded. He flicked Red’s skull as he sat down in Red’s chair, crossing his legs. Red glared at him but couldn’t stop grinning. “Indeed,” his brother agreed, his smile turning somewhat softer. “It sounds like you.”
“Guess I’m not weird after all then.” For a moment, Edge’s expression turned worried, as though he actually was concerned Red had been feeling left out, before his eyes widened. There it was, he remembered.
Suddenly, Edge seized his wrist, and he yelped as Edge pulled him down until he was sitting on the armrest. The metal and plastic dug into his pelvis. His brother grinned, lifting a hand to tug at the collar around Red’s neck. “Oh no, you’re still a fucking weirdo, brother. Just not in that aspect.”
Red glared at him. “Fuck you, it’s called having style.”
“No it’s not. It’s a fucking dog collar.” But Edge’s eyes shone as he regarded Red, and neither of their grins slipped for a moment.
Aromantic. He mouthed the word. Yeah, he quite liked that.
