[[ @irageso ; cont from here. ]]
Friend.
Asgore recognized him, and the title suffused Gaster’s chest with a bittersweet warmth that makes him want to smile until his face hurts as much as it makes him want to cry. Mistaken identity. It had to be. Out of all the infinite timelines, the chances of him landing in his own were next to none, and out of the fates of so many Gasters, he wouldn’t count himself to be so lucky as to be remembered. For all he knew, this Asgore may call everyone friend. Yet, dear friend--he remembered the words in his Asgore’s own voice--it was too close. If it meant being welcomed instead of questioned, or looked at for what he was--an outsider--then he could play imposter for a while.
Gaster neared, hands clasped in front of him as he studied Asgore’s face. Tea didn’t cause such sniffling. His hands moved to say an easy lie, “I was in the neighborhood.” Technically, it wasn’t entirely false, but he gave no time for follow-up questions before he asked one of his own, “What’s wrong?“
