@pizzabiscuitwithglasses How do you imagine the skeleton bros in underfell universe?
[I don’t follow Undertale AUs, but I have to admit the goth fourteen-year-old in me loves a good grim!dark retelling.]
Sans, sprawled comfortably over his mattress, ignores the call and does not get up.
“SANS. Do not make me come in there.”
Papyrus ability to conveys caps-lock shouting without raising his volume is one hell of a mystery. Front page material, probably. “I’m sleeping.”
“You are not, open this door.”
“I am SLEEPING.” Unlike the Great and Talented Papyrus, Sans yells to communicate his feelings. He’s currently communicating irritated and go away.
The door explodes inward. Sans grabs his brother’s soul in the same moment Papyrus snaps up his. They glare at each other through the settling dust, souls lit bright in the glow of their matching red magic. It tints the underside of Papyrus’ jaw a deep and unsettling red.
“You left your dishes in the sink,” Papyrus says at length.
“Yeah, I do that,” Sans replies.
“Well don’t do that. It annoys me.”
Sans doesn’t raise an eyebrow, or smirk, or change his facial expression in any way. He knows Papyrus will read the non-commitment in his silence. Papyrus openly scowls at him and tightens the grip on his soul. Sans responds in kind.
“One of these days,” Papyrus says, straining to ignore the choking effect Sans’ magic has on him, “You will go too far and I will dust you.”
He won’t. They both know Sans’ magic is stronger, just like they know that he’ll never, ever use it to kill Papyrus. And to be honest, Sans thinks that even if he was given the chance, Papyrus wouldn’t kill him either. They’re locked in familial stalemate until one of them slips up.
Papryus huffs. He drops the magic in favor of stomping across the dirty room to yank Sans out of bed by the scruff of his jacket. Sans glares as he’s carried downstairs and into the kitchen. Papyrus sets him on his feet and shoves him towards the sink.
“Wash your dishes,” he snarls.
Sans flips him the double bird, but shuffles up the stairs to the sink as told. His bowl and spoon are cleaned and resentfully slung into the drying rack. He stomps back down the steps when he’s done.
“Dishes,” Papyrus says from where he’s watching TV on the couch.
“I’m going out.” It’s a tacit affirmative. Papyrus knows, just like he knows Sans’ expressions. They’ve spent their lives together and in spite of everything they know each other as well as they know themselves.
“Dinner is in an hour,” Papyrus doesn’t take his eyes off the TV. “Don’t be late.”
“Yeah yeah,” Sans grunts.
“Be here,” Papyrus growls.
Sans flips him off again. He pops his forearm out of the elbow socket so he can continue the gesture as he goes through the door, which he leaves wide open to the winter outside. The resulting caps-lock shouting makes him feel marginally better as he stomps down the front walk.