Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A young woman trots across wooden floor boards, her steps light and quick as a dancer on ice. “Hey, hey shopkeep!” She smiles with rose-colored lips, clear white skin shining underneath bright fluorescent lights. She looks like a ghost, a beautiful, pale white ghost. Her hair, dark and dense, perfectly contrasts with her skin. Her professionally plucked brows, her tight-fitted dress that hugs every equally perfect curve. She’s pretty, so, so pretty. The epitome of womanhood.

“Excuse-moi?” ‘Shopkeep’ responds, leaning over her stand intently as Rosie-Lips haphazardly slams a broken camera in front of her face. She’s hot. She can get away with it.

Hot women could get away with anything and everything, even murder. It must be nice to be so privileged.

You’re such a bitch for thinking that, you don’t even know her name.

“Can you help me? My camera got smashed!”

Following is a silence between them that you can’t help but notice the awkwardness of. Or is that just you again? Inserting your own thoughts into their reality? It wouldn’t be the first time.

Listen to the music, to the echo of instruments beyond the curtain wall. Out of sight, heard but not seen.

Shopkeep stares at the broken camera for a moment, before she grabs it and lifts it into the air. She inspects it in slow, exaggerated movements. Twisting and turning it in her hand, every broken, missing compartment is illuminated beneath theatre light.

Light which of course is flickering. Dingy as always, huh?

What could you expect from your crappy university? They loved throwing away money, wasting it on braindead student athletes and sending mariachis to compete in Japan, but fixing the lights of their public theatre? No, no, that was too much effort. Send in another foreign professor or TA who can’t speak English to the STEM labs! That’ll show the students how much they cared.

Not.

“Perhaps we can fix it!”

“It’s completely broken!”

Can these people just hurry the fuck up and finish so you can play the piano? Seriously, these theatre majors are always treating their plays like it’s their magnum opuses. They know it’s gonna be the height of their careers, fucking dumbasses should’ve picked another major that won’t leave them begging on the streets for crack money.

You blink, your brow furrowing for a moment in an infinitely unnoticeable movement.

Did you really just think that? You’re so mean. How dare you judge them? What did they ever do to you? And you wonder why people don’t like you when you think so cruelly of everyone around you.

You’re just so pitiful.

Disgusting and horrible—

Holy shit just shut up.

“You like the play so far?” A familiar voice questioned from your left, you turn and smile at him. Would he still tolerate you if he knew how shitty you were? How bitter you were on the inside for little to no reason.

Like a peach rotten on the inside, the rot is only tasted when someone sinks their teeth deep into mushy flesh.

“It’s okay,” you replied with a small shrug, scratching the side of your neck in a self-soothing motion. “When are they gonna play it for real?”

You hadn’t wanted to be here, but he’d asked you to come, and considering he was one of very few people you cared for— you’d felt obligated to ask.

“University’s still trying to figure it out, we’re hoping some time before break.” Tom answered with a thoughtful nod, stretching against his leather seat with a subtle yawn. Once settled, he returns your gaze with a lighthearted grin of his own. You imagine it as far more fatherly than it actually is.

“You should come again. I can’t let you play with the piano after the show, but you shouldn’t just sit around in your apartment by yourself forever.”

You shake your head with a dismissive snort, moving to wring your hand against your arm. “I study sometimes.” You grumble underneath your breath, averting your gaze to the bottom of your seat.

“Just sometimes?”

“…most times.”

You must look like a freak, recoiling to the side of your seat from a simple invitation. Your smile turns nervous in the blink of an eye. God, you don’t know how this man still tolerates you. How he hasn’t cut all ties and thrown you to the wolves. If God was real you’d dare say it was a miracle.

“But, uh, I don’t know man.” I really don’t fucking want to. “I might have a final or something by that time, you know? Calculus is gonna fuck me over real bad. I can feel it.”

It didn’t help that your professor for that class had an accent so thick that if he didn’t put up the slides, you legitimately couldn’t take any notes. How were you supposed to write when you hardly understood a word he said? If you stopped paying attention to what he was saying for a second he became borderline incomprehensible.

Tom let out an exaggerated ‘aaaah’ of disbelief, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You’re way too smart to think like that.”

“Nah, I’m stupid.” You’re brain dead. An idiot who lucked her way into college and life. You hardly deserve to be here. So many people deserve your seat over you, people that were way smarter, nicer, prettier—

People that were better than you.

“Whatever you say, you’re still stuck with me. And you’re gonna come to that play, alright?”

You smile, genuinely. He deserves as much for putting up with you for so long. “I don’t have much of a choice then. So…yeah.”

You’re not a very good person.

You’re so rotten in the head, and yet you’re a coward who didn’t have the balls to be cruel to people’s faces. Pussy. People deserve to know who you really are. Tom especially. And he knows you better than anyone, for longer than anyone. You can’t remember a lot from your childhood, but you remember him. You remember him well; he had always been patient with you. Kind. Kinder than someone like you deserved.

Without him, you’d probably have given in and fallen apart many years ago. Especially now that you made the wonderful, totally not agonizing decision to become a Physics major. You couldn’t take your piano with you when you moved into your dorm (really an off-campus apartment because fuck living with a stranger), so Tom took pity on you.

Nepotism for the win; you got to play with the theatre— the music kids’ but they were practically the same thing in your eyes— kids’ piano when they were finished. Perks of being a long-time student of the guy that took over the Music department.

It was quite literally one of the only hobbies that made you happy anymore, and for that— you’d never say no.

“Great! I’m proud of you.” Please don’t be.

“Don’t say it like that.” You half-chuckle half-plead, the latter being completely missed out on by your mentor. “It sounds weird.” It sounds like you’re joking, but you’re not joking. He can’t read your mind so you don’t know why you don’t just tell him. It would be so much easier if you just told him, someone, anyone— how you really feel.

But unlike other people, he actually knows you.

“Okay, I’m not proud of you at all.” He leans his head up, glancing at the light above the still-acting students. You feel a little bit better now that he isn’t looking at you, and you grin. Bringing a hand to cover your mouth so that you don’t have to think about anyone seeing how weird your grin must be. With nasty, yellow teeth...

“Thanks, Tom.”

“One day I’ll get you to accept my praise, outside of your piano skills.” Ah yes, the one non-academic thing that stroked your ego somewhat. Even you could admit you weren’t half bad at piano.

He was your mentor after all.

“I got it from you, I can’t talk too much shit about it.” Not without insulting him, which was the last thing you ever wanted to do. You couldn’t afford for your own idiocy to push him away too.

“Good to know I haven’t failed you as a mentor then,” Tom joked. Earning a bout of laughter from you, laughter that was quickly cut short by the sound of a frantic shriek behind the curtain.

“THE LIGHTS—“

The two— no three— where the hell did the other one come from?— women on stage shrieked as one of the light fixtures came crashing down onto the stage. The dingy one that Tom had been staring at five seconds ago. Who woulda thought the poor tech the university paid in experience didn’t know how to properly attach it to the ceiling?

“Ah, damnit, cut!” A loud female voice shouted from somewhere in the auditorium, her black-clothing appearing in a flash as she rushed from her seat and onto the stage.

Before you could say a word Tom had stood up. “What the hell? Stay here.” He power-walked after the lady, who you just now realized was the theatre head.

The lights of the theatre flash on in quick succession, illuminating both the stage and the auditorium in blinding white light. You straighten up in your seat, face scrunching up for a moment as your vision adjusted to the sudden change in lighting. There’s not many people at the practice rehearsal, only a handful scattered in the auditorium. Friends and family of the actors, if the way they scrambled to gossip amongst themselves said anything.

…it took the actors an embarrassingly long time to settle down, and a longer time before the visitors finally cleared out. Leaving only you, Tom, a handful of students, and the Theatre Lady.

….What was her name, again? Hell if I know…

“Who set that light up?” Tom asked, his voice unusually infuriated. Partially drowned out by the sound of piano keys echoing beneath your fingers. One of the few perks of being forgettable is that people don’t tend to realize when you’re listening in on their conversations.

“One of the new theatre technicians, I think. Freshman if I remember correctly.” The Theatre Lady responds, voice equally infuriated as it is stressed. It’s not a good look for her department that one of her own was responsible for such an egregious failure. If you were that tech, you’d drop out and flee the state so you didn’t have to remember the most embarrassing failure of your college life.

Freshmans still had time to escape. Not yet shackled by the obligation to finish their degree.

Or, maybe you were just being dramatic. Actually, yeah, you’re being dramatic. You’re their age, and the only thing separating you from being considered one was your credits.

Look at you— always overblowing shit like some weird mental hypochondriac. It’s infuriating. You’re supposed to be better than that.

Your fingers pause over the piano keys, what comes after the minor seventh in ‘Fly me to the Moon’? You can remember the lyrics that followed the keys, but your mind came to a rather annoying blank on what those keys actually were. You don’t have sheet music considering this was informal, leaving muscle memory the only thing you had to reference off of.

You should’ve charged your phone before you went up here. It's only a couple minutes in and your muscle memory has already failed you.

Thank fuck Tom isn’t paying attention to you, thank fuck that literally nobody was paying attention to you. Lest they watch you loop back from the start, unable to go any further in the song than you already have. They didn’t have to watch you be reduced to one of those weird ant-circles-of-deaths, endlessly looping over yourself in neverending madness whilst you struggled to end the score.

Whoever was playing the piano before you took off alongside the cello player who you pretty sure he was fucking. You couldn’t remember his or her names, but you remembered the gossip, and that was all you needed to know to define their personhood.

Tsk. How shallow of you.

It wasn’t any of your business.

A nauseating guilt fills your chest, unpleasant enough that you shivered— buffeted by an imperceptible arctic wind.

Frozen worms dig around your insides, burrowing into your rotten core, sending waves of frost through its chambers. Your mouth runs dry of saliva, and you suck in a desperately grounding breath. You try to do it discreetly, but the guilt is almost enough to make you keel over on the piano like a stroke victim.

Control yourself before you get mistaken for the neighborhood crackhead. You’re not pretty enough to be sympathetic. Pitiful, maybe, but not sympathetic.

With twitching fingers, you give up on practicing ‘Fly me to the Moon’, and like a basic bitch, play the easiest song imaginable—

Twinkle, twinkle, little star. To think it used to be your favorite song when you were dumber and filled with childish naivety.

Feeling like you’re going to combust on the spot if anyone remembered you existed, you focus on not fucking up Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Which would be next to impossible considering a paralyzed lemur with Parkinson's could probably pull it off.

The bar was quite literally in Hell— no, not the normal Hell. It was way, way deep down there in the lowest circle of Dante’s inferno.

Now look at that, your crappy literature class finally paid off.

“I’ve called maintenance to put a light back up, but you should definitely figure out who your tech was and deal with them.”

Eavesdropping again? Gonna fuck up the easiest ‘task’ to exist if you don’t get your head on straight. With exams coming up you won’t be able to play piano for at least a few more weeks.

You need to focus.

The voices melt into the background as you play your little song. You tune them out as easily as you had listened to them, allowing your brain to melt away into nothingness. A cloud of music and daydreaming thoughts. If you weren’t a slave to your shitty major, you would totally spend more than a few days out of the month on piano practice.

But career came before fruitless passion, as you were raised to realize. No matter how much that one, childish, idiotic part of you wished it were the opposite.

Being a pianist may never be an option, but at least music keeps you from being a complete zombie. Err, less of a zombie…

Kept the mind sharp, as you were told. A sharp mind meant everything when you had a ugly body. You can be pretty, or you can be smart. You were the latter.

Do you actually enjoy what you’re doing? The question sat like a stone in your belly, so heavy you worried you’d crush your seat beneath its weight. Or do you just like the idea of enjoying something, of enjoying anything? The idea that you’re doing this of your own free will, because you like it?

…you need a drink. Do you want to be an alcoholic? It’s been quite a while since you last drank. But the thought of doing so was soothing enough to make the moment just a little more bearable.

You’re too sober to answer that question.

Flexing your hand, you pause your playing to pop your knuckles. Had it been a few minutes? Five, ten, maybe twenty? You had no idea. Time tended to lose its grasp on itself when you zoned out. You’d learned that the hard way when you’d stayed awake before an exam, staring at the ceiling hoping you could force yourself to sleep.

It never worked.

You still weren’t sure if you actually went to sleep that night, or if you’d simply…zoned out until daylight. Prying yourself out of bed, bones popping like beaded paper and crust in your eyes.

You had been more akin to an ancient Egyptian mummy than a woman. Dead and dried up, but not quite rotten.

An apple scooped of its core.

Without the music to keep your focus, the previously tuned out sounds of the theatre fill your ears once more. There’s a drawling voice you haven’t heard before not far behind you, deep enough that it made Tom sound high-pitched in comparison. Which was strange because Tom never sounded like a child in comparison to anyone.

“Hey Jackie,” Tom called out to you. The sudden addressal rips you back to reality, this must be how fish feel when they get torn from the water.

“Yeah?” You replied, straightening up and languidly turning on your seat to look over at him as if you were an obedient dog. Except that you didn’t look at him. No, no, your attention was stolen by something entirely different.

Your eyes locked onto the monster staring at what had previously been your back. He wasn’t remarkable, neither big nor frightening, extravagant or otherworldly. Unless you count the dead as ‘otherworldly’ of course…

Oh, wow, that skeleton’s really goddamn short. Maybe three or four inches taller than you if how small he looked compared to Tom meant anything. He looked familiar in a way you couldn’t describe, like you’ve seen him once before in a long forgotten and obsolete memory.

There’s a toolbox hanging from his skeletal hand, a various assortment of metallic wrenches and screws clattering around in it as he treads towards you. “Move out the way, kid.” His voice is surly, deep and masculine in a way that sends an unwavering shiver down your spine.

You couldn't easily tell the age of monsters, how could anyone when they all looked so fucking inhuman? But there was no denying that he sounded older. Roughly somewhere in his thirties if you tried to put a probably inaccurate number to it.

Maybe around Tom’s age, give or take a couple of years.

“Shit, my bad.” You scrambled off your seat, wincing as a strand of your hair smacked unceremoniously against your eyelids, “Sorry.”

There’s only one visible eye in his sockets, and it glowed like the brightest red giant you’d ever seen. In the right lighting, it could probably be as soothing as a child’s nightlight, but here? Nah.

Maybe it’s the mild annoyance in his expression, the furrow of bone (how was that even possible?) on his forehead, but that light definitely was not soothing.

Quite the opposite, really. It reduces you to a fish with a spear pierced through its heart. Paralyzing you as if laced with neurotoxic venom, a coldness rings in the rapid beating of your heart.

I can’t think. Why can’t I think? My brain is all I have.

He waves his spare hand at you dismissively, the dark red glove sending a whiff of…is that burned cloth? In your direction. “Don’t waste yer breath. I ain’t bein’ nice.”

His teeth are shark-like, and colored like ivory save for a single fang of gold. Why am I looking at his mouth? “I just don't feel like dealin’ with yer dad if one of these wrenches falls and cracks open that pretty little skull of yours.” He sniggered, his golden canine flashing as he sauntered past ‘your’ piano. “Such a shame— woulda been funny as fuck.”

He doesn’t bother to spare you a glance as he heads over to two other men wheeling in a shiny scissor lift. Acting so nonchalant that you doubt he noticed, let alone cared that he’d left you frozen in your tracks.

His iridescent red gaze no longer on you, your chest expands as you finally suck in a breath.

He spoke with such blinding sarcasm, such disregard for you as an individual that literally anyone else would have been offended. You’d seen people get punched on the streets for giving someone something as trivial as an odd look, and he’d just jeered you. Straight to the face. It would be enough to make some people call him a slur to his face, to spit on all of monsterkind for being backwards brutes.

But…he called you pretty….

Your lip twitches up uncontrollably, a smile unfurling like the wings of a butterfly breaking through its chrysalis. Awkwardly, uncomfortably— and suddenly beaming.

“Sans, be nice.” Tom admonished as you instinctively hurried over to his side, your legs moving whilst your brain remained stunned. Unable to tear away your eyes from the back of the monster’s— Sans’s obsidian-black jacket. “Also she’s not my daughter.” He added in hastily, his tone sounding noticeably more awkward than you’d normally hear it.

You couldn’t have given less of a shit about it if you tried.

There’s an odd warmth covering your cheeks, as if you’d been standing underneath the sun in such a way that the light only struck your face. A strange contrast to the chill that had overtaken the rest of you.

What did he just do? Seriously, what the fuck did Sans just do? Sure being looked at by people could make you incredibly uneasy at times, but paralyzed? Full on paralyzed like you were standing on a stage? That hadn’t happened since— ugh...

“It-it’s okay, Tom.” You stammered uncomfortably, crossing your arms whilst forcing yourself to look away before your staring was noticed. You turned your head to the side, a hand rubbing incessantly against your still warm cheek. It’s a strange, foreign sensation you've never felt before. Something completely out of place.

“Who’s that?” You need to know. You want more than anything to know.

I just met him, what’s wrong with me? You don’t even try to talk to your lab-mates unless there’s a lab report involved, or if Tom told you to put yourself out there just once in your miserable college life.

You’ve never wanted to know someone so badly before, and you didn’t quite know what to do with yourself.

“That’s Sans,” for fuck’s sake I already know that, “he’s one of the new contract workers. You might’ve seen him doing maintenance around campus; that’s how I know him.” You can feel Tom’s eyes on you, staring at you, analyzing you as if you were a scatter-plot graph.

Thank God your hair was long enough to conceal the back of your quickly prickling neck.

He chuckles softly, reaching out a hand to carefully pat the back of your shoulder. Tom is one of maybe a handful of people who can get away with that without making you flinch. “Are you alright?”

Swinging your gaze onto him, a wide grin splits across your face. “Fuck yeah I am!” You jankily throw both your thumbs up, hoping that the action broke through the tension currently wreaking havoc inside your body.

You can see him at the edge of your vision, scaling the big red lift like it was nothing. It took everything you had not to look at him. Not to stare at him until he looked back, and reduced you to a shriveled mess underneath his soul-strangling gaze.

“I…just…didn’t expect someone other than you to come up to me.” You lied.

Come on, what else were you supposed to do? He’d understand if he were in your shoes. As much as you liked Tom he didn’t need to know that you really wanted to talk to Sans. That you would beat yourself up in bed tonight if you didn’t at least try to speak with him.

Dramatic much?

You dug yourself deeper into the hole of your own creation, painfully aware of the sweaty ooze running down your back the longer he scrutinized you. “Don’t see a lotta monsters on campus either, he startled me.”

Please buy it.

Tom’s previous expression of solicitude turned unreadable for a moment as he gave you an odd glance. Your smile deepening, his brow furrows as he shakes his head with a bemused smirk. “Since when did you turn racist?” He humorously asked, sending the neurons of your brain into short circuit.

“It’s not racist if I’m telling the truth!” Him thinking you were being racist was a million times more preferable than him catching your lie. But come on! Was your bar truly that low?

Since when did you prefer assumed racism to admitting you wanted to talk to a boy? To even hinting at the fact that your heart felt like it was going to burst out of your chest if said guy so much as looked at you again? Not in a good way. The painful way that led to a visit to the ER for heart palpitations.

It was the most peculiar curiosity you felt towards someone in a long, long time. A flavor of compulsion so different from what you normally felt that it was all-consuming.

You didn’t care if you were supposed to go back home after the play, it was cut short anyway, you were gonna talk to that skeleton if your life depended on it.

He could do nothing short of telling you to fuck off to your face to make you not want to speak to him.

“Sounds like something a racist would say,” Tom grinned gently down at you. You snorted, “nah if I was racist I would just call him a—“ his pointed gaze silenced you before you could finish that sentence. ”— a-a man with…useful and applicable technical skills…?”

“Yeah. That.”

“I wasn’t even gonna say anything bad.” You pouted. You saved your insults for the shower.

He rolled his eyes, “Just looking out for you.”

I can’t believe he actually bought that shit.

Murmuring incomprehensibly to yourself, your eyes land naturally onto the skeleton standing atop the lift— tampering with light fixtures. It was so subtle you didn’t realize that you were staring until he paused, and peered down at you.

He met your gaze, his one eye feeling like too many on your skin. Freezing cold electricity shot through you as if you had been physically struck by lightning.

Underneath your long dark sleeves, hair raised and brushed against the inside of cool fabric.

You swiftly tore your eyes away.

Why did you do that? Why did you have to look? And why did you have to act so fucking weird about it? He couldn’t have held your gaze for more than a few seconds and you’d acted like he’d pulled a gun on you!

Why can’t I be normal and not act like a lobotomized freak? Just for once?

Is that too much to ask?

As unsettling as the sensation he left you was, a part of you hoped that he was still looking at you as you turned to Tom. “What are you gonna do now?” You asked. The question a futile attempt to quell the disorder in your mind. “The play’s been all messed up.”

Please let me be alone.

Tom gave a small shrug of his shoulders, “probably go and write up an incident report. Your dad—“ Your smile falters imperceptibly “— wanted me to take you back to your apartment when it was done, so I can drop you off now if you want? It won't take long.”

“No.” You deny him so quickly he blinked. “I think I’mma go get something to eat,” good save, “I don’t wanna deal with telling him I left early for like…any reason. Ever.”

“He’s not going to get upset with you for something that wasn’t your fault. Especially since it was only a play.”

He gave you a gentle smile, “I can vouch for you.”

Doesn’t matter— he absolutely would, and I don’t wanna deal with it. With him.

“Still…” you reach over and tug on his sleeve, the smooth material cool against your fingers. “I’ll text you when to come get me?” You give him your most sincere pleading smile. You’re begging, but not for the reasons that he thinks.

Tom gently pulled his arm away, taking a step to the side and inconveniently covering your field of view from the lift. You wanted to move and get a better view of it, of him, but it would’ve been far too obvious.

“Okay then,” why did he say it like that? He fished a hand through his pocket, and pulled out a scrunched up five dollar bill.

Holding it out to you, he found your confused expression hilarious as he let out a short chuckle. “If you’re going out can you pick up a scratch ticket for me?”

Couldn’t have just let you go, huh? But since it was him…

“Sure,” You snatched the money from his hand so fast a Parisian pickpocketer would be impressed. Stuffing it into your light purple mini-purse, you smirk.

“You know the probability of winning one of those is so insignificant you’d have better luck walking outside and getting struck by lightning, right? Like— we literally calculated that shit for a project in my statistics class this summer. It was around…uhh,” shut up you pretentious little shit, “three hundred times more likely.”

Ew. You sound like one of those annoying engineering students who are constantly harping on about ‘real world applications’.

“Just get me my ticket, Jackie.”

Anything if it would give you an excuse to come back here later…

Alone.

The automatic sliding door closes behind you with a short whoosh. “Tom?” You call out softly, your eyes scanning over the lobby of the building, hoping and praying that he had gone. He had to be, there’s no goddamn way he would be sticking around here now— not when almost all the students and technicians had fucked off.

Only a few students you didn’t recognize still lingered in the lobby. Two girls sat amongst themselves on one of the dingy tables, the type with a wall socket connected to its rectangular centerpiece. The three of you paid each other no mind as you walked past them, their ears covered by black headphones and faces illuminated by the fluorescent light of their macbooks.

There’s no reply. No familiar voice echoing from the hall in response to your own, no deep blue jeans and no dull grey t-shirt.

He’s not here! A pang of excitement rings through your ribcage and into your heart.

He didn’t tell you when he wanted you to bring him the ticket you currently held stuffed inside your purse. You could just use what little battery you had left to call him when the time was right. But for now, you had much more important things on your mind: Sans.

Twisting through the hallway, you stand in front of the massive door that serves as the entrance to the auditorium. A grunt escapes you as you press your arms against it, holy hell why does it gotta be so heavy? And cold?

“The fuck?” Confusion runs in droves within the confines of your mind. When you were coming earlier Tom didn’t even have to try to open this stupid thing— what gives? Did you magically become weaker, and more pathetic in the time it took to walk all the way back here?

It wouldn’t be the most disappointing thing in your life.

You weren’t gonna let this stupid fucking obstacle get in the way of you getting inside that theatre. Shuffling on your feet, you shove your side into the door with as much strength as you could possibly manage. “Open up you piece of shit coME ON—“

You narrowly missed the sound of muffled voices on the other side. The door suddenly swung itself open from within so quickly you couldn’t have prepared for it, and you lost your footing.

You barrel forwards onto the hard floor with an unceremonious, and frankly extremely embarrassing shriek. ”EeeEEEEEE—“

“…What the fuck?”

You groan wordlessly on the floor, your head aching as if your brain had slammed against the inside of your skull. Squirming on the floor like a diseased rat, it doesn’t take a doctor to realize that your shoulder had taken the brunt of that fall.

“Owww.” You hiss between clenched teeth, your vision blurring as tears prickle in the corners of your eyes. You’re pathetic, you’re disgusting and desperate why did you ever think this was a good idea—

Forcing yourself to lay on your stomach, you barely registered the movement of the men surrounding you. Two red tennis shoes suddenly appear in front of you, stepping leisurely into your line of sight.

He didn’t even give you a chance to look up at him before his laughter exploded from his jaw.

“BAHAHA— What the hell is wrong with ya!? Why wouldn’t ya just pull the door open ya fuckin’ idiot!?”

Oh God. Please.

No.

Not like this.

You recognize that voice, your heart nearly exploding as your anguish saps away in an instant. Replaced by a terror and excitement so unbearably strong your breath caught in your throat. You feared you’d never breathe again.

“I’m s-so sorry.” Your voice slurred as you dared looking up, your entire body wracked by agonizing apprehension as Sans gazed down at you. There’s someone else standing beside you, but he wasn’t much more than a fly on the wall. He meant absolutely nothing to you in the presence of glowing crimson eyes and that petrifying grin.

Seriously, if that grin on Sans’ skull stretched any wider it might snap his jaw in two.

“I didn’t realize…it was a pull door….?” It took all of your effort to speak. Your throat was wrapped in an invisible chokehold, ghostly hands squeezing around it and threatening to crush you into submission. It’s unbearable, and the worst part of you wished for the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Somehow, you preferred the pain of slamming onto the floor a-hundred times over to the embarrassment of this being how you approached him. That same paralysis from earlier reared its ugly head, and it was so so much worse than before.

“Really? Didn't think it was a pull door?” Sans snarked with obvious disbelief. He made no move to help you back onto your feet. No effort to offer you his hand.

How would those bones feel against your soft human skin? Would they be cold, or feel like nothing at all?

“Thought never once crossed yer mind that, Stars, maybe it’s not a fuckin’ push one?”

I get it. I’m stupid and you’re right. Everyone but me is always right.

He stood there, staring down at you with his hands shoved into the pockets of his fuzzy black coat. “No….?” What else were you supposed to say? What was there to say? You’d got what you wanted; being in his presence. But in probably the worst, most pathetic possible way ever.

Fucking idiot.

Sans tilted his head at you, his sockets narrowing in an odd mixture of scrutiny and….delight? No— that’s definitely satisfaction.

“Don’t make me laugh, ya little shit.”

Skin prickling, you uncomfortably struggle to pull yourself onto your knees with a grunt. Did you do something to offend him? He’d been snarky earlier but there was something about how he was grinning that was different.

What did you do? Was whatever it was salvageable? Please. It has to be salvaged. This couldn’t possibly get any worse than it already was—

Except it could.

You were so pitiable, struggling on the floor like that. Practically grovelling. The chill of the tile against your skin, flushed by embarrassment, did nothing more than add onto your anguish. And neither did the throbbing of your shoulder offer much distraction from your distress.

The other guy you’d ignored the existence of stepped in between you and Sans. He reached down and said something that sounded so unintelligible that it forced your attention onto him. “Huh?” What the hell did he say?

“Let me help you up.” Sans’ coworker repeated, extending you his hand. You blink at him for a moment, before awkwardly allowing him to pull you back up onto your feet.

Wiping your hands against your debris-laden pants, it’s a war to pay attention to the man who actually helped you. “Thank you.” Your voice is sheepish and mumbly.

Embarrassing and awkward. Just like the rest of you.

“Did you need something?” You try to look at him, but Sans draws your eye like a moth to lantern-light. You’re trying so hard not to stare— Goddamn, I must look like such a freak.

That edge to his sharp-toothed grin only grew deeper the longer you looked at it. So intense that you thought it might have been you.

“I was looking for something I lost when I was here earlier,” you lied through your teeth with a voice too quick and tone too unsteady. “I think I dropped my lipstick on the back of the stage when I was heading outside.” Seriously? You don’t even carry lipstick.

Was it really a lie when you were actually here on a search? Just for someone, and not something.

To your surprise, it was Sans who replied. “You came all this way for some fuckin’ lipstick?” He scoffed, his sockets remaining narrowed on you with clear and undeniable disbelief. His gaze felt more and more petrifying as the seconds went on—

Look away.

He was harsh, just as much as he was perceptive. And man, was he far smarter than you’d have ever dreamed.

Academically speaking, you could accept that on some level you were intelligent. You scored well after a night of energy drinks and last second studies, but for literally everything else? You’re nothing.

Truth be told, a part of you hadn’t even thought you’d make it this far, and it’d never considered what you’d do if you actually got to him. And now that you had him— you had literally no idea how to move forward in this situation. Not without looking deranged.

“What? It was a good brand.” You smile, totally flustered.

Shrugging your shoulder, the out-of-place nonchalance of your own words surprises you— especially for a girl who’d just thrown herself onto the floor mere minutes ago.

“That’s a load of horseshit—“ Sans was silenced by the voice of the other man. “You can check if one of us left it on the table at the back,” his coworker offered as Sans gave him one very obvious glare. “We pick up stuff you students drop all the time and leave it for clean-up. It could be there.”

“Oh, uh, thanks sir.” You may as well have been an AI-Robot from how knee-jerk your response had been. “Lemme check it out.”

Staring at the ground so you didn’t gawk even more obviously at Sans, Fuck the eye contact was enough to petrify you, you step away from them and down the auditorium. The second you couldn’t see them anymore, nothing could distract you from the dismay of what just happened.

What the hell was that? Why did you act like that?

Why??

What the hell is wrong with you? Could you possibly be any more disgusting and desperate for attention?

Should’ve just called Tom, should’ve just gone home and banged your head against the wall until you passed out and forgot this ever happened—

There’s no way that he doesn’t think you’re insane by now! You should take off and run into oncoming traffic. Getting crushed by a campus bus would be more merciful than living with this humiliation ‘till the day you die.

Quickly clambering up the mini-stairs leading to the stage, the red curtain envelopes you for a split second before you emerge on the other side. Thank fuck, no ones here.

You rub your eyes and fight back a disgraceful sniffle. Seriously? Right now?

Wait until you’re alone before you cry, unless you want to look pathetic?

…no.

Not knowing what to do with yourself, you trudge towards the table with an assortment of presumably forgotten items on it. Staring dully down at them, you brush your hands through the mess.

You’re an idiot for committing to the bit so deeply that you’re literally digging through other people’s trash. Maybe this was karma for you thinking bad about theatre kids— if it was, you totally deserved it.

Bad people got what they deserved eventually— or at least, you hoped that they did. Even if it meant you were definitely going to be, very, very fucked.

”Seriously? Lipstick?”

Your soul nearly left your body as you jolted with a startled gasp, and peered over your shoulder. “AH— Oh! Heeey you!” There couldn’t have possibly been a more awkward expression on your face. You grinned, eyes wide whilst your back pressed so harshly against the table your spine was stabbed by its edges.

Please end my life.

“Ya got a problem with me?” He bluntly questioned with a frown, not bothering to grin anymore. Your own immediately faltered, confusion creasing across your forehead. “Did’cha not think I was gonna say anythin’? Or are ya really that stupid?”

…Huh?

“Uh…what?” Okay he had to have noticed you staring. Of course he would! You’d been eying him far longer than you should have— even after he’s met your gaze from the top of the lift.

His gaze turns darker. Wrong move.

“Quit playin’ dumb with me.” ”I’m not—“

”Shut up. I know how ya humans work.”

One of your hands instinctively seeked for purchase on the table, your fingers squeezing so tightly onto its edge that their color rivaled the paleness of his ivory-white bones.

Much to your horror, your bewilderment did nothing but piss him off more.

Clink-click-cliiiiing.

You hadn’t noticed the gold-colored chains dangling from his shorts before. But when he stepped towards you, the sound of them clinking together was the most terrifying thing you’d ever heard.

More frightening than stairs creaking beneath footsteps, more dangerous than tires screeching against asphalt-laden roads.

“Always thinkin’ that ya’re better than us lowly monsters.” He chuckles, tilting his skull in towards you with scrutiny. You weren’t a person to him, but a rude little maggot that needed to be squashed. “Ya couldn’t be more wrong.”

Despite only being moderately taller than you, he was as intimidating as a man twice his size and strength. He got up right in your face, so close that you could see how his eye-sockets were more akin to dark voids than tried and true cavities.

Black-holes that threatened to suck you in, and stretch and rend you to pieces in a place you’d never come back from.

”And,” Shaking his head, his grin stretches cruelly like a cheshire cat. He laughs. “Yer all always starin’ at me like I crawled outta some fuckin’ graveyard. Thinkin’ that I won’t notice.”

He huffs, the sound as vain as it was hateful. “That shit doesn't fly with me.”

He’s too close— he’s way too close— I’m gonna die.

Your heart beat so rapidly that you could feel your ears thrumming to an almost painful degree. You tried to speak, to make any sort of noise— but the words caught in your throat. Your eyes locked onto his, your stiffened back painfully flush against the hard edge of the table.

Instead of comprehensible language, the noise that escaped your throat was hardly more than a shuddering breath.

His hands weren’t even on you and your entire body felt trapped, crushed beneath the weight of an invisible mousetrap. And that somehow wasn’t the most humiliating part— not in the slightest.

It was not throwing yourself onto the floor and accidentally hurting yourself in front of him and his coworker. Not how he’d caught you looking— no staring at him multiple times, and definitely not at the unfortunate irony of you incidentally being mistaken for a racist. Damn it, Tom.

No, you knew what the worst part of this was—- you kind of liked it; the proximity.

Sure you might pass out on the spot from heart palpitations, but he was so…close…

“I didn’t mean it like that!” You choked out, voice shaking as the mere action of speaking took an insurmountable effort. “I swear!” It’d be a miracle if you didn’t lose your voice after this.

He wasn’t buying it. Not one bit.

“Such a little goddamn liar. Ya think I didn’t notice ya starin’? Watching me while I was tryna work?” He huffed an irritated breath right in your face that caused your nostrils to flare. “Did yer daddy never teach ya not to stare?”

His breath carried the faintest hint of alcohol in it.

“I’m not lying!” Desperation and slight defensiveness sharpen your words.

Sans couldn’t have been further from repulsive, even if his accusations were beyond ridiculous and beginning to get under your skin. You never liked being blamed for what you didn’t do, especially with the mention of your father.

He cocked his brow-ridge at you, an astonishing feat for a person lacking entirely in skin and sinew. “Oh yeah? Then why the hell were ya gawkin’ at me like that, kid?” He accusatorially pointed a phalange to your face, letting out a low, threatening chuckle. “Couldn’t handle a lil’ bit of teasin’?”

Sorta…

An unwanted flinch wracks through you, his question forcing a flustered warmth to your face. “No, it’s because I— I…“ Your voice started failing you once more. Pathetically.

Come on he’s letting you talk— don’t be a little bitch! Don’t be a pussy and tell him why you really came back here.

Sans stared down at you in visible confusion as you squirmed against the table, his sockets narrowed as if he were watching a diseased rat death-spiral into a stroke. But in all honesty— a dying rat would have been more graceful than you were. “…Are ya on crack?” I wish I was.

“No, I just wanted to see you!” You exclaimed, your voice far louder than you usually let it be. Nowhere near a shout, but loud enough that he threw a quick glance over his shoulder to the curtain, nervous someone would barge backstage.

Your hands shoot up to your mouth, your blood running cold as you too stare at the curtain. The tension in the air shifted away from the two of you, transferring entirely to who may or may not be beyond the curtain.

You’re so fucked. So unbelievably fucked.

A small eternity passed before one of you did anything. Sans slowly, cautiously, backed away.

The anger in him had seemingly evaporated in his bewilderment, those crimson eyelights of his vanishing for a moment only to reappear and peer directly into your soul. “What did ya say?” His rough voice had noticeably quieted in his shock, and you swore you saw his spine straightening as he stared at you in disbelief.

Damn, did all men sound so husky when they kept their voices down? Or was it just him? I like it.

Instantly missing the closeness, you pull your hands from your lips, defensively crossing your arms. “I said I wanted to see you.” You repeated, your voice sounding a little bit less pathetic and more forward. Your gaze fell to his neck, unable to make any eye-contact in fear of being rendered a stuttering mess.

When he didn’t immediately shut you down, a smile creeped onto your face. It was awkward, but undeniably hopeful. You feel incredibly uncomfortable, but you’d gotten your voice back, and you’d be damned if you didn’t use it.

“I wasn’t staring at you because you’re a monster, or because I think you’re weird or anything like that— I was staring because I thought you were…”

You broke off for a moment, struggling to find the words, “…interesting. and I really, really wanted to talk to you.” Your voice heightened slightly as you let out an anxious chuckle, your fingers idly prodding at your sleeves.

You dared to look up at him, your heart beating a mile a minute. “I really do.”

He had this really weird grin on his face; you didn’t care. You were in too deep and you couldn’t stop talking. “You’re just…so…” You literally just met him, and that fact caused you to pause, struggling to articulate a reason for why you seeked him out.

There really wasn’t a good one. You’d acted on complete impulse, just because you wanted to. Because you had to.

“…cool.”

You inched closer to his still frame, your head tilted slightly to keep your gaze steady. “I’m really sorry for offending you,” your arms uncrossed. You swore your right hand had a mind of its own as it reached out towards him. “My name’s Jackie—“

Just as your hand brushed against his coat, his own violently shot towards it and grasped dangerously tight onto the wrist. ”Shut. Ya mouth.”

There was a rasp to his voice that did something to you, something so diabolical that it persisted even as you flinched. You didn’t fight it as he pulled your hand away from his coat— his touch electrical against your skin.

Was it just you, or did his movements seem…strained? And were his cheekbones reflecting the red light of his eye-lights that vibrantly before? God, they looked so cool when they shimmered like that. Almost like they were glowing.

Those same red eye-lights flicker over you, up and down, back and forth. Fuck, he’s checking me out. I shoulda worn a push-up bra.

“Are ya fuckin’ with me?” The words barely left his maw before you shook your head. “No.” That was the furthest thing on your mind.

Sans’ phalanges squeezed as tight as a noose around your wrist, before he ripped it away in such a sudden motion you instinctively recoiled.

“Nah,” the word slices you like a butter-knife, “Fuck no. You’re outta ya goddamn mind, yer just a kid and ya don’t know shit.” The confliction on his face was unlike anything you’d ever seen before; a million and one emotions battling for dominance.

His flabbergasting might have been funny had you not felt like you’d just been stabbed in the throat.

Sans’ red-eyelights darted around chaotically inside his sockets, occasionally landing on you before just as swiftly moving away. Were you so repulsive that he couldn’t bear to look at you…?

Shoving his hands inside his pockets, he turned around and briskly walked away. “I’m out.”

“Wait!” You called, chasing after him as your heart threatened to jump out of your chest. Your face felt unbelievably warm as a mixture of embarrassment and distress compelled you to follow him. “I’m not a kid, please listen to me!”

He refused to look at you as you trailed beside him, no matter how obviously you stared. He wasn’t that fast of a walker, it wasn't hard to keep up to him. “Look, please I just— I’m sorry. Okay?” You begged him for forgiveness like a dog starved for attention.

“Why would I wanna talk to ya?” His tone was incredulous as he roughly shoved open the door and stalked outside. You grunted, pushing your palm against the door before it could smack you right in the face.

You’d exited through here earlier because of the lack of anyone on this side of campus; there were more walkways and cars than people. It was hardly maintained by the groundskeepers, something that was made abundantly clear when Sans sidestepped around a grimy pile of mud in an attempt to step onto dry cement.

Nobody was around, at least closely enough that they’d take notice of your floundering after him. This humiliation is yours alone.

His question was valid and logical— two things that you definitely weren’t. It causes you to stop dead in your tracks, sneakers squelching on top of oozy mud. The sound sends a disgusted shiver down your spine with every desperate step.

You hadn’t been looking at the ground, not when your eyes were glued to him and you were pleading for him to give you a chance.

How were you supposed to answer that? Were you supposed to lie and say you were cool when you were literally standing in mud? What could you— a worthless nobody— offer someone like him? Tom probably only tolerated you out of pity and misguided kindness, and your family…

You had no good answer for him.

“…I don't know.”

It’s windy out in the lot, gusts so strong your hair wisped uncomfortably against your face. You wipe them away with the back of your hand. Not only was it annoyingly windy, but the rancid humidity caused the baby hairs on the back of your sweaty neck to stick onto your skin. Gross.

Great. I came all this way just to fuck everything up.

It’s just like you to ruin everything before it has a chance to begin. The only thing missing was fog, then it would really seal the deal.

He paused atop the pavement once your footsteps no longer sounded against the earth.

You stared at the darkness of his coat, hopelessness strangling you with its ice-cold hands. “I’m sorry, Sans. I wasn—wasn’t thinking.”

The weight of your shame threatens to sink you into the mud like a heavy-weight stone. With the way it stuck to your shoes, you knew you’d never truly be clean again. You’re just too filthy, too disgusting to ever be forgiven.

There you go again, losing your voice and what little dignity you had left. All to your own blunder.

He tilts his skull slightly at the sound of his name. Please be in acknowledgment.

This was all your fault. The muddy shoes, the damp, tangled hair sticking to your neck. The anxious curling of your fingers against your palm. You shouldn’t have let yourself do this, should have ignored whatever it was that compelled you to chase him.

Should have had some self-control.

You suck in a breath, and continue.

“I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have stared at you.” The remorse hurt worse than the pain in your shoulder, and yet there was a greater agony in the fact that he still wasn’t looking at you. Or should you be glad that he wasn’t? That you couldn’t see the disgusted and offended look you knew was on his face? That you didn’t have to bear it?

“It was s-so rude— so reckless of me and I’m sorry.” How many times were you going to apologize today? Someone should start a counter…

Compared to how close he had been to you earlier: he was now miles away.

Out of nowhere, his previously stilled shoulders trembled with the echoes of a chuckle. It sounded deep and undeniable in the face of your well-deserved misfortune. If you could have shrunk into yourself and imploded like poorly nailed Ikea furniture, you would have.

He’s totally laughing at you, isn’t he? At your misery and desperation, at how you made the wrong move at every turn both literally and metaphorically.

You couldn’t blame him. You’d been cruel not long ago; a chick tripped on the edge of the sidewalk and you’d laughed before you could stop yourself. And before then you’d giggled at your aunt’s story about how a deer commit suicide on her car’s bumper.

You’re simply getting what you deserved; to be completely and utterly humiliated. At least it being from him meant he was acknowledging your existence.

Karma struck in all its forms.

“Ya’re right,” he started between chuckles, “ya weren’t thinkin’ ‘bout shit and ya sure as fuck are sorry.”

It takes him an agonizingly long second for him to turn around, and he doesn’t even grant you the luxury of fully facing you when he speaks. His crimson eyes trail along your frame, lingering on how your shoes shuffled awkwardly against the messy earth.

He grins, looking down at you. “Do ya always screw yerself over like this?” There’s a hint of levity hidden beneath layers of ridicule, small but impossible to miss.

How could a total stranger send sparks flying through you, yet snuff them out? There must be something deeply, deeply wrong with you— worse than you’d thought.

How can you possibly get any worse? Is there a level beneath rock bottom that runs all the way into the earth’s core?

“Pretty much.” You reply, tucking an ornery strand of hair behind your ear. Sans’ socket crinkled in amusement, and he huffed out a laugh so low that you perk up. This was a good sign, right? Him no longer trying to get away from you.

A nervous smile brightened up your previously desolate expression. “Is it funny?” It’s a dumb question, you know it is, but you desperately needed a cherry to top this shitty situation. Something you could grab onto, and tell you that there was hope.

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely.” He didn’t give you a chance to finish your thought. Not when his voice carried that same sardonically amusing edge to it that it had when you’d met him. The very same tone that had you smiling so hard the edges of your mouth ached.

Suddenly, you didn’t feel so miserable anymore.

Desperate for more of it, you egg him on. “Is it funnier than how I threw myself onto the floor earlier?” Why did your voice sound so soft? So light and airy (sweet?)? It’s beyond atypical for you, but you couldn’t say you were complaining.

He snorts, giving you a considerate glance. “Nah, that was way funnier. But if ya keep standin’ in the mud like that it might be…” His eyelights flicker to your shoes.

“Oh, right.” You skipped out of the pile and onto concrete, stomping your foot in an attempt to fling the mud off. Despite your excitement, you couldn’t ignore the flicker of dread at the idea of staining them forever.

“My dad’s gonna be so pissed if I ruin these— he just got me them last month!” You pouted, catching Sans’ brow-bone twitching up for a moment as he watched you from a few feet away.

“At the beginning of the semester?” He questioned.

“Yeah— well, the beginning of this semester. I took summer classes.” You explain, scraping the bottom of your shoes against the sidewalk. Fuck this was gonna be a problem if you didn’t get it all off.

“They were mostly online, but I wanted to get the basics that I couldn’t test outta done so I could focus on my physics classes.” You paused to catch your breath. I’m talking way too much. “And hopefully finish in three years so I don’t have to stay in this shithole longer than I have to.”

You didn’t feel bad about it. Sure you were eagerly nervous to hear how he’d reply, but it wasn’t the same brand of existential terror you felt during an icebreaker or when talking to your father.

It was an entirely different brand of anticipation that you didn’t quite have a name for.

“Ya a physics student or somethin’?” He asked, shifting on his feet in an abrupt movement— he faced you fully now. Intrigue clear in his eyes alongside a spark of…recollection?

“Unfortunately yes,” you answer with a smirk. “One of the worst majors I could have possibly picked. Makes me wanna slam my head into the wall whenever I open up the textbook, but,” you cut yourself off with a throaty chuckle. “At least I’m not an engineering student! God they’re all just so fucking insufferable— worse than pre-meds.”

His crimson eyelight shimmered at your words, before he barked out a harsh laugh. “HAH— I used to be an engineer! Ya sayin’ somethin’ bout me?”

Wait—

“NO! No no no, not at all!” You throw your hands up in an appeasing gesture and scurry towards him. “I take it back, I take it back!” How were you supposed to know that? He was doing maintenance and only broke guys without degrees did maintenance!

Offending him was the last thing you wanted.

“Man, fuck ya then.” Sans gave a dismissive swipe with his hand, your chest fluttering when his fingers smacked against yours. If he thought you missed the amused narrowness of his eye-sockets he was dead wrong! He totally found it funny. Found you funny.

“Yer rude as shit, kid.”

You giggle incredulously, “I’m the rude one?”

“Yep.”

“But you’ve done nothing but cuss me out since I saw you!”

“That’s different. Ya deserved it.”

You glare at him playfully, two can play at the witty game. “I might’ve been staring but you’re the one drinking on the job— that’s way worse!”

The light in his sockets went out as if you’d physically stuck your hands in and snuffed them out. Your grin fell instantly. That was the wrong thing to say.

“Are ya accusin’ me of somethin’?” He bristled, the previous camaraderie between the two of you evaporating as he stiffened up. His eyelights flickering back into existence. “I ain’t drink shit here. It ain’t allowed.”

You recoiled, your shoulders bunching up uncomfortably— he sounded angry. Not teasing, not confronting, but plain old angry. Defensive.

“I’m sorry. I thought I smelled something on you earlier, and I was tryna be funny.” He’s upset and it’s your fault. You should have known better— not accused him of something that could get him screwed out of a job.

“Yer outta ya mind if ya think that shit. Ya didn’t smell anythin’.” Sans shifted on his foot as if he were going to resume his original path. The sight was enough to make you feel like a popped balloon— all of your joy bursting out by the needle of your audacity. “Wait, don't go!”

“The hell do ya know about drinkin’ anyway? Do the shops out here not bother to ID you kids?” He huffed as he took a step away, you once again left scrambling behind him.

“No—“ He shot a glance at you. Shit, you weren’t supposed to admit that— “I mean yes! I mean— ugh!” God fucking damn it! Look what you did! Look at what you fucking did!

You reach out and snatch his sleeve in your hand, the action so swift your shoulder throbs with pain. “Please don’t tell anybody I said that!” Your voice quivers in your pleading, the blood in your veins running cold with panic. “Oh, God.”

What had previously been an exhilarating fluttering in your chest quickly turned terrifying, and your spare hand found its way over your painfully throbbing heart. If Sans told his co-workers that would mean it could get to Tom, and if it got to Tom then it could get to—

Skeletal hands grabbed onto the sides of your shoulders, roughly shaking you in such a way that you shrieked mutedly. “Fuckin’ knock it off.” He warned impatiently, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Listen to me.”

With hands now holding you still, he forces you to look at him. The annoyance in his eye-light is somehow more brilliant than it’s color. “I’m not gonna snitch on ya.” Relief rushed through you like a tidal wave, and you let out a drawn out sigh of relief. Disaster averted— You wouldn’t have to write out a will and note for your impending death after all.

“Thank you—“ Sans wasn’t done talking—- “but only, and only if ya go and get me some drinks. I ain’t doin’ any favors for free.”

You jerk in surprise, or at least, you would have if he wasn’t still gripping onto your shoulders. “I can’t.” Memories of overheard conversations between your monster classmates come back to you, that and one other thing…

Sans frowned, “the fuck ya mean ya can’t? I’m being nice and givin’ ya a chance to not get your ass thrown outta the university.” He squeezes your shoulders harsh enough that you whine in discomfort, reflexively pulling backwards. “I can’t,“ you repeated, wincing as he refused to soften his almost painful grip. “It’s illegal—“

“So is ya drinkin’.” Sans pointed out.

You shake your head insistently. “That’s not the same.” It really wasn’t. Drinking underage as a college student was normal, but smuggling beer to a monster? You’d be beyond screwed if you were seen giving it to a monster. Worse than if you’d got caught buying it for yourself.

“Yeah it is.” He flicks you on the side of the neck, making you squeak. That hurt! “Sounds like yer just makin’ excuses so ya don’t have to do it. Would you rather me be a dirty fuckin’ snitch? Cause I can be one— I can be one real quick.” He gave you a very deliberate, telling glare.

“No, that’s not what I want!” You shuffle on your feet anxiously, his lingering touch definitely not helping you keep your wits up.

“Then I think we got a deal. Don’t we?” It doesn’t take a genius to know his question is rhetorical. Not when his head tilted to the side and his frown twisted up into a coaxing grin. There wasn’t anything you could do, at least anything that you had the strength to pull off.

“Uh…” he moves one of his hands away from your shoulder, accidentally brushing his cool phalanges against the side of your neck. He holds it out between the two of you, his attention locked onto you. Undeniable expectancy in his gaze.

He wanted something from you, something you never could have denied.

It broke you.

“Fine. Whatever! Deal.” Your hand grasps onto his, soft fingers a stark contrast to the cold, hard bone of his hand.

Shaking it, he smirks. ”Atta’ girl.”

How could you deny him when he held your hand and looked you in the eye? How could you when he so clearly wanted you to do what he said?

You’d seeked him out.
You’d chased him beyond that door.
You’d begged him for his forgiveness..

Yet…he’d turned around.

Star-struck, your hand lingers on his longer than you’d normally let it. Should you say it? Should you ruin the moment? He needs to know, right?

Screw it. You’re saying it. “But, uh, one thing…”

Sans quizzically cocks a brow, “what?”

You smile nervously, an embarrassed flush spreading over your cheeks. “I can’t drive.”

His socket twitches.