[When they actually take the time to come around is under question; it's not when Sans is there, or Alphys. There's just- envelopes, where there weren't envelopes before. Big, page sized envelopes, sitting on the coffee table.
[There's just envelopes, where there weren't envelopes before. One's addressed to him, and there's no missin' who that looping, childish script belongs to. Truth be told, he weren't expecting anything from them anytime soon.
He weren't expecting anything at all. But as he slides each drawing out from the envelope, the story plays out.
Stories of a little red star that wasn't okay, but could pretend it was.
A little red star that maybe expanded at the heat death of the universe, pushing outward 'cause that was just the way of things went, 'cause it weren't given any other way to go. Seared the edges of some worlds and torched others entirely, leavin' nothing but rock and rubble in their wake.
A little red star that did a lot of things that weren't okay. Not 'cause it meant to. But just 'cause that was the way it was.
A little red star that touched a couple planets that were too far out to ever feel the warm fingers of any sorta sunlight, that never knew what it was for a star to stroke the edges of an atmosphere and breathe a world of life into somethin' that never knew it.
It's a couple of hours before they get a response. When they do, it's in the form of a photograph. It's a clumsy shot of a room that was once Papyrus's, now unoccupied (definitely unoccupied; the beanbag chair he's dragged into it and finds himself sleepin' in more often than not definitely don't mean anything, no sir). The frame ain't wide enough to take in the entire bed, but it should be clear just from the frame and the sheets that it's Papyrus's racecar bed.
Atop it is a collection of objects you could really only call keepsakes, even if you're someone who blithely insists you ain't sentimental. A skull-print sweatervest. Somethin' that looks a little like some head of an android or another. A hot dog truck. A plastic tomato. A couple books. Two books of constellations. An eclectic assemblage of things left behind by the people that ain't here anymore, and the people who've stuck around long enough for him to know they're too important for him to lose.
At the centerpiece is the sheaf of papers that comprises their story.
[It's not something he has to respond to at all, and certainly, what little response is received doesn't get responded to in kind. It's not even something they see straight away; not until the end of the day, when they've delivered everything they need to- spread little seeds of hope about the city as much as they possibly can.
So it's not seen until that night, when one small, tired child has shuffled their way into their baggy sleeping shirt, checking their phone out of habit prior to turning out the lights.
It's not something he had to respond to, and certainly, what little response is received doesn't get responded to in kind. But they look, and they know that bed, and they know that hot dog truck. The plastic tomato. A couple books. Two books of constellations.
Just like they know those sheafs of papers.
Which is to say - they don't doubt at all he treasures it. Not even slightly.
When they turn out the light, and go to sleep, it's with a thrumming warmth in their chest, that feels a little bit like being loved.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
March 18th [1/???]
One is addressed to him.]
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[Done]
[The end.]
fucKING WHEEZES 1/2
He weren't expecting anything at all. But as he slides each drawing out from the envelope, the story plays out.
Stories of a little red star that wasn't okay, but could pretend it was.
A little red star that maybe expanded at the heat death of the universe, pushing outward 'cause that was just the way of things went, 'cause it weren't given any other way to go. Seared the edges of some worlds and torched others entirely, leavin' nothing but rock and rubble in their wake.
A little red star that did a lot of things that weren't okay. Not 'cause it meant to. But just 'cause that was the way it was.
A little red star that touched a couple planets that were too far out to ever feel the warm fingers of any sorta sunlight, that never knew what it was for a star to stroke the edges of an atmosphere and breathe a world of life into somethin' that never knew it.
A pretty special kind of LOVE.
But a pretty special kind of love, too.
...does that make sense?
Maybe not.]
photo attachment + text
It's a couple of hours before they get a response. When they do, it's in the form of a photograph. It's a clumsy shot of a room that was once Papyrus's, now unoccupied (definitely unoccupied; the beanbag chair he's dragged into it and finds himself sleepin' in more often than not definitely don't mean anything, no sir). The frame ain't wide enough to take in the entire bed, but it should be clear just from the frame and the sheets that it's Papyrus's racecar bed.
Atop it is a collection of objects you could really only call keepsakes, even if you're someone who blithely insists you ain't sentimental. A skull-print sweatervest. Somethin' that looks a little like some head of an android or another. A hot dog truck. A plastic tomato. A couple books. Two books of constellations. An eclectic assemblage of things left behind by the people that ain't here anymore, and the people who've stuck around long enough for him to know they're too important for him to lose.
At the centerpiece is the sheaf of papers that comprises their story.
Which is to say - he'll treasure it.
And then, a text.]
thanks, frisk.
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So it's not seen until that night, when one small, tired child has shuffled their way into their baggy sleeping shirt, checking their phone out of habit prior to turning out the lights.
It's not something he had to respond to, and certainly, what little response is received doesn't get responded to in kind. But they look, and they know that bed, and they know that hot dog truck. The plastic tomato. A couple books. Two books of constellations.
Just like they know those sheafs of papers.
Which is to say - they don't doubt at all he treasures it. Not even slightly.
When they turn out the light, and go to sleep, it's with a thrumming warmth in their chest, that feels a little bit like being loved.
They did a nice thing, today.
Did the right thing.]