Written By: Radon
Fanart By: KitKat 

Setting the Stage: I would say that this is earlier on in the relationship. That's all I have for time on this one. However, just a note before we start: OMG, RADON, THIS IS AWESOME! You even had ME fangirling! Here, have a gold star. XD  

Your Perspective

"WOWIE!" Papyrus, exclaims. "SO YOU CAN REALLY CREATE A HELMET OUT OF STRIPS OF PAPER IN WATER AND CARDBOARD???"

"That's right," you reply, grinning. "Back when Frisk was in elementary school, we made a Roman helmet for a history project she had to do."

Papyrus looks intrigued, and Sans, currently seated on their sofa, turns a bashful royal blue colour.

"You're so smart," he says. His permanent grin widens, and he buries the end of his chalk-like jawbone into the fluffy depths of his hood. Then he seems to remember that you're his girlfriend now, and stealthily edges towards you. You feel your cheeks heat up in response.

"SANS! WHAT IS A 'ROMAN'?" Papyrus bellows, ignoring your behavior.

"They were a nation of humans that lived a very long time ago. They conquered lots of places and invented concrete and newspapers," Sans explains, slowly emerging from his jacket's neckline.

He's so cute, you think. The very thought of him makes your cheeks flush even more than they were before.

"The Romans also came from a country called Italy," you add. "Funnily enough, that's also where spaghetti comes from."

Papyrus's eyesockets shine, almost as if he had suddenly obtained Sans' glowing pupils. His gloved skeletal hands clasp his cheekbones, his expression the very picture of rapture.

"TH-THEY... COME FROM THE LAND THAT MAKES SPAGHETTI?" he breathes. "I SIMPLY MUST CREATE A ROMAN HELMET THAT I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, CAN DON IN BATTLE!"

With that last statement, Papyrus throws back his head and emits an almost ridiculous-sounding 'NYEH, HEH, HEH,' sending you and Sans into fits of giggles.

"(Y/N), YOU ARE SO VERY INTELLECTUAL," Papyrus continues, "BUT SHALL WE, TOGETHER, CONTINUE WITH OUR PLOT TO CREATE THIS MASTERPIECE?"

"Yes, if you want to!" you exclaim, beaming. "Sans, do you have any newspaper? I'll put some water into a bowl."

Sans fully surfaces from his sweater, and hurries to his and Papyrus's shared kitchen on a valiant quest to find the newspaper and appease his loved one. You follow him to the kitchen sink, where you struggle to insert one of Papyrus's great metal cooking pots into the basin. The cabinet underneath the sink is absurdly high—about twice your height—and you're about to call Papyrus for help when a soft, blue glow envelopes the pot and it floats up to the basin magically.

Wow, you think. Talk about defying the laws of physics. You turn to see Sans standing next to you, clutching a bundle of ancient newspapers in one hand, and the other wreathed in a blue flame.

"Thanks, Sans."

You give the short skeleton a genuine smile, and he returns it immediately. You clamber up to the top of the sink to turn on the tap, and the relaxing noise of the steady stream of water drumming against the metal bottom of the pot makes your eyelids droop slightly. As you didn't sleep very well last night, so you're pretty sleepy today—even something as insignificant as the liquid pouring into the bowl can be enough to tranquilize your mind.

"Buttercup?" a gruff voice asks you from the ground.

Suddenly, you feel a strange tingling sensation (not at all unpleasant, it's rather like being cocooned in a soft blanket), and you realize that you're cloaked in a translucent blue light. It carefully lifts you off your lofty perch on the towering sink, and slowly reels you downwards. The water-filled pot follows shortly afterwards, and is set down beside you. You make no move to fight the gentle descent of the cyan illumination. It places you into Sans' outstretched arms, and they tenderly stroke your hair with measured benevolence. He embraces you and holds you for a few moments, and you drink in his curious, powdery skeleton scent. It's somewhat calming, and you find yourself running your hands along the back of his skull as he plays with your hair. You stay like this for a minute, maybe more, maybe less. It's a timeless exercise—his bony arms wrapped around you protectively and your human arms wrapped around him. Sans, without warning, breaks the silence.

"I don't ever want anyone to reset; not ever. But... if it was for your wellbeing... I don't care how many timelines I live through. I love you so much, (Y/N). I-I don't know w-what I would do w-without you..." Sans chokes the words out, and you can sense luminous blue tears welling in his wide eye sockets.

"It's okay," you whisper softly to him. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm right here, right now. No more... No more resets. Not ever. I promise." In response to this, Sans hugs you even tighter. You feel a warm, fuzzy feeling rise in your chest.

No more resets, you internally promise yourself. No more resets. I'm not putting Sans through that again.

"(Y/N)," Sans starts, staring up at you, "It's not your fault, but... d-don't... don't make promises that you can't keep." In response, you only hug him tighter.

"SANS AND (Y/N), I HAVE ALL OF THE DECORATIVE ITEMS!" Papyrus squawks from the doorway. He's carrying a large cardboard box filled with paints, glue, cardboard, glitter, beads, buttons, and many more items of a similar design. You and Sans both jump out of your skin (or bone in Sans' case), and detach yourselves from each other.

"That's great, Paps." Sans says quickly. "Should we, uh, start the helmet then?"

"WHAT A WONDERFUL IDEA FROM MY TRULY FABULOUS, AMAZING BROTHER! YOU ARE SO CLEVER AND TRULY THE BEST BROTHER EVER!"

You sense that Papyrus is conscious that Sans isn't feeling his best, and it's obvious that the younger skeleton is trying to cheer up his older brother by delivering him a long string of compliments. After all, it's exactly what Frisk would do if she thought that something wasn't quite right. You smile to yourself. Knowing that Sans has a loving sibling fills you with empathy.
You and Sans follow Papyrus into the living room, where the hushed television babbles to itself, unwatched. As always, it's all about Mettaton.

"SO, (Y/N), PLEASE EDUCATE MY BROTHER AND ME IN THE ART OF... WHAT DID YOU CALL IT?" Papyrus asks, his skeletal brow furrowing slightly.

"Papier-mâché, I think (Y/N) said," Sans pipes in. You take a deep breath and start to explain the procedure.

"Uh... So first off, we need the base for the... uh... helm of steel, as Papyrus likes to call it—"

You're interrupted by the tall skeleton.

"THAT IS NOW MY ROMAN HELM OF STEEL!" Papyrus corrects you proudly.

"Okay," you agree cheerfully, "Roman helm of steel it is, then! Anyway, so you start off with your newspaper, and you tear it into long strips. Just Like..."

You glance in Papyrus's direction.

"...thick tagliatelle." You turn to grin at Papyrus, expecting him to comment on your past-themed choice of words... but he's already created a large pile of torn strips.

"IS THIS ENOUGH, (Y/N)?" asks Papyrus, after just a few moments of shredding. His arms were moving so fast that it sapped your strength just looking at him.

"That's plenty, P-Papyrus!" you splutter, trying not to snort with laughter. The pile of shredded newspaper is now so large that it's almost as tall as Sans.

"Now, what you want to do next is pour that whole bottle of glue into the pot of water, so that it's two parts glue and one part water."

You oversee the mess being made as the skeleton brothers desperately try to pry the lid off the elderly bottle of PVA glue. After they finally manage to get the top off, the glue fails to reveal itself, until Sans squeezes the container so hard that the glue explodes and the sticky liquid covers the entirety of Papyrus's battle body. You openly guffaw as Sans makes a hard effort to scrape the glue from his brother's garments, although you do try your best to help. When the glue finally meets its destination, you continue instructing the brothers.

"Now you have to mix together the glue and the water—" Once again, you're cut off by Papyrus.
"I LOVE MIXING THINGS! UNDYNE TEACHES ME ALL THE TIME, AND IT'S HOW I LEARNED TO MAKE SPAGHETTI SAUCE—THAT IS, VIA THE ART OF MIXING! ALTHOUGH, UNDYNE SAYS THAT THE PROPER COOKING WORD FOR IT IS BEATING! NYEH, HEH, HEH, HEH!"
You sigh internally, but it's a good-natured sigh. This is going to be a long explanation of papier-mâché.
Papyrus's Perspective

"I LOVE MIXING THINGS! UNDYNE TEACHES ME ALL THE TIME, AND IT'S HOW I LEARNED TO MAKE SPAGHETTI SAUCE—THAT IS, VIA THE ART OF MIXING! ALTHOUGH, UNDYNE SAYS THAT THE PROPER COOKING WORD FOR IT IS BEATING! NYEH, HEH, HEH, HEH!" I (The Great Papyrus) express heroically. 

 I hope (Y/N) is proud of me, as I know the fancy word for mixing. (Y/N) smiles and sighs at the same time, so I'm not quite sure whether she's pleased or exasperated. I hope she's pleased; no, I hope she's euphoric with my noble statement! I certainly don't hope she's upset in any way. Sans, my older brother and now (Y/N)'s, uh, male-skeleton-friend, has been acting, well... unlike himself for a while now. It's not anything to do with (Y/N), I don't think, but it might be something to do with her younger sister, Frisk.

I started noticing his odd behavior the morning just before we discovered that a human had been in the Ruins, where Ms. Toriel lives now. Sans acted... on edge, not quite apprehensive but definitely not at ease. I must admit, though, that... I experienced a form of... déjà vu, though, when I first caught sight of the human. Had I seen her before? It's impossible that she could have walked around the Underground beforehand, as she couldn't have possibly gone back to the surface without fighting Asgore. Plus, surely she would have learned from her mistake in falling down the mountain and not come back here?

I can't believe I didn't think of it before. It's quite obvious, really. What if Frisk and (Y/N) are relatives of one of the other humans that fell down here before them? Yes, that must be it. Maybe I saw a picture of a human in a book somewhere, and mistook Frisk for that human? They do all look very much alike, after all...

Sans' Perspective

I can tell Paps is thinking really hard about something. I've haven't seen those metaphorical cogs whir this hard since I asked him what the square root of negative one was. He did get it eventually, though. After nearly a day of non-stop mathematical equations, he eventually declared that it was impossible. Which, if ya' think about it, it technically is. (Well, the correct term's imaginary, but who sweats the details anymore?)

"Whaddaya thinkin' about, bro?" I ask him. He's trying to look like he's concentrating on mixing, but I know his heart isn't really in it—he's not making a mess.

"NOTHING, MY MAGNIFICENT BROTHER!" Paps responds too quickly. "I WAS SIMPLY PONDERING WHY I FELT DÉJÀ VU WHEN WE FIRST MET FRISK!"

Oh... that's not good. I really don't want to tell Paps—it's not fair to him. It's not fair on (Y/N) either. I mean, Frisk is her little sister. If I was (Y/N), I wouldn't want Frisk knowing that Paps, could reset time and had reset time—especially if they couldn't remember doing it. I hate lying to Paps, I really do. But... sometimes, you can do the wrong thing for all the right reasons. No, it is the right thing. If I tell Paps, he might tell Undyne, and I don't want the kiddo skewered. That would only traumatize (Y/N) even more than she already has been, and I don't want any harm to come to her. Not on my watch. Plus, I'd miss Frisk, too.

I'm not the only one who seems a little bit tense with Paps' sudden statement—(Y/N) looks like she just got smacked in the face.

"Yeah," I tell him. "It's probably nothing more than that—just déjà vu. I get it sometimes, (Y/N) gets it sometimes, and we all get it sometimes." This way, I'm technically not lying, as I said 'probably.' This whole situation is completely improbable. My own girlfriend is a time anomaly.
"Frisk gets it too, sometimes," (Y/N) pipes up. "One time, when we first moved to Mount Ebbot, she said that she thought she saw a certain place on the mountain before. It's completely impossible that she could've seen it, though, as we hadn't been up that side of the mountain before—we just lived in Ebbot City and every now and again my... my family had a picnic at the foot of the mountain..."

She trails off, her eyes glazing over as she's lost in a memory of better times. Back when her parents and brother were still alive, and Charlotte hadn't yet stabbed her in the back. Tactfully, I decide to change the subject.

"What now, Buttercup?" I ask, gesturing to the solution of glue and water. It has the intended effect—she snaps out of her trance, and refocuses on the task at hand.

"Oh! Now we have to dip the newspaper strips in the mixture, dry them off, and then layer them over the cardboard to create the desired helmet shape. After we finish making its general shape, we have to let it dry, and then—"

"Hold up, Buttercup," I say, my permanent grin widening. "I think we're gettin' a little ahead of ourselves."

"Oh," she says sheepishly. "sorry."

"No need," I say, smiling. "You were just talking at a terrific paste."

I chuckle at my ingenious pun, and (Y/N) quickly joins me. Paps wears a very particular expression. It's like his skeletal brain has just tried to understand the mindset and justification of a crazed serial killer, who had committed genocide on a rare and perfect species of freshwater turtle.

"I SINCERELY DISLIKE YOUR ATROCIOUS PUNS, BROTHER." Paps growls, unamused. This is the perfect moment for a brilliant counter-pun, but (Y/N) is way ahead of me.

"I guess you don't think Sans' jokes are very... punny, huh?" she asks, smirking as she feigns innocence.

"NO, THEY AREN'T VERY PUNNY..." Paps trails off, and realization slowly dawns on his face.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU, (Y/N)," Paps whines. "I TRULY BELIEVED THAT YOU WOULDN'T LET MY BROTHER'S AWFUL PUNS INFILTRATE YOUR MIND, BUT IT LOOKS AS IF I WAS WRONG. AND I THOUGHT HUMANS WERE SUPPOSED TO BE DETERMINED!"

"Yes," I but in. "That's the soul problem."

Your Perspective

After several more puns of a similar caliber, you, Sans and Papyrus finally finish the helmet. Papyrus adorns it with shining rhinestones, which he insists are real diamonds, rubies, and sapphires from the center of the Earth. Though you seriously doubt it, you nod your head and agree, if only to make him happy. Then he starts painting. He originally went with a metallic silver color, but he quickly gets bored with his design and starts to slaps on flamboyant color after color. You must admit, he has a rather artistic streak, and the self-portrait of himself that he's drawn on it looks strikingly similar to the real thing. As the finishing touch, Papyrus carefully ties ribbons of spaghetti around the rim. 

"Wow," you say, smiling broadly. "It's stunning!" 

It really is. The younger skeleton had put a lot of effort into it, and it's definitely paid off. Even the pasta around the sides looks elaborate. You glance at your watch briefly, checking the time. Toriel wanted you back at half-past nine in the evening. You're shocked to see exactly how late it is. 

"Darn," you breathe. It's already past eleven, and outside, the Underground is dark, the gemstones on the roof of the cavern twinkling like miniature rays of moonlight. 

"I have to get back to the Ruins," you mutter. "Toriel will be mad at me for staying out so late." 

You remove your phone from your hoodie's pocket. On the screen, there are numerous anxious texts from Toriel asking where you are and if you're okay. Guilt twists your stomach as you scroll through them. You should've been home ages ago. 

 "Sorry," Sans mumbles. "I shouldn't have kept you up so long. I, uh... I'll walk you home. Like a gentleman. And to make sure that, uh..." 

He briefly glances over at Papyrus's sleeping form. 

"...That no malevolent flowers try to get you." He says that last phrase rather pointedly, referring of course to your unpleasant encounters with Flowey. 

 You text Toriel to say that you've been with the skelebros, and after some consideration, you add that you've lost track of time, and are on your way home. Then you get up from the sofa and follow Sans to the door, allowing him to guide you onto the hard-packed snow. When he takes your hand in his, you don't object; you like the feel of his soft bone against your warm skin. Then he suddenly pulls you into a cuddle, and kisses you lightly on your nose. 

 "I don't have a nose," Sans whispers, his deep voice rumbling against you. "I've always wanted one, though. I mean, I can smell through the hole in my skull n'all, but..." 

He trails off, blue-faced. 

 "You've got such a nice nose... not too big, not too small. I mean... it's just right. And, uh," Sans fiddles with his hood, then shifts his glowing pupils to look you in the eye. "And don't even get me started on your eyes." 

 "Don't even get me started on yours!" you tease back. "They're like black chasms, so deep and mysterious, and you don't really know what's in them. But then, when you look less deeply, and there's just the right amount of light illuminating the darkness, and suddenly, it's not mysterious anymore—it's Sans. And you're perfect." 

 You make no move to disguise the pink blush dusting your cheeks, and neither does Sans. He laughs. 

 "My sockets aren't nearly as perfect as your eyes," he says, taking your hand again. "Your eyes... are indescribable. They're like... they're like spring after winter, jewels in the sunlight, and the light of the most beautiful star of all the sky, all combined into two stunning crystals of joy in your spectacular face."

He stops speaking to gaze into your eyes again.

"Your eyes radiate hope, and empathy, and all the good things in the whole universe. When I look in your eyes, I see... everything. Your parents, and your brother, and the best friend that took them from you when you were younger, but most of all, I see in your eyes a fathomless, untarnished..."

He trails off, as if trying to find the right word. Your heart races in your chest. In Sans' company, you feel... whole. Complete. Before you met him, you led a life that was simply a shadow of what it is now, with Sans.

"Before I met you, Sans..." you start. 

However, you find yourself unable to finish the sentence, because you think you would ruin this perfect moment between you and Sans. You somehow have it stuck in your head that if you say how you really feel, this moment—these soft words and shared smiles—would... disappear. That you would wake up in your bed in your small cabin on Mount Ebbot, and all of this would just be a dream. You would yet again be rendered parentless, brotherless, and Frisk would still be missing. But worst of all... you wouldn't know Sans.

But you need not have worried.

"Before I met you, Buttercup, I felt like a vital piece of me was missing," Sans finishes for you.

"I love you, Sans," you inform him for the millionth time. "And I always will, no matter what happens."

Without warning, Sans suddenly presses his teeth against your lips in a skeletal kiss. He embraces you, and you feel like a little child again—lonely and lost. But now it's okay. Because Sans is here, and he always will be here.

"I love you too, Buttercup," he breathes. "More than anything."

You finally reach the great marble door that is the entrance to the ruins, and you thank Sans for walking you home, and go to bid him goodbye. He's about to sweep you in for one last kiss, but then the ruin doors swing open with a long (and rather obnoxious) creak.

"My child!" Toriel bleats, her tone laden with concern and worry. She scoops you up into a warm, furry hug, cuddling you so tightly that your feet are dangling off the ground.

"Sorry I'm late, Toriel," you mumble quietly, not wanting to meet her eyes. Toriel looks aghast.

"There is no need to be sorry, (Y/N), but please give me advance warning before you are late next time."

You nod. As much as she insists that it's not your fault that you came back late, you still feel as if you've let her down. Toriel finally releases you, and just when you think that no more strenuous embraces are due, you're very surprised to find yourself suddenly knocked into a snowdrift, a certain twelve-year-old cannonball sitting on your chest.

"I can't believe you're so late, Buttercup!" Frisk signs vigorously at you. Wait... did she just call you 'buttercup?' What? Why?

"Dunkle calls you 'Buttercup' all of the time, so now I am!"

She laughs while she gesticulates vigorously at you. You turn round to look at Sans for support, but you find that he's chuckling, too. So much for a romantic pet name—it kinda loses its charm when it's coming out of your little sister's mouth. Reluctantly, you turn to give Frisk a beaten grin.

"You can call me Buttercup, if you like." Frisk bounces up and down on your stomach childishly.

"Yay!" she replies playfully. She appears to be full of energy even though it's hours past her designated bedtime. Toriel seems to realize this too.

"Come, Frisk, (Y/N)—it is time to go inside. Frisk has already had her pie, so she can go to bed, but (Y/N) here has not eaten yet. I am afraid it will be a little cool, as I was expecting you earlier, but I can heat it up if you like."

She turns to the skeleton standing over your flattened form.

"Sans, would you like to come in for some food? I have baked some butterscotch and cinnamon pie." Sans' cheekbones turn blue (again).

"Uh, no thanks Tori," Sans responds. "I, uh, ate earlier at Grillby's before Buttercup came over."

Toriel looks a little crestfallen, but the expression passes so quickly, you're not even sure if it was there.

"Okay, if you wish. I must say goodbye now, then."

Toriel gives Sans a quick hug, and Frisk finally removes herself from your stomach so you can get up. Sans offers you his hand to aid, and you take it gratefully.

"Thanks, Sans," you murmur.

"No problem."

You give sans a quick cuddle and your lips meet with his teeth once again, causing Toriel to shield Frisk's view. You don't see why. It's just a simple kiss, nothing more, nothing less.

"I've gotta go now," you mumble, your voice muffled by Sans' jacket.

"I'll miss you," Sans answers. "I always hate being away from you. Sorry. I sounded like a stalker. But it's true."

"I hate being away from you, too," you murmur. "I wish we could live together."

"One day, we might. We could buy a nice house in Waterfall, or Snowdin or Hotland or wherever you like, and..."

His voice dwindles away to nothingness, his mind lost in that taunting type of memory that is yet to come and still out of reach. You try to imagine you and Sans when you're older. Your hair would gradually be greying, and Sans... You don't really know what elderly skeletons look like, but it doesn't matter, because he'd have you and you'd have him.

Sans slowly releases you from his clutches, and you kiss one last time before heading through the entrance to the Ruins. You trudge through the long, purple-stained corridor and then up the stairs to be greeted by the comforting aroma of butterscotch and cinnamon pie. Before you met Toriel, you never liked butterscotch as it was way too sickly-sweet, but now, whatever Toriel does with the butterscotch, it definitely works. Oh yes, it definitely works. You catch sight of Frisk, fully fitted out in her new rainbow PJs. You give her a smile and a little wave, and she giggles at you from a crack in the bedroom door. After you bid her goodnight, you turn and head into the living room. Toriel sits on her little rocking chair by the fire, lost in a thick book on the anatomy and preparation of snails. She notices you sidle into the room and glances up, giving you a warm smile.

"I hope you like your pie. I just heated up, so it may be a little hot."

You thank Toriel and seat yourself at the large oak table, where a steaming piece of Butterscotch-Cinnamon pie sits waiting for you. With your hunger grumbling in your stomach, you race to shovel the food into your jaws. You hadn't eaten since breakfast, and it's now nearly midnight, so for once, 'starving' seems like an appropriate choice of words. Toriel seems to notice how hungry you are, and slides another slice of pie under your nose. You murmur a 'thanks' and devour the second piece within seconds. Then you get up, and prepare to take your plates to the kitchen to wash up. Before you can get very far, however, your fuzzy white goat mom stops you.

"It is okay my child—you must rest. I shall clean up, do not worry!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, my child. You must sleep."

"Okay."

You thank Toriel again, and walk to your shared room with Frisk. You open the door slowly, to avoid making any loud noises that might wake your slumbering sister. You change into your PJs, and creep into your comfortable bed, snuggling deep into your blankets. You're so tired that even Frisk's incessant, thunderous snoring doesn't prevent your imminent loss of consciousness, and you fade into a deep, uneasy sleep.

***

It had been a day and a half since your parents had left for their daily hike, and you were beginning to feel anxious and worried about what had become of them. Eventually, as the sun began to sink on the second day, you decide to leave the relative safety of your cabin to go and search for them. They couldn't be far—they were most likely at Justin's grave, like they always were. Taking a sweater in case the weather turned sour, you left the house after locking the doors and telling Frisk not to go outside.

You had been walking for about an hour and a half, and sweat was starting to bead on your forehead. It occasionally dribbled down your face, getting into your eyes and obscuring your vision. Or were they tears? You weren't sure anymore—you just want to see your mom and dad. The grave couldn't be much further. Long, yellow grasses brushed against your bare legs, tickling you and making you itch. You were in a wide, open space filled with tussock, as most of the side of Mount Ebbot was. As you walked, your mind wandered, and you started imagining that you weren't walking on Mt. Ebbot, but the dangerous savannah of Africa. All around you were lions and elephants and zebras, and beasts of all shapes and sizes.

Then the clouds began to roll in, and the landscape darkened. You think of all the hungry predators watching you, waiting to surprise you and gulp you down whole. You shivered, pulling your sweater tight around you. You weren't sure if you liked the grasslands of Africa anymore, and the thought of being all alone in the dark on the mountain terrified you.

A fine film of light rain began to drizzle down, coating your hair in a thin layer of dew-like drops. It was the type of rain that doesn't seem very wet at first, but could soak you down to the bone in seconds. Soon, the plains of Africa were left behind, to be replaced with more down-to-Earth worries. What if you catch pneumonia? It's what your grandma died of. You remember seeing her on the hospital bed, liquid being drained from her lungs. You kept asking her if she was okay, and when she was going to get better. She didn't make it. You wondered if that was how you would die, all alone on the mountain, freezing cold and soaking wet.

Though the mist of rain, you finally spotted the birch where your brother was buried, and by extension, where your parents must be. Not caring about the rain anymore, or about the wild beasts prowling about the African savannah, you sprinted towards the tree.

"Mom!" you holler. "Dad!"

Through a curtain of the birch's green leaves, you saw your mother's hair waving gently in the breeze. It was soaked, and even from far away, it looked limp. And... your mother isn't usually that tall. But the details didn't matter. You needed to see your parents. You clambered through the brambles, ignoring the cuts they gave you, ignoring the pain. You were overjoyed. You could finally see your parents! You had made beans-on-toast for dinner for you and Frisk, and you were sure that your parents would be proud of you for cooking a meal all by yourself. As you approached the grave, however, something... something didn't feel right.

You glanced upwards, and then your eyes widened in dismay at the grotesque sight before you. The longer you looked, the more the dismay grew. As you began to comprehend what you were seeing, that dismay spiraled into a horrible depression, tears spilling from your eyes and scurrying down your cheeks. There was your mother and your father, and there was the large birch tree overlooking your brother's grave. Your parents' bodies were both limp, and parts of their skin were rotting. A long-dried stream of blood had seeped from their eyes and their necks, and their fingernails had turned red and powdery with the substance. They were hanging from the branches, lifeless...

...but they both looked content, as if they were happy that they chose but a memory over their two dependant daughters. This dark thought in your young mind simply made more tears come to your eyes, and they flowed down your in a steady stream of agony. Even the tears themselves felt as if they were trying to do you harm, burning your cheeks as if trying to corrode them.
Suddenly, everything goes black, and you find yourself back in your bedroom. You're holding your father's pistol to your temple, your hands trembling badly. There was nothing left to live for. Your parents had committed suicide. Your brother had been murdered. Not just murdered—murdered by your best friend, who had probably died as well. You hoped so. You hoped that Charlotte burned in hell for all eternity. You were about to squeeze the trigger when Frisk wandered into the room. She was wearing her new footy PJs, and clutching her favorite teddy bear.

"Sissy? What's... that?" she signed at you. Her movements were a little sloppy, as she was clutching her soft toy to her chest. Seeing her there, looking so innocent and sweet, clutching her bear...

You can't pull the trigger. You slowly lower the gun, and cast it back under your parents' bed.

"It's... it's n-nothing," you say softly, your voice breaking as you recall the image of your parents' pale faces, and dull, empty eyes. Some things... you just can't unsee. At that moment, you knew that you do have something to live for. You have your little sister.

But then, without warning, you grab the gun again from under the bed. You point it at Frisk with icy determination. Your younger sister's eyes widen in horror, her grip on her bear tightening. You can't stop your actions. Your body is moving of its own accord.

Pleasedontdothispleasedontdothispleasedontdothis! you yell at yourself silently.

The gunshot rings out throughout the whole mountain, and though you want to scream, you can't. You are trapped in a tiny segment of your mind, with no way out. Frisk falls to the carpeted floor with a pained wail, and looks into your face with an expression of shock and betrayal splayed across her own. Blood pools around her, staining the ground a permanent crimson. Her breathing slows, and becomes painful to listen to. The life slowly drains from her squinty brown eyes. How could you have done this?!

You turn your back on your younger sister, and face the mirror. It's... it's not you standing there. The face is horribly familiar.

No!

It's Chara.

You awake from your nightmare with a start, your body pretty much stuck to the bed with sweat. You must have being moving a lot when you were asleep, too—your duvet is on the floor. You take a deep, shaky breath, and bring your hand up to meet with your face. Your fingertips come away wet. You'd been so terrified that you seem to have cried an entire river of tears. But why?

Then the memory of your nightmare hits you like an enraged bull, knocking the wind out of you. You... you'd killed Frisk. You instinctively look over to see if Frisk is there, but her inspiringly determined snores reassure you that she's okay before you so much as catch sight of her. You sigh and wipe away at the sweat on your forehead. It had just been a nightmare. That's all.

Even though your covers are on the floor, you're still swelteringly hot. So hot, in fact, that it's like three times the heat of Hotland. There's no way you can sleep like this. You slide out of bed, your sweat making the once comfortable sheets into a strange-smelling waterslide. You check your phone to see what the time is. 4:16am. Fabulous. You'd only gotten about four hours of sleep. You do feel pretty well-rested, though. You would prefer to go back to sleep, but with the memory of the nightmare still fresh in your mind... you don't think that you'll be able to.
You decide that it's probably best if you take a walk outside to cool down a little. You slide your sweater over the top of your PJ shirt, and slip into your boots. Then, making as little noise as possible, you steal out of the ruins, and into the snow outside.

The cold hits you like a slap to the face, but you're glad for it—anymore time in that stifling house, and you would've become a (Y/N)-candle. Maybe Grillby spent a hot night in Toriel's house, and that's why he's on fire. It doesn't seem logical, but the very fact that there's an entire race of magical monsters underground isn't particularly logical, either. But whatever the case, it's an interesting thought.

You pad out into the night, savoring every crunch of the snow underfoot. You smile and keep walking, arms swinging freely by your sides. You don't care where you go; you just want to keep dancing along in this winter wonderland. Tiny snowflakes flutter down from the sky, sticking to your hair and eyelashes. You stick out your tongue and catch a few of the ice flakes. They melt immediately upon contact with your tongue, but that doesn't matter. Minute jewels cover the Underground's replica of the heavens, sparkling crystals creating whole new constellations on the ceiling high above.

You continue walking, and eventually find yourself in front of Sans and Papyrus's house. ...There's a light on in one of the rooms, and you look up to take a closer look. ...You think that's Sans' room. You're a little surprised to see that he's awake at this time in the morning—Frisk is (and always has been) a late sleeper, and she wouldn't even refer to this time as 'morning.' For her, anytime between eleven and six is the middle of the night. You'd thought that Sans, with his tendency towards laziness, was the same way. But now, seeing him out on the balcony, you guess that's not the case.

Sans seems to spot you, and cheerfully waves down at you. He beckons to you to come up, and points to the door. You understand his gestures, and head into the house. You climb silently up the stairs, and then go out onto the balcony.

"Heya, Buttercup," Sans greets you. You return his greeting with a smile.

"Hey, Sans," you reply.

"Why're you up? Couldn't sleep?"

"Toriel's house was really hot, and I was melting, so I had to re-freeze myself in the snow," you answer. "You?"

"Oh, I just couldn't sleep," he says dismissively, waving the question away. "Nothin' special."

For some reason, you feel like that last part wasn't entirely truthful. Maybe it was the way he couldn't meet your eye when he said it...

"Thanks for yesterday, by the way. Paps's done nothin' but talk about Romans and his new, uh," Sans clears his nonexistent throat. "Roman helm of steel."

You beam.

"I'm glad he liked it. I enjoyed making it with him."

Sans looks up at the ceiling stars, a thoughtful look to his skeletal face. Then, he asks you an unprecedented question.

"You told me about stars, but... I was wondering... Could you tell me what planets are like?"

The simple question catches you off guard, and you try to fish a memory out of the depths of your brain. Admittedly, it's a little hard to find one of the sky, as you haven't seen the surface in months. Your time outside of the Underground is slowly beginning to blur and fade, like a photo that had been left in the rain. However, after a bit of meditating, an image comes to you.

"Well..." you begin, Sans looking at you curiously. "The planets—well, from the ground at least—look like bigger stars, and whereas most stars are white or yellow or orange, planets can look red or blue."

Sans is absorbing the information you give him like a sponge, and keeps glancing up at the stony ceiling as if pondering something. You continue to feed him information about outer space, and he keeps asking you questions. Before you know it... you've talked the night away.  

Editor's Note:

Before I get into what I really want to say, I first have to say this... I NEED YOUR HELP! I just entered a contest, and I need votes! So please I would really, REALLY appreciate your support. There's only four days left in the voting stage, and the competition's so fierce that there's no way I'll be able to even get into the judging round without you guys' help. So please... VOTE AND COMMENT! You can find the story here: https://www.wattpad.com/story/84880943-e...%C2%A0 (To those of you who have already seen this, and voted, thank you! And I'm sorry for spamming you, but I really need those votes! The people judging the stories only look at the 25 most popular! I don't like that method, but... It's not really something I can change. Fine. Make it a glorified popularity contest. See if I care.)

Anyway... on to the actual story! You can blame me for the weird ending! XD
I'm so sorry guys, but part of Radon's oneshot here was just too close to something I wanted to do, and so I took it out. (Great minds think alike, I suppose.) And so... yup. Blame me for the abruptness of the ending. However, you will eventually get to see the idea that so closely intertwined with my own! I will be including some of their ideas in my next oneshot--and don't worry! I will be giving them credit for it.