Written By: Zana B. Sparrows

Fanart By: Quiet Clarinet

Setting the Stage: Hmm... timing? Well, that's difficult for this one. It'd probably be towards the middle of the month. Though it's probably another that could happen anytime. XD

Your Perspective

"Ah... ah... ACHOO!"

You sneeze explosively, snot exploding out of your nose like minty goodness out of a full toothpaste tube. (Mint toothpaste...? Ugh. Why did you just give yourself that image?)

You moan in annoyance, but instead of helping to relive some of your frustration, it only makes it worse. Clogged sinuses make you sound as if you're underwater, and the action of moaning itself makes your throat hurt. You sigh and roll over on your bed, reaching towards the box of tissues that you'd put on your nightstand the night before. You sit up just long enough to make a sound like a trumpet, and then toss the used tissue onto the ground, feeling too crappy to exert the effort to walk over to the trashcan.

I'll just pick them up later, you tell yourself, collapsing back onto your pillows with a groan. ...All fifty of them.

Yup. You're a total snot rag right now. You know that cold temperatures don't actually cause colds, but despite the science, you can't help but think that all your trips to Snowdin have finally caught up to you. You knew that you should've worn your hoodie yesterday—next time you're too lazy to dig through your drawers, you're going to have to remember how miserable it made you.

You screw your eyes shut and pull your covers over your head, resolving to sleep the day away. You'd already called Grillby to let him know that you weren't coming in to work today, and so... with no obligations... you're content to stay in the warmth of your blanket. With your mouth open to keep yourself from suffocating (ugh, mouth breathing), you slowly start to drift off to sleep...

Then the door slams open.

"My child!" a motherly voice exclaims, hurrying in. "Frisk told me that you were not feeling well! Do you need anything? What is your temperature? Oh dear, you are turning red! Should I call Dr. Alphys?! I-I am sure that she can help—"

"Wh... what?" you murmur, groggily shifting to look up at the white blur above you. "What about Alphys?"

"Alphys! The royal scientist, and doctor! I am sure she could help—oh, I hope I am not too late," she mutters, wringing her hands.

"Too late?" you echo, sitting up. "Toriel, it's just a cold. I'll be fine—I just need to rest. There's no need to call Alphys."

"But... but, my child..."

"It'll go away in a few days. I promise," you say, smiling. "Until then, I'll just be a tired, snotty mess. That's all."

She places her oversized padded hand on your forehead, an intense look of worry on her face.

"You are not normally this hot. Oh, oh this is bad..."

You sigh, and gently move her hand away.

"I already took my temperature with the thermometer Frisk left me. I'm only 99," you say. "I may look like death, and I may feel like death, but I'm not going to turn into it. Okay?"

Toriel slowly shakes her head, her eyes looking a little bit glassy.

"...No," she whispers, her voice uneven.

"No?" you echo, confused.

"No!" she exclaims suddenly. "I am not going to make the same mistake twice! I am going to go see the doctor immediately, and—"

"Mmm!" a high pitched voice exclaims. A familiar twelve-year-old has just stuck her head in the door, a curious expression on her face.

"What's all the commotion?" she signs.

"You sister is sick, my child—I must take her to see Dr. Alphys immediately."

Frisk cocks her head, a confused expression on her face.

"But it's just a cold," she signs matter-of-factly. "Sis gets them all the time. She doesn't have the strongest immune system—it must be all the junk she eats."

"...I resent that," you mutter, shooting your sister a look.

She just giggles in response, and then disappears behind the doorframe. You hear a strange clinking sound echo from the hallway, and then Frisk reappears, a wicker tray in hand. Your eyes light up when you spot its contents—a glass of milk, and a few slices of buttered toast. Frisk brushes past Toriel and then sets the tray on your lap, a broad grin lighting up her face when she pulls away.

"Figured you might be hungry. But not too hungry, 'cause you're sick," she signs. "And I also made sure to give you as much butter as possible. ...You may get a heart attack someday, but I know you've got an unhealthy obsession with the stuff."

"Frisk..."

You were going to thank her, but...

"ACHOO!"

You're lucky you have a fast reaction time. Much slower, and your breakfast would have been contaminated. And then you'd cry. In your world, wasting good food is a crime of the capital offense. You sniff again, and reach for a tissue. Frisk giggles as you blow your nose, making a sound not unlike an elephant.

"Frisk," you repeat, picking up where you'd left off, "you're an angel. Thank you."

"No problem, sneeze."

"..."

You glare at her, unenthused with your new nickname. Then you roll your eyes and turn back to the tray, tearing a piece off of the topmost piece of toast. You feel you should start small. Otherwise, you stomach may stage a rebellion. All over Toriel's homemade quilt.

Speaking of, the motherly monster has gone completely silent, and is standing somewhat stiffly in the corner of the room, her hands limp by her sides. She looks... dazed, as though she'd seen a ghost.

"Goat mom?" Frisk asks her, picking up on your concern. "Is something wrong?"

"My child..." she mumbles, "are you not worried? Your sister is sick. Should you not be more concerned for her?"

"She just has a cold," Frisk signs firmly, "so I'm not worried. You shouldn't be either, Mom. You're just stressing yourself out."

Toriel stares at Frisk, her eyes wide. Then she laughs harshly, and puts a trembling hand up to her forehead.

"If you... if you say so, my child," she says, voice uneven. "If you say it is not serious... then I shall try not to worry too much."

"...Toriel?" you ask uncertainly. "Is... everything okay?"

She doesn't seem to hear you.

"I... I cannot lose another one. I swear, I will not lose another one," she mutters to herself, tears pooling in her eyes. "Oh... oh god, she was so... so weak, and... and she..."

A choked sob escapes from her, and she promptly claps her hand over her mouth, tears slowly sliding through her fur.

"...Toriel?" you ask gently, concern growing by the second. She jerks at the sound of her name, and quickly wipes her cheeks.

"I... I need a moment. Call me if you need anything," she says quickly. Then she turns and flees the room, rapid footsteps fading as she heads towards the kitchen.

"What was that all about?" you ask yourself aloud, confused. You've never seen Toriel so upset before. The way she was talking, it sounded as if she'd had a child die from sickness before... But you don't think... She never talks about any other humans. Who could she be talking about?

"I'm going to go after her," Frisk signs, a determined look on her face. "She shouldn't be alone right now."

"Yeah... yeah, you do that," you say absentmindedly. You're too distracted to really register what's being said. As Frisk leaves the room, your mind is far away as you try and puzzle out your adoptive mother's strange behavior. When you don't come up with anything, you sigh and sink back under your covers, relishing the warmth that comes with them.

You smile as you catch sight of the flowers that Toriel had put in your room. They're bright yellow, and extremely well cared for—she makes sure to water them daily, and occasionally places a sun lamp near them to help them grow. (You figure there's not much sunlight underground, so they need it.) She's so dedicated to those flowers. She cares for the patch that grows at the beginning of the ruins, too. It's almost there's a third child house. You, Frisk, and the flowers...

Then it hits you. Gorse. Those are Gorse flowers, like the ones in Ebott city. Gorse flowers... like the seeds that were clinging to Chara's body when Asriel carried her back down here. How had you been so blind?! You'd literally experienced her death—complete with all the gut-wrenching pain and vomit. No wonder Toriel's concerned! Her fears may be misguided, but after watching her beloved daughter die from food poisoning right in front of her, of course she's going to be alert to signs of sickness in you.

Oh Toriel...

You want to comfort her, but you can't really reassure her without bringing up Chara, and that's the one topic that you can't really touch on. As far as everyone is concerned, you shouldn't know anything about her. If Sans hadn't explained the resets to you, you wouldn't even know she exists. What are you supposed to say? That you've been communing with the dead in your dreams, and that she's hunting you for your soul? Yeah, right. They'd think you're crazy. Well... Sans wouldn't. He'd believe you. Aaaand then promptly place you under house arrest. To "protect" you. For the rest of your natural life. Fun.

You sigh and pull the covers over your head, enjoying the inky blackness that comes with it. Eventually, your breathing slows, and you drift off to sleep...

***

The next thing you know, you wake up to the sound of buzzing. You groan and pull the covers higher over your head, hoping to block the sound out. It doesn't work. There are three short buzzes, a few moments of silence, and then another three short buzzes...

Someone's texting you, and judging by the amount of messages they're sending, they're trying really hard to get a hold of you. You sigh and poke your head out from the covers, glancing over at your nightstand. Sure enough, your phone's screen is lit up, and message after message is popping onto your screen. You ignore them and instead look at the time.

Holy cow! you think, sitting bolt upright. 8 AM?! Did I really sleep all day yesterday?!

You grab your phone, and briefly scroll through the messages. Predictably, they're all from Sans. You love him to death, but he gets worried way too easily.

Sans: Heya Buttercup. What's up? (Yesterday)

Sans: So, uh... are we still on for today? (Yesterday)

Sans: I've got snacks~ (Yesterday)

Sans: I'm gonna take the silence as a... no. (Yesterday)

Sans: Hello? Are you alive over there? (Yesterday)

Sans: (Y/N)??? (Yesterday)

Sans: ... (Yesterday)

Sans: You probably forgot to charge your phone or somethin,' right? I shouldn't be getting worried, right? (Yesterday)

Sans: Yeah, you'll probably just show up late, like last time... (Yesterday)

Sans: Uh... you didn't show up. You're okay, right? (9:00 PM)

Sans: Come on, (Y/N). Pick up, would ya? (9:10 PM)

Sans: I didn't do anything wrong, did I? (9:30 PM)

Sans: You're worrying me, Buttercup. (10:00 PM)

Sans: I'm calling Frisk. (10:20 PM)

Sans: ...Frisk's phone is off. (10:30 PM)

Sans: I-I need to check a calendar. Hold on— (10:50 PM)

Sans: It's still today. You didn't reset. That's good, right? I'm just imagining things. (11:00 PM)

Sans: You're fine. I'm sure you're fine. Heh. I'm probably just bein' paranoid, like always. (11:10 PM)

Sans: ...You're probably asleep right now, anyway. I guess I should, uh... stop texting you. Night, Buttercup. (11:20 PM)

Sans: P.S: Plz txt me back ASAP (11:21 PM)

Sans: ...Buttercup? (6:00 AM)

Sans: You uh... still haven't texted me back. (6:05 AM)

Sans: Grillbz said you didn't come into work... (6:15 AM)

Sans: You never miss work. (6:30 AM)

Sans: Ha... ha... It's fine. I know it's fine. It's fine. This is fine. (6:40 AM)

Sans: I'm always skipping outta work. Who says you don't every once in a while? (6:50 AM)

Sans: Y-yeah. (7:00 AM)

Sans: ... (7:20 AM)

Sans: Goddammit, Buttercup. Pick up. You're scaring me. (7:30 AM)

Sans: You're not hurt, are you? (7:45 AM)

Sans: Pick up. (7:47 AM)

Sans: Please pick up. (7:50 AM)

Sans: I'm gonna go look for you if I don't hear from you soon. (7:53 AM)

Sans: I'm panicking, Buttercup. (7:55 AM)

Sans: Oh god. Oh god. Something did happen to you, didn't it?! (7:58 AM)

Sans: No, I'm sure it's nothing. It's... it's gotta be. Right? (7:59 AM)

Sans: Please tell me everything's okay. (8:00 AM)

Sans: I'm giving it an hour. If you don't text me, I'm going over there. (8:01 AM)

As you finish reading the last message, you can't help but feel a little bit guilty. You can't believe that you forgot to tell Sans that you wouldn't be able to make it yesterday! You know how easily he gets worried about you. And for good reason. You'd died, after all. And it'd be so easy for it to happen again...

You sniff, and get ready to type in a reply. Just then, though, your sinuses decide that they need to empty themselves. ...All over your phone.

Eww...

You grimace and reach for a tissue, attempting to wipe it off as best you can. A smeared and sticky screen results, and you can't help but make a face as you try to type in a message.

You: I'm fine. Just a sec. Sneezed all over my phone. (Just Now)

You hit the send button, and watch as the little wheel of death spins, and then goes still. Message sent. After that barrage of texts, you reply seems kinda pathetic. But you're not going to type a huge explanation with a snot-covered screen. You sigh, and for the first time in the last 24 hours, roll out of bed. With the room spinning ever so slightly from your fever-induced dizziness, you carefully cross the room, and make your way over to the bathroom.

You quickly relieve yourself, and then scrub away at the screen with a wet piece of toilet paper. You've been told that you're not supposed to use regular toilet paper for something like this... but whatever. You need a quick fix. You can disinfect it properly and use whatever super-expensive glass wipes you have later.

When you're done, you turn it on again, and cringe. In the five minutes that it'd been off, Sans has already sent you something like five or six texts.

Sans: Oh thank god. (Five minutes ago)

Sans: You really had me worried there. (Five minutes ago)

Sans: What happened??? (Four minutes ago)

Sans: Wait... what's a 'sneeze?' (Three minutes ago)

Sans: And why weren't you answering me? (Two minutes ago)

Sans: You still there...? (One minute ago)

Sans: Buttercup? (Just now)

You pad back into the bedroom, and collapse on your bed. In just the few minutes that you'd left it, your head had started pounding, and the ground beneath your feet had decided to take a turn on the merri-go-round. You sigh as your mattress sinks below you, its rickety springs creaking beneath your weight. You hold your phone above you, and get ready to field an ocean of questions...

You: I'm back. Which question do you want me to answer first? XD

Sans: Are you okay?

You: Yeah. I feel like crap, but I'm okay.

Sans: Feel like crap?! Did something happen?!

You: No! No, everything's fine. I'm just feeling a little bit under the weather. I'm sorry about yesterday—I kinda slept the day away, and completely forgot that we were supposed to meet. >_<

Sans: I... don't get it.

You: ??

Sans: What do you mean "under the weather?" And why'd you sleep all day? Are you depressed or somethin'? Should I come over?

You: What? No, not depressed. I've just got a cold.

Sans: ...? You're cold? Then just put on a blanket or something.

You: No, I HAVE a cold.

Sans: ...I'm very confused right now. Is this another human thing? Like, uh... y'know... the whole 'period' thing?

You: Uh... maybe? Don't monsters get sick?

Sans: ...

You: Uh... Sans?

Sans: You're sick?! Why didn't you say so?!

You: I just did. I have a cold.

Sans: That's a kind of sickness?! Well, what're you doin' at home?! You need to go see Alphys—

You: Sans, it's just a cold! I'm fine—

Sans: Humans DIE when they're sick, (Y/N)!

You: Not always! There are a lot of different types of illnesses—there's actually only a few that'll kill you. This isn't one of them.

Sans: I... what?

You: Sans, you never answered me. Don't monsters get sick?

Sans: No. We don't have enough physical matter to have cells and things, so there's not really anything to infect. We can get magically sick, but from what I understand, that's a lot different than human sickness...

You: Oh. Well, no wonder you're so concerned. You don't understand. Okay... how do I explain this? There are a lot of different kinds of illness. Actually... it can pretty much be anything, so long as the body is harmed by it. What I've got is a kind of virus—the cells in my body are being attacked by other cells. But it's okay, because it's a weak virus, and my immune system—uh, they're like little soldier cells—can easily take care of it. While that happens, though, I get really weak and tired, and have to wait until my symptoms clear up.

Sans: ...So you're okay?

You: Yup. I just feel like crap. And I look like it too.

Sans: Nah. You could be covered in carp, and you'd still be beautiful.

Sans: Darn autocorrect. *Crap

You: XD

Sans: What?

You: Sorry, you just gave me a really weird mental image there. Covered in carp... X3

Sans: Heh heh... Ohhhh, you shouldn't have said that.

You: ...Uh oh.

Sans: Hey Buttercup, are you having fun?

You: Uh... no? I'm stuck in bed—

Sans: Because I'm having a whale of a time.

You: ...Oh no.

Sans: Don't think these puns are your fault—there's no coral-lation.

You: Sans, please no. Not bad puns. Not this early.

Sans: Water you talking about? My puns are very humerous.

You: How many times have I heard that one, huh?

Sans: Come on, now. Don't get salty.

You: Sans!

Sans: Alright, alright. I'm done. If you want more, though... just let Minnow.

You: ...

Sans: Okay, I'm done. For real now.

You: You know... reading puns is a lot easier than listening to them. I can actually see what's going on. XD

Sans: Should I keep going then? ;-)

You: NO! No, that's okay. >~<

Sans: Heh. You're so cute, Buttercup. <3

You: ...

Sans: ?

You: ...I'm sorry I made you worry.

Sans: ...I'm sorry I worried you by worrying.

You: You don't have to apologize. You weren't careless like I was—the opposite is true, actually.

Sans: No, I really should. I was just being paranoid. Like always.

You: ...

Sans: ...

Sans: Do you want some company over there? It sounds like you're pretty bored.

You consider that suggestion for a moment. Do you want Sans here with you? The thought of him hovering over you is definitely appealing... but you're not entirely sure you want to accidentally sneeze on him, or let him see you with this god-awful bed-head.

You: No, that's okay. I wouldn't want you to catch it.

Sans: Uh... I can't get sick, remember?

You: Oh... well, it's still probably not a good idea. I need rest. That's not something I usually get when you're around, Sans.

Sans: Oh yeah~? ;3

You: I didn't mean it like that! 0///0

Sans: Didn't mean it like what~?

You: Stop using the ~ thing!

Sans: Why~?

You: It—it—ah!

Sans: You're adorable, Buttercup~

You: AAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Sans: I know that it's only been a day, and that this is really cliché, but... I miss you.

You: Aww...

Sans: Yeah, I know. I'm a clingy boyfriend.

You: Maybe a little. But it's cute, so it's okay.

Sans: Welp... get well soon, I guess. I'll be waiting for you over in Snowdin, longing to hear your sweet voice again~

You: Now you're just being melodramatic.

Sans: I'll be counting the seconds~

You: Sans! XD

Sans: Heh. But seriously, get better soon. And make sure you actually wear a jacket next time, okay? Walking in the snow can't be good for you.

You: Alright. I will.

Sans: ...I love you, (Y/N).

You: I love you too, Sans.

You smile as you send off that latest text, your poor aching body feeling just a little bit lighter after the conversation with Sans. And while you may've turned down his offer for company, you can't help but wish he were here with you. You blow your nose again, trying to ignore the accompanying wave of pain that stems from your throat. Then you get back under the covers, and stare at the wall. Even though you'd just slept for an entire day, your eyelids are already getting heavy. It's not long before you fall asleep again.

~Two or Three Days Later~

After spending your last few days as a couch potato, you've had enough of it. You aren't entirely better yet—your sinuses refuse to clear, and you have periodic headaches—but you figure that you're well enough to go back to life as normal.

Well... okay. Maybe you'd rather stay at Toriel's one more day, but that's not really an option. See, Grillby called yesterday. All of the regulars have been bemoaning your absence at the piano, and are eagerly awaiting your return. He even had them on speakerphone, complaining about how noisy it is in Grillby's without you, and asking you when you'd make your way back.

And as if that wasn't enough, Grillby informed you that the King (the King, of all people) is going to Snowdin today. And where does the King stop for lunch when he's there? Grillby's. Of course, Grillby really wants you there to make an impression.

So... there it is. You can't risk disappointing the King, even if you still feel like a slug.

You groan and roll out of bed, immediately heading for the bathroom. You haven't had a shower since this damn cold first reared its ugly head, and as a result, you look like complete crap. Or rather carp. Your hair is so oily that it reflects the light.

After cleaning up and making yourself look presentable, you let Frisk know where you're going, and slip out of the ruin doors. The cold hits you like a sledgehammer after being under warm covers for a few days, and you draw your jacket closer around you. You're glad Sans reminded you to bring one...

Oh yeah! I should text him and let him know I'm on my way to Snowdin, you remember.

You: Hey Sans.

Sans: What's up, Buttercup? ;-)

You: Just letting you know that I'm feeling a little better, and I'm omw to Snowdin. Gonna play at Grillby's.

Sans: Really?! Finally!

Sans: I-I mean, are you sure you're feeling up to it? I don't want you hurting yourself...

Sans: Actually, I can come pick you up, if you want.

Tempting. His offer is very, very tempting. But you feel that walking will do you some good—it'll wake you up, and maybe get your muscles warmed up for when you play. After three days inactive, you need to stretch your legs, anyway.

You: I'll be okay. I've got my phone on me, though, so I'll let you know if I change my mind.

Sans: You sure?

You: Yup.

Sans: Well, I guess I'll see ya when you get here, then.

You: Bye!

Sans: Be quick~

Sans: I'm impatient~

You: *Rolls eyes*

Sans: I wanna kiss you, and feel your hands on my—

You: SANS!

Sans: Ribcage. I was gonna say ribcage.

You: SAAAANS! >///<

Sans: Come on—a guy can dream, can't he?

You: Omg. That's it. I'm ignoring you now.

Sans: No you won't.

You: *Ignoring*

Sans: That doesn't count, you know.

You: *Still ignoring*

Sans: You can't stay away~

You: *Is trying very hard to ignore*

Sans: You can't fight it~

You: BYE SANS!!!

Sans: Heh. Bye, Buttercup.

You have a goofy smile on your face as you replace your phone and head off, snow once again crunching beneath your feet. You hum to yourself as you go, and your fingers flex as you play your piano pieces in the air. You haven't practiced in a while, so you're a little nervous about going in front of the King. From what you've heard, though, he's a really nice guy. ...When he's not trying to murder innocent children.

You shiver, and your hands still. He may've changed his policy on humans, but the fact of the matter is that he still needs a human soul to free his people. What if he decides to take the opportunity, and ends up killing you for yours?

Well... I guess if he did, it wouldn't exactly be new experience for me, you think. He'd have to get in line. Flowey would kill me long before the King could so much as touch me, and Chara would probably come back from the dead with the express purpose of stealing my soul from Flowey...

Even though the subject matter of your thoughts is somewhat grim, you still find yourself giggling a little. You can almost imagine the three of them duking it out, battle-royale style, in Grillby's tiny hole-in-the-wall. It'd be hilarious to watch them fight each other, squabbling about their higher callings and dragging each other through the mud. Of course, you'd probably already be dead, at that point...

You resolve to make sure that Sans is in the audience during your performance. It'd be nice to have one of those goat-skull blaster-thingies by your side, if push comes to shove.

As you continue walking, it gets harder and harder to put one foot in front of the other. You'd been too busy thinking to notice it... but the temperature seems to be... rising? And you feel so heavy...

This can't be right, you think, breathing heavily. Why... why is it so hot?

You're suddenly struck with the urge to take your jacket off. Your face feels like it's burning, and you're sweating so much that your clothes are sticking to you. The moment you slide your jacket off, though, you start shivering uncontrollably. You shake your head and put your jacket back on, only to feel like you're going to melt.

What...?

You keep going, deciding that baking in your jacket is marginally better than freezing in the snow. After a few more steps, the world seems to rock underneath you. You sway for a moment and then stumble, tripping over yourself and colliding hard with a nearby tree. You gasp and fall to the ground, the world spinning around you as you stare up at the ceiling stars far above.

Oh... you think numbly. That's not good.

You put a hand to your forehead. You pull it away fairly quickly, alarmed to find that you're burning up.

It's probably just because my hand's cold, you rationalize. That makes it feel warmer than it is.

You slowly move to sit up, but you become so dizzy that you're forced to lie down again.

I'm... I'm fine.

Yeah... you're not fine. Something doesn't feel right. Walking through the snow must've caused you to relapse. Or worse. You don't think colds generally cause people to fall over. Maybe you'd misjudged this from the beginning, and you really are sick with something.

No, you think stubbornly. I'm fine. Just tired. I'm going to rest here a minute, and then I'll be on my way again. There's nothing wrong. I can still play. I'm not going to let Grillby down.

You risk being dizzy long enough to sit up and scoot back against the tree you'd collided with. Once you're against it, you sigh and lean back, waiting for the world to still again. You briefly consider calling Sans... but then decide against it. Why? Because then your pride would be wounded, and we can't have that. You're already getting close, anyway—you can see Snowdin bridge from here, and then the lights beyond it.

You watch them dance for a while, tones of red and green alternating and mixing with yellow and blue. Your breath clouds in front of you, obscuring your vision in a haze of newly-crystallized white. Your heartbeat is racing. Your temperature is rising. Your arms are trembling. You close your eyes, trying in vain to get all of your bodily systems back under control.

"Well, would you look at this."

Your eyes shoot open, and your head whirls towards the high-pitched voice's source. You freeze as you catch sight of them, and have to beat down your urge to scream. There in the snow, not so much as three feet away from you... is a small yellow flower. You thought your heart was racing before, but the memory of your last two encounters with the creature sends it into overdrive. You scurry to your feet, only to be hit with a wave of dizziness and nausea. You whimper pathetically and fall back onto your butt, your phone falling out of your pocket.

Sans...!

You're quick to reach for it, but Flowey is unfortunately much faster than you. A vine erupts from the ground by your phone and wraps around it, lifting it into the air and out of your reach.

"No, no, no. We can't have that," he says.

Your body is tensed to the breaking point. You know that any minute now, one of those vines is going to come at you. And then... it'll be over. In this sorry state, there's no way you'll be able to run. You can't even stand up. Not knowing what else to do, you reach into your pocket, groping for your tiny little tooth-pick of a pocket knife. Your hand wraps around its hilt and you quickly pull it out.

...Too quickly. Its metal case is slippery from the cold, and it goes flying out of your hand, landing in the snow next to Flowey. He blinks and stares down at it, and then over at you.

"Really?" he asks flatly. "A pocket knife?"

You don't say anything, and instead just stare at him. The vine holding the phone retracts, carrying your precious piece of technology over to him. He carefully places it on the snow in front of him, and then... doesn't do anything. His vine fully retracts back into the ground, and he turns away, a strangely blank look on his face. You continue to train your gaze on him, waiting. And waiting. And waiting. But... nothing happens.

"W-why aren't you doing anything?" you ask shakily. "Isn't that why you're here? To take my soul?"

"Not this time," he says, voice devoid of emotion.

"...What?" you ask. You're highly skeptical. He's probably just waiting until you let your guard down, or something cliché like that.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, a look of annoyance on his face as he looks at you. "Sure. Be confused. I'm just a psychopathic serial killer, after all."

"But then... why—"

"Don't get me wrong," he continues, acting as if you hadn't spoken, "I'm still after you. Killing you now, though... when you're like this... where's the fun in that? It'd be like kicking a sick puppy—disgraceful. I do have standards, you know."

"Wait... so... you're not going to try and kill me?"

"Humpfh. Try? I wouldn't try. I could kill you right now, if I wanted to. But no, I'm not. Like I said—I have standards."

You're silent for a long moment, but then... you start giggling. You don't know why. Maybe your fever is making you delirious. Maybe it's caused by relief at the fact that you're not going to die. Or maybe, in some dark, ironical way, this situation really is funny. Whatever the case, you're laughing. And it's really throwing Flowey off.

"Wh-what?!" he exclaims. "Why are you laughing?! That's not funny!"

You continue laughing until your ribs hurt, and then you fall over, your back slamming into the tree.

"Geez. It's worse than I thought," Flowey scoffs. "You're not just an idiot. You're completely mental."

"It's just—you—you show up—ha ha—and you have the perfect chance—but you're not—not going to kill me! And it's just—ha ha—so hilarious! And you call me the idiot?! Priceless."

"Hey!" he exclaims, glowering at you. "You should be grateful."

As you continue to laugh, he turns away, turning his back to you. His head is hanging, and for a moment, you think you detect a hint of depression in the air. Your laughter slows and subsides in the face of this strange new atmosphere, and even though your fever is making you a little bit loopy, you manage to pull yourself together.

"So... if you're not here to kill me..." you start, words slow as you try to round up your scattered thoughts, "why are you here?"

Flowey flinches, as if he hadn't expected you to say anything. His head turns ever so slightly towards you, but his face is still strategically hidden by his veil of smooth yellow petals. He stays like that for a moment, unmoving. Then he sighs, and turns his back to you again.

"I came to talk."

"To... talk?"

"Yes, you idiot. That thing people do when they flap their lips and exchange information," he snaps. "What did you think I meant?"

"Not only are you not going to kill me... but you came all this way just to talk to me?" you ask, dumbfounded. "Who are you, and what'd you do with Flowey?"

"Ha ha," he says flatly. "Very funny."

The two of you lapse into an awkward silence, each of you unsure how to continue. Are you actually just going to let this happen? Just... just sit here, and allow your life to become a throw of the dice? You don't trust him. He may say that he's going to leave you alone, or that he just came here to talk, but you have serious doubts about the truth of the statement. Any minute now, a vine's going to break out of the ground and impale you. You just know it.

But at the same time, there's not really anything you can do about it. You're completely helpless in this state, and you both know it. If he were really here to kill you, why is he waiting so long? It just doesn't make sense.

Well... I guess I have no choice, you reason. I'm completely at his mercy. If he really is telling the truth, and he's sparing me, I might as well go along with it.

The silence continues to stretch on. Your body is completely taunt with nervous anticipation, waiting for something to happen. When nothing does... you start to grow impatient. And so... with nothing else to do... you decide to move the conversation forward.

"So... what's on your mind?" you ask slowly.

Flowey flinches again, stem straightening from his previously hunched position.

"What?" he asks, a note of disbelief to his voice.

"You said you wanted to talk. What about? What's on your mind?"

"...Do you actually care?" he asks, refusing to look about you. You blink, confused. What exactly is he referring to?

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"Do you care about what I'm going to say? Or is this just a method to try and preserve your life?"

"Oh. That's... uh... fairly blunt of you," you say slowly, trying to buy yourself time. "Do I care about what you're going to say...?"

"Never mind. Don't bother. You were too slow—I already know the answer."

You open your mouth to say something... but no sound comes out. The result is another awkward silence. Eventually, Flowey sighs, and runs one of his leaves through the snow.

"(Y/N)... you... you've lost people, right?" he asks slowly, staring intently at the ground. "Have you... have you ever thought that it was your fault?"

The moments those words come out of his mouth, your soul lurches in your chest, as if it'd just been physically struck.

"I..."

Of course you've felt that way. How could you not have? If you hadn't left Chara alone with your brother, she wouldn't have had the chance to murder him. If he hadn't been murdered, your parents would have never committed suicide, and you never would have moved to Mt. Ebott. If you hadn't moved to Mt. Ebott, Frisk would have never fallen into the Underground. If Frisk had never fallen Underground, Chara would have never possessed her, and a genocide run would have never happened. The lives of hundreds of innocent monsters would have been spared. Papyrus would have never died.

And Sans... Sans wouldn't be in such bad shape.

So in a sick, twisted way... it's your fault Sans' psyche is so badly damaged. Your own boyfriend. You did that to your own boyfriend. Even though it was Chara that chose to kill your brother, and Chara that took control of Frisk... you still can't drive away the irrational thought that you could've somehow stopped her. You are, in effect, guilty through association. There had to have been something, anything, you could have done to prevent all of that. But if there was... you failed to find it. You failed. It's your fault.

"...Yeah," you say simply.

Flowey's leaf hesitates in its figure-eight pattern in the snow, and his petaled head jerks ever so slightly towards you. You think that he's going to say something, but then he turns his attention back to the snow.

"I see," he deadpans.

"...What about it?" you ask.

"What does it matter?" he counters.

"If you didn't want to talk about it, you wouldn't have come here," you point out.

Flowey hesitates again, but this time, he doesn't move to look at you. Instead, his little stem trembles, and his head dips as a harsh laugh is torn from him.

"Why do I even bother?" he asks, muttering to himself. "It's not as if it'll change anything."

"Change what?"

He laughs again, and he finally turns to face you. His eyes are pure black, and he has that hauntingly familiar malicious grin plaster across his face.

"The miserable state of my existence," he hisses.

You fall silent again, taken aback. Though his black, pupil-less eyes exude nothing but hatred and bad intentions... your soul caught a whiff of something deeper. It ran into you like a tidal wave when he said those words, completely driving every other thought or emotion from your head. Depression. Hopelessness. ...Emptiness.

Just as quickly as it happened though, he turns away again, your brief connection with his psyche cut off as he hides his face.

"Are... are you..."

You never thought you'd ask this... but that wave of emotion was so powerful that it's temporarily disengaged all of your rational precautions.

"Are you okay?"

Flowey chuckles again, throwing his head back. You feel the bark of the tree behind you bite into your back as you instinctively try to lean away from him, and a chill runs down his spine as he bends over backwards to look at you.

"Okay?" he asks, his smile widening. "What a misdirected question. You'd get a better answer from the tree behind you, or the snow beneath you."

"What? But you're not—"

"Not an inanimate object? Hah. I may as well be," he says brightly. "I don't have a soul, after all. And as for your question, oh high-and-mighty (Y/N)... it's irrelevant whether or not I'm okay. I can't feel anything, so there's no rational answer. You may as well divide by zero."

"What do you mean, no soul?" you ask, stuptified. "You're talking to me, aren't you? You can think for yourself. So how can you not—"

"Oh, spare me from your ignorant questioning," he snaps. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters. All that matters is that I exist, I'm here, and that it's my fault that I'm the way I'm am. It's because of me that she's dead, and it's my fault that I'm stuck in this stupid, stupid body—"

Flowey cuts himself off, and whips his head away, another wave of depression washing over you as he does.

"I should never have come here. It was a stupid decision. I thought I'd get to see something new for a change, but this isn't at all what I expected," he mutters to himself. "Shouldn't she have tried something by now? Why is she just... just sitting there?"

"Flowey," you start.

"What?!" he snaps, whipping around and glowering at you. This time, though, you don't let yourself be cowed into silence.

"Whatever happened... I don't think it was your fault."

He goes still and stares at you, smile falling until his expression is completely deadpan. One second passes by. Then two.

"Hah. And how could you possibly know that?" he asks weakly. "You don't even know what I'm talking about."

"Maybe not," you admit. "But... you started all of this by asking if I felt guilty about my losses. I do. But I also know that it's an irrational feeling. Maybe it's the same for you."

Flowey slowly turns away, and crosses his leaves in front of him like a tiny pair of arms.

"Maybe... maybe I was lying when I said I don't feel anything," he admits. "There's one emotion left. I'm fairly sure you can guess what it is."

You nod.

"I should've listened to her. If I had just listened to her... if I had just fought back like she wanted, then maybe..."

Flowey fiercely shakes his head, and a pair of vines erupt out of the ground. You flinch and scoot back again, expecting them to find a place around your soul. So, obviously, you're surprised when they reach for your phone, instead.

"This whole idiotic spiel has gone on long enough," he mutters, holding your phone up at eye level.

"Hey!" you exclaim, watching as he easily gets past your phone's pattern lock. "What're you doing with that?!"

"Having you die here would be insulting. I don't take handouts," he mutters, vines typing rapidly on your screen. "So instead, I'm letting the Smiley Trashbag know that you need a glorified chauffeur."

An evil smirk crosses his face at whatever he's writing, and when he taps the 'send' button, he giggles like a mischievous child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. He tosses your phone back at you, and with your coordination temporarily out of commission, you fumble it, and it lands in the snow. You hastily pick it up and wipe at it, and then look at what he wrote.

'You': come pick me up. by a tree near the bridge. i collapsed there. like an idiot. because i am one.

'You': wiener

'You': buttocks

'You': boobies

'You': kiss

'You': babies

'You': let's get married

'You': p.s: you're a butt-faced stupid head

'You': p.p.s: papyrus isn't cool

'You': hah

'You': how do you like that, smiley trashbag

By the time you finish reading all that, you're about ready to strangle Flowey. Killing you is one thing, but messing with your relationship with Sans... he'd better be ready for a bad time.

"You... little..."

A vine whips out of nowhere, and slaps itself across your mouth. You're so angry that you actually consider biting on it... but once again, Flowey is too fast for you. He withdraws his vine just when you're about to bite down, so that your teeth clink together.

"Have fun with your little plaything, (Y/N)," he purrs, smirking at you. "You'd better make the most of him while your relationship lasts~"

"Flowey—"

"Oh, no need to thank me. Your expression is payment enough," he says, giving you a sickeningly sweet smile. "But remember—I may've spared you this time, but this is just a one-time deal. When next we meet..."

His face morphs into the stuff from nightmares, his empty eyes chilling you to the soul.

"I' M     G O I N G      T O     T E A R      Y O U     L I M B     F R O M      L I M B."

With his parting threat given, he vanishes into the ground, leaving no trace that he was ever there in the first place. His words, however, go right over your head. You're too busy worrying about how you're going to explain those texts to Sans—if you mention Flowey, he's going to flip out. But if you don't say anything...

Maybe I'll just blame it on the fever, you think. Yeah! If I act loopy enough, I might just get away with it.

You reread the texts, cringing really, really hard as you read the one about getting married. That's easily the worst.

For a psychopathic murderer, he's really childish, you grumble to yourself. This looks like something Frisk would do.

You roll your eyes and turn your attention back to the looming problem, trying to decide how you're going to explain yourself. Not soon after, there's a popping sound from the space in front of you, and you watch as a familiar skeleton steps out of midair. Your gut twists as you look up at him, steeling yourself to look at him in the eye...

"Uh..." he mutters, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. He holds up his phone, and points to the texts you'd sent him. "Do you... wanna explain all of that?"

You open your mouth to say something about running a fever, and being sorry, and not meaning a word you said...

"I swear it wasn't me!" you exclaim, your face burning.

Great. So much for the whole 'I'm delusional' strategy.

Sans stares at you for a moment, and then a look of annoyance manifests itself amongst a furrowed bone-brow and almost-frown.

"Was it Jerry?" he asks, voice low. "I wouldn't put it past that guy."

"Uh... yeah. Yeah, it was... uh... Jerry," you find yourself saying. You silently apologize to this 'Jerry' guy, but his demonization was a necessary sacrifice. You need a scapegoat, and he just happens to fit the bill. For your sake, though, you hope the two of you never meet.

Sans sighs and puts his phone away, before offering his hand to you.

"Next time I see that guy, I'm going to give him a stern talking-to," Sans says. "But I guess he did some good, if he told me to come get you. Can you stand?"

You take his hand, and move to haul yourself to your feet. The moment you're on your own two feet again, though, you get really light-headed, and the ground beneath your feet rocks as though you're on the deck of a ship.

"Sans," you manage to gasp, before losing your balance.

"Woah!" he exclaims. He steps forward, one of his arms snaking around your back and catching you before you can get too far. He pulls you back up and tight against him, holding you firmly against his chest.

"Oh geez," he mutters, voice betraying his worry. "You almost fainted."

"No," you protest, voice tight. "I'm just a little... a little dizzy. That's all. I'm fine."

"Ohhh no," Sans says, gently lifting you up.

"H-hey—"

He's completely lifted you off your feet, and is now carrying you bridal-style. Your heart flutters in your chest at the gesture, and you clutch a fistful of Sans' jacket to try and keep yourself steady.

"If you're going to faint just by standing up, you're not fine," Sans says quietly.

"But I have to get to work—"

"Nope. Not on my watch. You're coming home with me, and you're going to stay there until you get better."

"But Sans, I have to go in today," you protest. "The King's gonna be there! I can't just miss—"

You're cut off by a twinge in your gut, and a burst of Sans' blue magic. You squeeze your eyes shut as the world folds in on itself, light and matter bending as the two of you teleport. When everything settles again, you open your eyes to find yourself in the middle of a familiar living room.

"Sans!" you exclaim. "I have to go to work!"

He gently sets you on the couch, and then straightens, a guarded look of worry in his irises as he stares down at you.

"Alright. How about this—if you can make it all the way from the couch to the door without falling over," he starts, pointing at the front door, "then you can go. I won't stop you. But if you fall, and I have to catch you, you're staying here."

"Oh, and you don't get to complain when I dote on you," he adds as an afterthought. "You're my girlfriend, you're sick, and I haven't seen you in three days. I'm going to be all over you."

"Just to the door?" you ask, trying to sound confident. "Psht. That's easy."

"Well then, go ahead," he says, crossing his arms.

"I will."

You get up, and the world instantly begins to sway.

No. No, I can do this. I can't miss today! Pull yourself together.

You take one uneasy step forward, and then another... By the time you've gone three steps, you're breathing heavily, and you're so hot that you almost feel as if you're being microwaved.

"I... I can... make it..."

Yeah... no. You sway and fall over, landing right in Sans' outstretched arms.

"Only three steps?" he asks. "That's, uh... worse than I thought. Are you sure this isn't anything to worry about? I mean... you said that it wasn't serious..."

"I'm... fine..." you murmur.

Sans just sighs, and gently helps you back to the couch. Though you still know that you can't stay here, you lie down willingly, and allow him to place a bony hand against your forehead.

"...I can't tell if there's a difference," he says anxiously. "I can't actually feel heat. Let's see... I think I remember Frisk saying something once about thermometers..."

He stalks off into the kitchen, and you can hear the distant thumping of drawers being opened and then slammed shut.

"Sans, I can't stay," you protest weakly. "I have to go... I can't miss this..."

"You can, and you will," he calls, voice firm. "Do you honestly think you can play like this? Just look at yourself—you're shaking like a leaf. If you were to play in this state, you'd just make a fool of yourself."

He's right about that. You splay your fingers out in the air in front of you, and watch in dismay as they disobey your brain's commands to stay still.

"I can't find a thermometer anywhere," Sans mutters in the other room. "Maybe the store's got one. Hold on, I'll go check—"

"Sans..."

"Yes?"

"I... I don't want to let Grillby down. It seemed like he really needed me there today, and..."

Sans sighs, walks back into the room, and then takes a seat on the very edge of the couch.

"Buttercup, you're too dutiful," he says, smiling down at you. "You need to take it easy, or you're going to run yourself into the ground. I know Grillbz can be demanding sometimes, but he's a real understanding guy. If you're feeling bad, he's not gonna make a big deal out of it."

"But the king—"

"And the King's a big 'ol ball of fluff. He's not going to care whether or not there's someone manning the piano. He's here for the people, not the sights, you know?"

"But..."

Sans chuckles and reaches out to you, lovingly tucking your hair behind your ear.

"You're so cute, Buttercup."

"Saaaans," you complain. "This is serious!"

"Alright, alright," he says, a grin on his face. He gently boops your nose, and then gets up. "If it really means that much to you, I... I guess I have a solution."

"A solution?" you ask.

"Yep. Just a sec."

Sans disappears with a pop. When he returns, he has something in his hands. An acoustic guitar.

"I... uh... I guess I can cover for you," he says uncertainly. "I haven't touched this thing in forever, but... well... if it's for you..."

"Sans... you play the guitar?" you ask, surprised.

"Heh. Yup. Or... I think I do," he says.

"You... think?"

"Like I said—it's been a long time since I've actually played it," he murmurs, irises shifting away. "But if you're really going to be so worried about this, I guess I can... you know... take your place. Just for today, though."

"Really? You'd do that for me?" you ask.

"Y-yeah," he mutters. "If you haven't realized it by now, Buttercup... I'd do anything for you."

A warm, fuzzy feeling flows through you, and despite how awful you feel, a small smile crosses your face.

"Well..." you start slowly, "if you're going to play in front of the King, you'd better get practicing."

"Practicing?" he asks uncertainly.

"Yeah, Sansy~" you say, grinning. "Play me something."

He freezes like a deer in the headlights, his irises huge and his hands tight around his guitar.

"P-play you something?" he splutters.

"Yeah," you say. "Oh, and make it something you can sing to. You owe me a song or two."

Sans stares at you, a haze of blue entering his cheekbones. Then he coughs and turns his complete attention to his guitar, using his jacket sleeve to clear the thick layer of dust that coats it. You notice that there's a strange rectangle of black ink on it, as if someone had blacked out something that'd been there before.

"I-I don't think that's a good idea," he mutters.

"What?" you ask. "Aww, c'mon, Sans. You're about to go and play in front of the King, and you're nervous about playing in front of me?"

"Well... the King wouldn't care one way or other," he says quietly. "But you... I don't want to risk making a fool of myself in front of you, y'know?"

You sit up and rest your chin on your knees, giving Sans the cutest look you can muster.

"But I play in front of you all the time," you point out. "And I'm constantly making a fool of myself in front of you."

"Yeah, but..."

"But...?"
"It's... different when you do it," he mutters sheepishly. "You're actually good at music and stuff."

"Not that good," you say. "And who says you're not good? You were great at the party—I loved your singing voice."

"Wh-what?" he asks, face lighting up like an LED bulb.

"Yeah. Don't you remember? I'm pretty sure I said you were amazing," you remind him.

His face turns even bluer at your praise.

"U-uh... when do you usually get to work?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Around eleven," you say. "But anyway, like I was saying—"

"Oh, would you look at the time!" Sans exclaims, cutting you off. "Gotta go. See you later. Take it easy."

"Sans—"

And... he's gone. You stare at the place he disappeared, disbelief pulsing through you. He'd actually run away. You puff out your checks and then let out a slow, disappointed breath, before collapsing back onto the couch. On a whim, you glance over at the clock. You're not surprised to see that it reads 8:45. He left early. So early, in fact, that it's blindingly obvious that he was trying to get away from you.

Before you can grumble too much about it, though, your eyelids grow heavy. The stress of getting here had exhausted you, not to mention your little run-in with Flowey. You try to stay awake, thinking that you're going to text Sans about his dramatic exit... but by the time you have your phone in your hand, you're too far gone. The world fades to black, and you give in to your body's need to recharge.

***

Once again, you wake up to the sound of buzzing. You blink and groan as you reach for the ground, where your phone had fallen. Before you turn it on, though, you feel your forehead. It could just be wishful thinking, but you think you feel a lot cooler than you had this morning. You sit up, and are relieved to find that you feel more or less normal. You may still be a little hot, and your stomach is still a little uneasy, but the world isn't moving around you like it had before.

You turn on your phone. Unsurprisingly, it's Sans that'd been texting you.

Sans: You know what? Nevermind. I can't do this. (9:45 AM)

Sans: Is it always this busy?? (10:00 AM)

Sans: Oh... oh god. Sorry, Buttercup. I don't think I'm gonna be able to do this. It looks like everyone's here. (10:20 AM)

Sans: Even Mettaton's here. He seems disappointed, though. (10:30 AM)

Sans: Maybe he was looking for you? (10:35 AM)

Sans: Well, that's one thing to be grateful for, I guess. I still don't trust that bucket of bolts with anything. Much less you. (10:40 AM)

Sans: Okay... okay... it's not so bad. I just... I just gotta block them out, that's all. (10:45)

Sans: I told you I'd do this for you. I'm not gonna back out. (10:50 AM)

Sans: Oh... oh boy... (10:55 AM)

Sans: Oh! Grillbz just told me that the King cancelled. He couldn't make it—had some other business to attend to, I guess. (10:57 AM)

Sans: But-uh... he also said that now that I'm here... I may as well... (10:59 AM)

Sans: Welp. Here we go. I'm gonna make a complete fool of myself. If I don't say anything when I get back, just assume that I never want to speak of this again, okay? (33 minutes ago)

Sans: Sleep well, Buttercup. I'm going to go die of embarrassment now. (32 minutes ago)

Sans: You should probably start writing a eulogy for me. (31 minute ago)

Sans: Wish me luck... (30 minutes ago)

You check the time. 11:30. He's been at it for a good half hour. And, of course, you're super curious as to what he sounds like.

Maybe... I should go see.

You're fairly sure that he'll scold you for getting off of the couch... but this is just too priceless an opportunity to pass up. You really want to hear him play.

And so you get up off the couch, and carefully make your way over to the door. This time, you manage to make it without much difficulty. It seems your cold (or sickness, or relapse, or whatever) is finally over with. You head out into the snow, letting the door to the Skelebros' place swing shut behind you.

The moment you open the door to Grillby's, the sound of an acoustic guitar swells in the air around you. You seem to have gotten here just in time for the closing bars of a song, because the sounds soon fade away, the last note held until the guitar can no longer produce it. You're surprised by the amount of people that've managed to squeeze themselves into Grillby's today—every seat is taken, and there are even a few monsters standing as they listen to Sans' playing. You can barely even see Sans from here—he's sitting on a stool near the bar, but your vision is blocked by the dozens of bodies that're scrambling to get a view.

You scoot in far enough to the restaurant to close the door behind you, and then hang in the back of the crowd, unwilling to fight your way forward. You'll be fine so long as you can hear him. And hear him, you can. Once the applause of the audience dies down, you can hear him doing a kind of crowd-inclusive "thank you."

"Whadda guys think? What should I play next?" he asks.

The volume in the little room peaks as people start shouting suggestions. At first, you're content to just leave them to it. But then, you get an idea.

Maybe if I...

"Sans! Sing something!" you call loudly. You're careful to disguise your voice by making it sound deeper than normal. You don't want him getting cold feet just because you're here. The room goes quiet for a moment, as if taking in your especially loud request. Then, just like you'd planned... other people take up your call.

"Yeah, Sans! You should sing something!"

"I heard you did karaoke once—you should do it again! But with a guitar!"

"C'mon Sansy~ Let us hear that *hic* sexy voice~"

You're fairly sure that everyone in the room is now clamoring for him to sing.

"Wh-what?" he splutters.

"Sing!" everyone shouts.

"U-uh... you really don't want to hear that," he protests weakly.

"Yes we do!"

You smile. Sans is being difficult, as predicted... but you can tell that he's going to crumble in the midst of peer pressure. In that respect, at least, the two of you are similar.

"Alright, alright, fine," he says eventually, voice shaky. "But don't blame me if your ears—or any other auditory organs—are blown out."

Just for a moment, the crowd shifts in such a way that you get a clear view of your boyfriend. Sweat is freely rolling down his face, and his hands are shaking so hard that he's having a hard time tuning his guitar. Apart from that, though, he seems to be remarkably calm. Or... you suppose you should say outwardly calm. There's something about his flickering irises that betrays his panic.

Eventually, he seems to get the guitar to make a sound that he likes. He tests out a few chords, and then carefully places his fingers in the correct positions. He stares pointedly at the floor, and takes a long, deep breath. He strums the first chord, and you can see his irises shifting as he gathers his thoughts.

"I-uh... I think this'll probably seem like a kinda weird thing to sing out of context, so... um... this is dedicated to someone. As soon as you hear it, I'm sure most of you'll be able to guess who that is," he says slowly. "I... may have been practicing singing this for a while, but I never thought that I'd play my guitar to it, and I definitely never thought end up singing it in front of a crowd. So... yeah. Here we go."

https://youtu.be/oM-NCBZMZms

"Wise men say,

Only fools rush in...

But I can't help falling in love with you.

Shall I stay?
Would it be a sin,
If I can't help falling in love with you?"

O-oh, you think, your cheeks growing warm. When he said it was dedicated to someone...

Your heartbeat picks up in your chest, and as he continues to sing, it only beats faster. That deep thrum to his voice, the actual meaning behind the words... It's making your heart melt.

"Like a river flows~

Surely to the sea~

Darling so it goes, some things... are meant to be~"

As he gets more confident, his voice loses some of the shakiness that comes with nerves, and his gaze leaves the floor, migrating up towards the faces around him.

"So take my hand,

Take my whole life too~

For I can't help, falling in love with you~

Like a river flows,

Surely to the sea,

Darling so it goes,

Some things are meant to be~

Take my hand...

Take my whole life too...

For I can't help falling in love with you...

The tempo slows down, and you instinctively know that the song's going to be ending soon. Despite our better judgment, your musical instincts take over, and you find yourself about to jump in, a harmony ready on your tongue.

"For I... can't... help... falling in love... with... you."

At the sound of your voice, Sans' head snaps up, and his gaze frantically scans the room. It doesn't take him long to catch sight of you. The moment he does, he freezes, and you watch in amusement as his face slowly transitions from white to blue, his irises never leaving yours. You smile, and give him a small wave. That seems to break his trance, because he starts, and quickly shifts his gaze away from you.

"U-uh... that's it for today, guys," he says quickly. "I've gotta go."

There's a collective 'aww' from the gathered listeners. Sans doesn't pay them any heed, and the next time you catch sight of the front of the room through the crowd, he's gone. He'd teleported away again. You go to get your phone out, but before you can, a bony hand wraps around your wrist and insistently pulls you out of the restaurant's clouded glass doors.

"What are you doing here?" Sans demands, a mix of embarrassment and worry somehow coexisting on his face. "You should be resting!"

He puts his hand on your forehead again, apparently having forgotten that he can't feel heat. When he remembers, he blushes, and shoves it into his pockets instead.

"I'm feeling better," you say.

"That's what you said last time," he reminds you.

"Well this time, it's true," you say. Then you wave his concern away, and change the subject.

"What were you so worried about? That was incredible!" you gush, beaming. "And so cute, too."

"I-it was okay," he mutters, rubbing the back of his head. "Oh geez. I wish you hadn't heard that."

"Why?" you ask, smiling. "It was really sweet."

"It was cheesy."

"No it wasn't! And you were practicing that for a while? You're so adorable, Sans."

Sans groans, trying in vain to hide his face behind his hand.

"You heard that?"

"I did," you say happily.

"For crying out loud..." he mutters, ducking his head. You giggle quietly and slowly reach out... and take his hand. He flinches at your touch, and looks up at you.

"Take my hand~" you sing softly, "and take my whole life too..."

Sans' eyesockets widen, but he doesn't say anything as you continue. You lean forward, gently resting your forehead against his.

"For I... can't... help... falling in love with you~"

Sans relaxes underneath you as you press your lips against his teeth, and he lets go of your hand to let his hands slip around your back, instead. They meet behind you and pull you closer, so that you're pressed against him.

"I love you, (Y/N)."