text @PAPYRUS - New Years

[spaghettimonster]

HAPPY 1962!!!

IT'S HARD TO CALL THIS A NEW YEAR... SINCE THIS SEEMS LIKE THE PAST TO ME.

BUT DECEMBER IS OVER! AND IT DOESN'T LOOK LIKE IT'S SUDDENLY FEBRUARY.

HOW ABOUT.

HAPPY NEW OLD YEAR!!!

[But don't be fooled - it's the start of 1961! Despite Papyrus optimistically posting this at midnight on the dot, everything from the TV countdown to physical calendars to outstanding bills says otherwise.]

Comments

[spaghettimonster]

Ughhhh. Sans, not even an hour into the new year?? [Or the old year. The same year. Whatever year it is. He's suddenly deeply aware of the benefits of having a "wife," and that is meatshield - if Kiara was in this room, Sans wouldn't be suspiciously punning at him.]

[ribticklers]

[Kiara isn't in the room right now, though, and Sans latches onto this method of distracting Papyrus and keeps pulling at it.] What, you got a bone to pick with me?

[spaghettimonster]

[Papyrus drags his hands down his face, barely even flinching at the ways fingers dig and press into skin, the better to cover his mouth. Somewhat muffled, so that it's not as piercing and likely to draw attention as usual, he voices:] Oh my god. The one! upside! And you thwart it every chance you get!!

[He is being extremely hyperbolic, in an attempt to discourage his brother from punning more. There's plenty of other upsides to the situation. They're both here and okay, he has hair and a car, they can look at stars and maybe even escape by hiking into the mountains. So many up-sides.]

I need an even more knifecat-y knifecat icon

[ribticklers]

So you don't find this humerus? [Sans has used variations on that one enough that it's gone beyond a running gag for everyone except Sans himself, who delights in it more and more each time. Even more importantly, though, Sans is sure Papyrus is thoroughly distracted now.]

i keep coming to this and wondering, how do you escalate knifecat?

[spaghettimonster]

[He sure is distracted, between the exasperation and the battle to keep himself from complaining at full volume. If there are no other benefits to being human, it's lips - forcing his mouth closed, the annoyed growl he's making is muted. Instead he spreads his hands, repeating the gesture forcefully in something of a why shrug, before throwing his hands up in the air.]

more knives or more cats

[ribticklers]

[Sans shoves a handful of chips in his mouth.] You're real cranky for some reason, bro. Past your bedtime?

a friend on discord suggested replace the knives with gun, but i thought more the expression

[spaghettimonster]

Ughhhhh. [Papyrus's loud sigh is too powerful to contain with pursed lips, and he sinks his side into the couch. With the material squishing half of his face, the better to display his misery, he nods.] Yes, and I hate it. I'm so tired! All the time. I should go to bed... soon.

[Despite being another round of complaining, this at least is less loud than complaining at his brother would have been. No embellishing for the sake of trying to persuade Sans to change his ways, or anything - just earnest griping.]

it would be the most smug expression possible

[ribticklers]

[Sans sympathetically places a potato chip on the visible half of Papyrus's face.] You'll feel better in the morning. [Ideally, Papyrus will not be thinking about the existential crisis in the morning. But sleep can't hurt, as long as Papyrus is human.]

and knifecat is already very smug

[spaghettimonster]

[Papyrus huffs another annoyed breath when the chip is placed, and grabs it to examine - then sticks it in his mouth to eat. Why not. He knows where his face has been. And some of the sorts of food Sans eats has been... tasty...? somehow?? Which is almost as distressing as the year thing. Not only does Papyrus not have his own cool face, or magic, but he's stuck needing to sleep, and Sans's food smells good.]

I think I want, to go to the bar in the morning. Eat one of your terrible burgers. [Sure, it's not morning drinking. But coming from Papyrus, if that food plan's not a sign of how bad this existential crisis could be, what is?]

[ribticklers]

You really want to complain about grease that early? [Sans doesn't like it, though he won't stop Papyrus from doing it, and will even go along. But Sans doesn't want Papyrus to get upset in the same ways Sans is, even if he also thinks they're different enough that it won't happen. But if it did... Sans's expression has dropped a bit on its own again, but he doesn't think Papyrus can see it right now anyway.]

[spaghettimonster]

No, not really... [Though he can complain about grease any time of day, complaining about grease that he's eaten is a whole different thing. And, the question reveals, he has the same fear to a degree - in some ways, he knows, he and Sans aren't that unalike. It's a question of what they choose to do with it, that makes their differences. Does he really want to sit here, melting into the couch and turning into a grease skeleton, just because the calendar is weird?

Papyrus grumbles again, pushes himself back to sitting upright and then some.] I will see how I feel, in the morning! And not make any bad decisions tonight.

[ribticklers]

Yeah, as the sleep expert, you should wait 'til after you've done it to make decisions. [That's better. Not completely better, but it's in the right direction. Sans has his typical smile back on his face by the time Papyrus is upright again. He's gotten better at working this human body.

Actually, now that Papyrus is upright, Sans sprawls all the way across the couch and also his brother.] Think I'll crash here tonight.

[Really, he thinks maybe things would feel a little more normal with both of them in one house, even if it's just for the rest of tonight. Sure, Kiara lives here too, but what's important here is Papyrus.]

[spaghettimonster]

Well, if the expert says so. [Papyrus rolls his eyes, not at all doubting the claim of expertise, but critical that this is something to be an expert in.

He stretches his arms over his head and stands up, then considers Sans on the couch with a raised eyebrow.]

You're really sleeping here? Was my champagne too powerful...? [He doesn't mind, there's something comforting about Sans being in the same roof again, especially when time is being weird... again.] Won't Lorna wonder where you are?

[ribticklers]

[Honestly, Lorna hadn't occurred to him when he decided. Would she be worried? The idea is kind of weird; Sans may be getting used to this body, but getting used to having someone in his house who isn't Papyrus is taking more time.] Eh, I can text her. [Not that he moves to do so just yet. Right now he is remaining sprawled out on the couch.] If I wanted to go home I'd have to walk all the way next door. Too much effort.

[spaghettimonster]

Oh, of course. Laziness wins out. [If Sans is exaggerating his unwillingness to get up, to better highlight the differences between him and his brother, it's working. Papyrus is already feeling better about himself, remembering how a brief glum slump isn't the same as intentionally forgoing a bed for the couch.

He rolls his eyes again and starts for the stairs.] Well, you're too heavy to carry over, so I guess you can stay. But text her!!

[ribticklers]

[Sans has been exaggerating for effect, but honestly, now that he's lying down, he really does just want to stay right there and not move for a while. he could use a blanket, maybe, but not enough to actually get up. Except for Papyrus, maybe, things won't really be better in the morning, but there's something to be said for the power of sleep to provide the blank nothingness where he couldn't worry about things even if he wanted to.]

Mmph. [Yeah that is not exactly Sans moving to text anyone. That is barely a noise.]

[spaghettimonster]

...Sigh. [That sure doesn't sound like texting.

But Papyrus rallying to put up a good front for himself and his brother is one thing, while rallying to put up a good front for only himself... that takes energy, and he's tired. With any luck, Lorna is asleep and won't notice, and - if she minds, if she's invested in her fake husband enough to be concerned and upset - hopefully she and Sans can work it out between them.

He heads upstairs, past the small empty rooms of potential children, and to the bed he first woke in. Racecar slippers not quite squeaking all the way. Maybe tomorrow will make more sense. It won't.]