chatsville | text @PAPYRUS

[And here Papyrus was grabbing glasses for champagne for the human traditional new year's toast he's seen in ads through the last week. He scowls defensively at his brother, not yet recognizing the terrible tension.]

What? I clearly remembered, ninteen instead of twen...ty...

[He trails off mid-word as he does, indeed, check the television. Blinks, and keeps checking it. That's very clearly a 1 at the end of the date the partiers are celebrating against a backdrop of fireworks. But that doesn't make sense.]

...I think. The television has a typo.

[Sans is still moving--single-mindedly, absent-mindedly. Papyrus remembers. Okay. This isn't the same. No, he should have known that immediately, because a year ago he was underground. A year ago he wasn't here. The kid hadn't even dropped in yet.

Sans pulls the calendar down off the wall. January 1961. He checks December even though his mind has already landed on the worst, inevitable option. There's nothing written down on December 1961 at all.

Sans is listening to Papyrus, but he doesn't say anything. He's going to have to, soon. He can't worry Papyrus. (Papyrus is already worried.)]

Edited (moving that period back over where it belongs) 2021-01-01 07:58 (UTC)

[Clink, clink. The glasses rest on the coffee table - guess it's the champagne table now - and Papyrus settles onto the couch to better stare at the television. He glances at the wrist radio - still stubbornly displaying 1962 in his message - then back at the television. Still not matching. And Sans is being... entirely too quiet.]

I wonder. If it's like... How we don't remember November.

[That was strange, and still unexplained despite his ~~somewhat distracted and not quite~~ best efforts. He taps a finger on his cheek, drumming the yielding skin, grounding himself a little in that strangeness too. There's lots of strange things happening. No reason this should overwhelm him. Nyeh heh... heh.]

Maybe the skipped months... just slid forward. And they're happening now.

[That'd leave them with what, January through September, skipping October into November, and then into 1962? Sounds lengthy and convoluted. A time loop would be an easier explanation... but that's not a topic he wants to broach with Sans, already so prone to lethargic apathy.]

[Sans is still staring at the calendar, but he knows he has to actually say something now.] They should warn us before they start sliding all the months around like that. A guy could lose track. [He doesn't put the calendar back up, just drops it with a fluttery little thump onto the nearest surface.]

[At least his brother is making noise. That's something. Papyrus leans in place to try seeing what it was, but otherwise stays perched on the couch.]

They really should! Just another example of civic mismanagement, like all those late party invitations...

[Between that sudden block party w/o forewarning, and the Christmas Gala with barely a couple hours notice, and the unhelpfulness of the police about the snowmen, he's seeing the civic authorities of the town as less useful than ever. The only party they did warn for right was Halloween, and they neglected to mention the consequences of not decorating right, so that's not worth much credit either.

Ah, but there's a response to his post, and not a sign of confusion about the date from Kipo. Maybe it is just his television that's confused. He types out a quick response.]

I'm asking the neighbor, but... it was 1961, right?

Yeah. According to this place, anyway. [There's a lot going on in general, between the theory of everyone being from entirely different universes and the way time seems to be sliding around. But what can he do about that? Nothing, that's what. He sets his face and pads back to the living room.]

Hey, it's still a holiday, yeah? Happy Same Year. [Heh. Sans grabs for the chips as he returns to the couch.]

Ha ha! I haven't heard that before.

[He thinks not, anyway. Who's to say for sure, without that helpful flower around to help explain things. If he has, he doesn't remember hearing it, which is effectively the same thing as never... right?]

I guess... that's something to celebrate. As long as we're here. 'Happy Same Year', whenever we don't wake up further in the past... Cheers?

[This is either not at all the time for alcohol, or the perfect time for it. So Papyrus grabs for those glasses of champagne, and offers one.]

Could be worse--you've still got that car to drive around in. [Sans feels like he's--settled. Something is different from before, clearly, if they're here like this, but it's also just as clearly not that different. He takes the offered champagne and resists the urge to just down it in one go in favor of holding it up for that whole toast thing Papyrus wanted to do. As far as things Sans should do, wants to do, if he can get Papyrus past this unease, that's good enough.] Cheers, bro.

[Glases clink as Papyrus goes through with the gesture, but this time the reminder of the car is less reassuring than it had been, on the first of December. He brightens at the thought of it, sure, but a frown washes it away quickly enough, and he squints vaguely in the direction of the garage. Is it still there...? It had looked fresh off the shelf, when he first got his hands on the wheel.]

Y-Yeah, it's bound to still be here! It's a 1960, after all.

[At the very least, it should already exist. And going car shopping wouldn't be the worst thing.

[Now that the obligatory celebratory toasting is out of the way, Sans does drink the whole glass in one go. If it's just going to the garage to check on a car, Sans can manage that much. Papyrus deserves that car. He gets up again.]

Ain't like the houses they dropped us in disappeared, right? [He's heading to the garage while he says it.]

No, the couch feels too real to be disappeared. [He agrees, but pats the couch to confirm it, as if sitting on it weren't proof enough. Sans's reasoning is as good an argument as any, though. The houses look new, maybe even new enough to have been built this year... for them...?

The whole train of thought is exhausting, especially given how frustratingly tired he already is just from staying up to midnight. He yawns and presses his palms to closed eyes, rubbing at them in hopes it'll wake him up. Maybe he's already asleep, and the weirdness with the television is just a dream.]

[Sans opens the door to the garage and, finding the car where it should be, just calls back across the house from where he's standing.] Car's still here. [Good enough for Sans. He's good at not expecting much. But now that he has confirmed the car's existence he'll head back to the living room.]

[That's something. That's definitely something. Papyrus gives his eyes another wipe, then grabs the wrist radio to see what others have been saying so far. It almost feels like browsing the Undernet, people sharing congratulations and complaints through the semi-anonymous text feature...]

It looks like, it's not just this television. [In case that was in question, in any way shape or form.]

[Ah, Papyrus is still checking the watch. Sans could, but he doesn't feel like it. Instead, upon returning to the living room, he drops himself back onto the couch and grabs for those chips he left behind.] If it's more'n one of 'em on there tellin' you they see the same thing, they're probably not ribbing you. [Surely that will distract Papyrus from this time crisis.]

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.]

[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?

[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.]

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.]

[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.]

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

Edited 2021-01-09 19:44 (UTC)

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.]

[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.]

[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?]

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.]

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.

text @PAPYRUS - New Years

good old lost soul time

no subject

no subject

had to go get a new icon for this

dun dun dun

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

I need an even more knifecat-y knifecat icon

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

more knives or more cats

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

it would be the most smug expression possible

and knifecat is already very smug

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)