AN: This is a one-shot. There will not be more. At the end, I will explain, but this is sort of a therapy post for me. That being said:
There is a character who dies of terminal illness. It is an OC.
This is NOT the Like Magic universe. So, don't worry. This isn't Evelynne.
It is sad. Please do not read this if you feel it will do bad things for your emotional state. Other than the character death, I don't believe there are any triggers. If I am wrong, please let me know.
On the first day, he met her.
Frisk brought them to her in search of someplace safe. She had welcomed them with little explanation, ecstatic to see her niece and warmly welcomed the rest of them. She shooed them into the kitchen, moving slowly but eagerly as she served tea and day-old cookies. Most of them spoke of the future; how to communicate with the humans and establish a safe community. She would offer her insight, and they would praise her for her support and hospitality.
But he watched her. Carefully.
He watched as she winced and wheezed, and how her skin wrinkled when she forced a smile. He watched how she pulled Frisk out into the living room, just barely in his line of sight. He watched them exchange words, and she cried, pulling Frisk in close for a hug that was slowly returned.
He watched how she shook when carrying a full mug of tea, and how she slouched during breaks in the conversations.
She looked different from any other human he'd seen. She looked frail and sickly, her skin a grayish tint that spoke of poor health. She took two bites of a cookie before discreetly tossing it in the bin in the corner, smiling and continuing the conversation as if nothing were wrong.
She offered them a place to stay, providing pillows and blankets.
On the first night, he didn't sleep. He watched and waited. Waited for betrayal, or for suspicion. He watched for insincerity.
But nothing happened.
On the second day, she woke up late.
It was eleven in the morning when she finally emerged from that room at the end of the hall. She brushed off their concerns with a joke, and true to his nature, he responded with a terrible pun. Half the room groaned, the other half laughed.
She giggled.
There was a strange feeling in the pit of his chest, his smile slipping just slightly as she looked at him. Her green eyes sparkled in her mirth, and he drank in the sight of her genuine smile. It was pure and beautiful. He wanted to see that smile more.
She made them brunch, despite the protests of Toriel, Papyrus, and Undyne. Instead, she urged them to continue discussing their plans, promising that she'd help them contact the right sources. He took every chance he could to make her smile. He annoyed the others with his frequent jokes, but she never stopped laughing. He even brought her to tears, and she looked at him in the afterglow.
It felt like time had stopped. His soul lurched, his magic flared, and he shuddered.
And then it was over. Her smile fell, and so did she. Papyrus raced to help her up before he could even consider it, frozen in shock and a phantom feeling of terror. He watched as everyone crowded her in concern, but she pushed them all away with a wince and a smile, assuring them she was alright. But he could see it in her eyes.
She went to bed early, that night.
On the third day, she was like a ghost.
She was barely able to focus. He told her jokes and was lucky to receive a chuckle. Frisk was concerned, forcing herself into her aunt's lap and enveloping her in a tight hug. She had dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't slept all night. He remembered that she didn't eat, the previous day.
She fell asleep in the living room chair with Frisk in her arms, her breaths loud and slow. Even Undyne and his brother could sense that something was not right. They could feel it too.
She slept for five hours before Toriel moved her to her bed. She didn't wake up all night.
He didn't sleep.
On the fourth day, she didn't get out of bed.
Frisk came out of the room with silent tears and a blank expression. They asked her what was wrong, and she promised to tell them later. She warned them not to bother her aunt. But he was worried. He was shaking. Why did it feel so wrong? Why did it feel so urgent?
He ignored Frisk's warnings, visiting her only a few hours later. He moved down the hallway as silently as possible, trying to avoid the other's suspicion. Frisk had seen him, he'd noted. Why didn't she stop him?
Her voice could be heard floating out into the hallway from her slightly open door, mixing with the quiet sounds of the others planning. Always planning.
She bid farewell to somebody, and as he pushed her door open slowly, he could see her staring down sadly at her cell phone. Her face was wet and blotchy, and she sniffed before sighing. She was wrapped in blankets, papers spread over her lap.
He walked in slowly, hoping to avoid frightening her. Her gaze met his as he quietly shut the door behind him.
He asked, and she said it was nothing. She would be fine. She just wasn't feeling well.
He told her he knew she was lying, and she smiled. She knew he saw through her words. She gestured to the chair beside her bed, and he followed her silent request.
He spent the rest of her day at her bedside - sometimes talking, sometimes silent. Sometimes, he would tell her a joke and she would laugh, even though it hurt her. Even though he could see the pain in her eyes, he knew her laughter and smiles were genuine.
It sounded like bells. Bells, and joy, and kindness. It sounded like happiness. It sounded like the warmth of the sun on his bones for the first time in his entire life. So he told more jokes, and she laughed more, and his soul soared.
What was this feeling?
Don't stop laughing.
And she didn't.
He slept well.
On the fifth day, he heard her laughter in his dreams.
He opened his eyes and smiled at the sun filtering through the window. He smiled at his brother's enthusiastic greeting. He ate breakfast that Toriel had cooked. He helped Asgore plan. He made Alphys laugh and Undyne groan from his jokes.
Frisk was silent. Her aunt never left her room.
They met another human, that day.
The woman showed up at one thirty in the afternoon. Frisk made them all wait in the kitchen as she explained. When they came out, the woman screeched at the sight of him and his brother.
A human seeing living, breathing skeletons should be shocking, he reasoned.
This human wasn't very friendly. She scurried into the room at the end of the hall, slamming the door behind her. But Frisk followed.
The three of them were in there for hours. It wasn't until six in the evening that the door opened. The woman left without a word, giving them one last frightened look before slamming the door shut behind her.
Frisk gathered them all, standing in the center of the room under their gazes. She looked so lost and so broken. She told them her aunt was sick, and not recovering well. She told them her aunt was writing down information to help them while she remained bedridden. She told them that it was her wish that they move forward, and they shouldn't wait for her to recover. Everyone looked thoughtful, except for Toriel and Asgore. They looked...sad?
He didn't understand. He'd never had an illness before. His kind didn't become ill. Frisk insisted that it was temporary, brushing away stray tears. They all remained silent. Something was left unspoken.
He visited her again, an hour later.
She seemed exhausted. She barely looked at him as he moved around her bed to sit in the chair. He asked what it meant to be ill, and she grimaced, closing her laptop and placing it on her end table. She explained as best as she could, telling him about humans and germs. She tried to explain diseases, but soon apologized and admitted quietly that she was too tired to keep talking. She explained that some illnesses would go away, and others didn't. He asked which one she had, and she smiled. She asked him to tell her a story, and he frowned. She didn't answer. He told her his brother's favorite story from memory, watching her drift off to sleep.
On the sixth day, he woke up from another dream.
It was a troubled sleep, filled with always morphing images of her. Happy, sad, laughing, crying, healthy, and sometimes still.
So, so still.
His soul was aching. He didn't know this feeling, but his soul drove him to what it wanted. He moved quietly, maneuvering around the sleeping bodies of all his friends. He walked slowly down the hall, eyes trained intensely on the last door.
When he opened it, she was awake, propped up against the wall by her bed. Her gaze slowly moved toward him, and she smiled and invited him in with a small voice. He shut the door behind him, breathing fast. He felt uncomfortable. He felt anxious.
"Sit by me?" she asked, moving over on the bed and sitting near the far edge. He stopped in his tracks, considering the consequences of his options. She remained silent with a patient smile, and his soul willed him to fulfill her wish. He sat beside her, leaning back against the pillows she had set up. She drew her legs up to her chest, the blanket falling from them.
White, purple, blue, yellow, green. So many colors. Humans weren't supposed to be so many colors, were they? They wound around her legs from ankles to thighs, where her shorts stopped his curious and concerned gaze. He looked back up, and she was still watching him with her ever-patient smile.
He wanted to ask. But he didn't.
"Did you dream?" she asked, and there was a beat from his soul. It pulsed, nervous and warm, and he wanted to ask. He told her yes, he dreamed.
"What about?"
You, he answered. He surprised himself with his boldness, but she simply giggled. It was a beautiful sound.
He wanted...!
"It took you longer, this time," she muttered, and it was sad. It made him sad. He wanted to hold her, and chase away the sadness. His breaths were shallow. He felt like he was going to panic. He had to leave. He had to...
This time?
She slowly let her head rest on his shoulder and he tensed, but then calmed. She was warm where she pressed against him. His soul pulsed so hard it almost hurt.
"Sans," she whispered, and he tilted his head to see her out of the corner of his eyes. "You can do it," she said, and she sounded so tired that he didn't want to ask her to clarify. But he did anyway. And she smiled.
Always smiled.
Then she reached over and took his hand, and it felt so good. Her skin was so soft and warm, and he could feel the light pulsing where her wrist pressed against his. He asked what it was, and she sighed and explained her pulse as if she'd done so a million times. She buried her head between his neck and shoulder, hiding her eyes in the fur of his hoodie.
"My soul," she finally clarified, and he stopped breathing. The world stopped moving. His soul stopped pulsing.
And then it all started again, all too quickly. The sounds of the night outside were too loud. The light from her forgotten laptop on the end table was too bright. Her pulse was too quick, and his soul pulsed too harshly. He gasped, gripping her hand tighter for only a moment.
She removed her head from his shoulder, forcing herself to turn toward him with a wince and a huff, and he felt frozen. Frozen, even as his hand moved on its own. Ashamed, even as his magic wrapped around her essence. Excited as the soul immediately responded.
And then it was there.
And then he remembered.
He couldn't recall the last time he had cried.
On the seventh day, he woke up in her arms.
She had fallen asleep as well, but her grip on him was as strong as it had been the day before. He was pressed against her front, holding her weakly against him as if she'd turn to dust the moment he let go. His soul pulsed in his chest, calling to her. If he concentrated hard, he could feel hers call back. He wondered how he could have missed it.
Soulmates. Bonded soulmates. A state that could outlast anything.
Even resets.
Even death.
He looked up at her, looking over her relaxed expression. Her breaths were deep but loud. He could feel her bones under his touch. This wasn't how she was, the first time they'd made it. He could remember her being soft and bright. Tan, energetic, and strong. He could remember her supporting him when he was weak. He could remember her taking him places he couldn't even imagine, in the Underground.
He could remember her taking him to see the stars.
But he could also remember her dying. Over, and over, and over again. He hugged her closer to him, his expression frozen in agony.
She looked like this when she died.
He listened for her heartbeat, one hand moving up to the side of her neck. Her pulse was weak, but there. How much time did he have? Was it different, every time? He couldn't remember.
The door opened, creaking for only a moment as tiny feet padded into the room. He turned, careful to not wake her as she slept. Frisk stood in the doorway, staring at him with sadness. Unbidden tears quickly gathered in her eyes and slid down her cheeks, and she hiccupped in her attempt to remain quiet. She apologized, but he knew. He remembered.
This was her punishment for resetting.
This was his punishment, too.
She woke from the small, desperate sounds of her niece. She gripped his hand, a silent demand, and he helped her as she forced herself into a seated position.
His grip left bruises immediately.
She called Frisk over, opening her thin arms as the child climbed clumsily into the bed and onto her lap, burying her face into her aunt's shirt.
How many resets had there been? How many times had Frisk tried to get the perfect, happy ending one more time? One last time?
He knew his sockets were empty and dark as she grabbed his hand, her other arm wrapped lightly around Frisk.
"It's time to let go," she murmured, her voice weak and rough. Frisk sobbed.
He used his magic to shut the door, but he knew everyone else heard. The house was too quiet.
In the evening, he left her side. He gathered the others and told them what he knew, stopping periodically to take a deep breath and control his trembling. He could see the question that no one dared to ask. Why was he so upset?
He wanted to tell them, but he wouldn't. The resets were his to bear. It was his torture.
He returned to her with a slice of cinnamon-butterscotch pie and a glass of water, Toriel trailing behind him.
They tried. They always tried. And she always smiled. And when Toriel left, tears in her eyes and failure haunting her expression, he left.
He couldn't be there.
He couldn't do this again.
On the eighth day, he came back.
He took a shortcut straight into her room, the large distance exhausting him. Music was playing softly from her computer, which sat next to an untouched pie. She was quiet, and still.
So still.
Panic.
He practically flew to her bedside, eyes wide even as tears gathered. He gripped her shoulders and shook her, calling her name softly. Louder. Louder still. A tear dripped from his right eye and landed on her cheek.
Finally, her eyes fluttered open. He froze, hands still gripping her shoulders tight. Too tight. She'd bruise. Still, she smiled. It was small but genuine. His soul pulsed in its relief and sorrow. He took a sharp breath. He couldn't do this. He couldn't.
She reached up with a shaking hand a placed it on the side of his face, thumb caressing his cheek and wiping away another stray tear.
"I love you," she reminded him, and he wanted to scream. He told her it hurt and trembled. He was scared.
"Come here," she urged, her hand moving to the back of his skull and barely pulling him forward. He moved closer, and she was just barely able to pick up her head.
She placed a kiss against his teeth. It was soft. Soft, and warm, and he could feel her. He could feel her love and her passion and her happiness.
Her happiness.
He wanted to die.
"Come back to bed," she urged. She wasn't mad at him for leaving her alone all night. She wasn't mad that he almost didn't remember her in time. She wasn't mad that she was dying.
He crawled back into bed, and he held her. When she asked, he took her laptop and typed for her. Every word that fell from her soft, warm lips, he typed. And sometimes he'd tell her jokes, and she would laugh.
It still sounded like bells.
On the ninth day, everyone visited her.
They gave her hugs. They expressed concern over her bruises. He'd given her some, he remembered. He'd held her too tight. She dismissed his guilt. She asked him to hold her tighter.
They played a board game, and Frisk smiled for the first time all week. Papyrus spoke too loudly. Undyne vowed to beat everyone. Alphys strategized. Toriel and Asgore discreetly traded affectionate touches and worried looks.
He told his jokes. She would laugh.
God, he loved her laugh.
Keep laughing, please.
Please.
On the tenth day, the woman returned.
She was the nurse. Nurse Eileen. She brought others, as well. A lawyer and an officer. They were both curious, and much nicer than she. He met them with caution, a sharp contrast to the enthusiasm of everyone else.
He followed Eileen to the room at the end of the hall.
She didn't look good today. He could feel it.
His soul hurt.
The nurse checked in with her and confirmed his fears. There was nothing left that could be done.
It was over.
Asgore and the others spoke with the three visitors in the living room. Frisk hadn't left her room all day.
He stayed by her side when the nurse left, gripping her hand. Too hard. She'll bruise. Stop it!
She held his hand as tight as she could, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
She didn't look good...she didn't...
He crawled into bed beside her, tears flowing. He was too tired to keep them in. It hurt too much. He pressed himself too close against her side. Didn't it hurt her? She didn't wince or complain. She asked him to come closer, running her thumb over the back of his hand. She tried to roll onto her side, but couldn't. She turned her head, breathing heavily from her efforts, and he watched in anguish.
What could he do?
She reached up with her free hand, pressing it against the side of his face. He nuzzled into it, closing his eyes. His breath hitched. She moved and kissed him. He shivered.
"It'll be okay," she assured. It was a lie. She said it every time. It was never okay.
He gripped her tighter. This time, she took a sharp breath but returned it with all the strength she had. He couldn't let go. He was hurting her and he couldn't let go.
"Look at me," she softly commanded. He forced his eyes open to look into hers. They weren't sparkling, but they were still beautiful.
"I love you," she told him. He felt it. It was thick in her voice. Her soul called for his. It was weak. He let his soul respond.
Next time, he began, but she stopped him immediately.
"No more," she whispered, demanded, pleaded. "Not again." Let me rest, she said.
He sobbed, tucking his face between her neck and shoulder. She held him loosely, whispered, hummed, and lost energy. She fell asleep before he calmed.
He felt alone.
He drew out her soul as she slept, hands balling into fists. It was supposed to be blue. It was supposed to shine and glow and pulse.
He let it drift back into her chest, pressing himself back up against her and squeezing his eyes shut.
On the eleventh day, she didn't wake up.
She was still alive. He could feel her. Her pulse was there. her breaths were coming in short gasps. Bruises covered her skin.
She was so beautiful. Like a tragic portrait.
And so, so still.
He clung to her, his arms looped around her waist. Others came and went, trying to speak with him, to pull him away.
He refused.
Occasionally, he told her a joke.
Please laugh.
He stroked the skin of her hip through her clothes, grabbed her hand, snuggled against her side.
Please.
Frisk joined them, crawling in bed against her other side. They both snuggled against her, feeling the warmth ebb out of her, hearing her breaths become gasps.
He asked.
Frisk didn't respond.
He pleaded.
Silence.
Three minutes before midnight, she stopped breathing.
He wailed.
On the twelfth day, she was taken.
She was cold, by the time the paramedics arrived.
He was gone.
He stood at the edge of Mt. Ebott, watching the stars. Tears streamed down his face, and he frowned up at the moon.
The moon. She loved the moon.
He couldn't feel her soul. It left a strange emptiness in his chest. He knew this feeling. It was the same, every time.
It never hurt any less.
He couldn't take it.
He watched the sunrise and writhed on the ground, all but clawing at his chest to ease the pain.
On the thirteenth day, he came back.
He took a shortcut straight into her room. His tears were dried, his body numb.
The music. It was still playing.
He collapsed into her bed, breathing in her scent.
He would have had more time if he remembered sooner. If he remembered on the first day, would it make a difference? Would Toriel's magic work, if it was used a little sooner. Was there anything he could do?
He laid there, staring at the wall and sheltered in the covers. The door opened and closed, but he did not care. The footsteps revealed who it was. Frisk crawled in behind him, taking up the other half of the bed but not touching him.
He loathed her, and she knew it.
It was her fault, and she agreed.
He'd already yelled at her, and she'd received it.
What else was there to say? How many times had the two of them been left to feel this pain? Why couldn't it be like the first time?
He thought he didn't have any more tears. But when he heard the soft sniffling behind him, he was proven wrong.
On the fourteenth day, he begged.
Frisk listened to every plea from the other side of the bed. At first, he begged a ghost. Come back, he'd whisper. I need you, he'd admit. It hurts, he'd moan.
Then he begged Frisk. He always did.
When will you reset, he'd ask. Don't make me feel this again, he demanded.
I need her.
I need her.
I need her.
Frisk curled up on the bed, placing her hands over her ears to muffle the sounds of his crying. She needed her, too.
On the fifteenth day, they dressed in black.
They couldn't go to the funeral, so they watched from a hill.
All of her friends and family attended, and Frisk joined them. The casket was lowered into the ground. He couldn't watch. How many times had he watched? He could picture it, and that was almost worst. The crowd dispersed, as did his friends.
But he stayed.
He approached her grave and stood in front of the stone. He could remember their first time on the surface. The last time she'd been well. She would have relished a day like today. She loved the warmth of the sun on her skin and the subtle breeze that kept her just cool enough.
It didn't feel warm on his bones, anymore.
Sans used a shortcut back to her home, where Asgore spoke to the officer and lawyer. They were beginning their plans. The entire kingdom was waiting underground.
They didn't love her like he did.
He moved to the kitchen, but everyone else was there. Toriel, Undyne, and Alphys looked at him with concern. Papyrus begged him to stay with them.
He didn't.
He went to her room and shut the door. They had turned off her music. Frisk had printed her letters.
He had one in his pocket.
He remembered now.
It always said something different.
He laid on her bed and read her words, clutching the letter. It wrinkled slightly in his grip.
On the last day, Frisk always reset.
On the last day, this last day,
There were no more resets.
Okay! Before I explain, PLEASE leave a comment below letting me know if you liked it. Cathartic writing or not, it is my writing, and I like to improve.
So lately I've been struggling with the state of the world. There is so much death and hatred lately. Sometimes I have a hard time pulling away from the emotions these things cause. There were a few days I spent in bed, unable to get up because I just couldn't face the news. Some days I wanted to crawl into a ball and say "I can't do it, I can't do it."
I've lost people to cancer before, and recently I played a game. That game was called That Dragon, Cancer. If you have never played it, I highly recommend it. It is sad. You will cry. But it is an experience.
It also reminded me of the horror that cancer is. Not because it is represented in a grotesque way. But because it informs you through symbolism.
I cried for two hours. When it was done, I felt good. I felt lighter. Crying does that. It's chemical. I'm not a person who cries often. I could thank the game for helping me let out emotions I've had for years.
But the point is, with all the death happening lately, and all the emotions I've hidden for years following the deaths of family and people I don't know but feel sorrow for, I needed to write this. I needed a character to feel the way I feel.
So, uh, I made Sans do it.
Sounds pretty awful, when I say it like that. But that's what it is. It was a mini therapy chapter for me. And I feel better.
I hope it was well written, and I hope maybe you enjoyed it somehow.
If anyone ever wants/needs to talk about their experiences, whether it be feelings toward people you don't know or memories of a person you once held dear, I would be more than happy to talk to you. Feel free to leave comments about it. This is a community. Everyone is important. Your feelings are valid.
Enough of that. I hope you enjoyed this little one-shot. Don't forget to leave me a comment. If you liked it, check out my other one-shot, Valentine's Day, and my story, Like Magic.
ILYA!