A/N: hey i am sin im sorry bye

~o~

Sans is afraid of the kitchen. It was the kind of spine chilling unsettled feeling that never goes away.

He doesn't get it. He wracked his brain time and time again for answers and scenarios that never seem to match up, no matter how hard he tries. It was nerve-wracking, but he isn't going to bring it up with anyone under the roof of this house.

Frisk and Papyrus, the two children that never grew up.

He sighed and looked out the window. The sign that says "this house belongs to Sans and Papyrus" had a new name painted on at the very back, which said "+ Frisk".

He sighed again and reclined deeper into the couch. It's been a couple years since the barrier was broken, but somehow the three of them sorely missed the underground - specifically, their home. So, they were taking their winter vacation here, even if the town is deserted. In fact, it was better that way - more space to themselves and less people to offend.

Staring back at the kitchen, Sans eyed the edge of the door. A cold sweat broke out, and he shook himself. Papyrus was out raiding the grocery store for spaghetti ingredients, while Frisk...Frisk was upstairs doing whatever Frisk does. He lit his eye with a blue flame that flickered yellow and stalked towards the kitchen. An inspection of the room showed that nothing was wrong - the cabinet was as tall as ever, and from within emanated the faint barkings of a dog, the counters were clean, and the fridge was stocked full with spaghetti.

Still, Sans' hackles were raised. This place used to be comforting and contained memories of cooking with his brother and bad jokes.

Now it was an unexplained terror. He stood up straight and backed away, planning to investigate more later on.

A small kid blocked his path.

"Hey Kid. What have you been doing?" He smiled a toothy grin. But when Frisk didn't answer, he bent down to look at them. "Kid? Skeleton steal your tongue?"

Frisk didn't reply and just stood there. Still.

"Kid? You alright?" Sans was starting to get worried. They were never the loud type, but Frisk wasn't this quiet either. "Kid, I-" He stops.

He remembers.

Silver, gleaming in their hand. Cold and harsh and penetrating. Recollections of dust, all over the pristine marble counters, dust, dust, dust, everywhere, absolutely covering everything. Everything and a small child in the middle, clutching and throwing it all around. They were smiling.

Sans backed up.

Frisk moved closer.

And closer.

And closer.

And in one fell swoop Frisk moved with frightening speed to Sans' blind spot - as if they've done this a hundred times, and not a second later, Sans looked back and disappeared into dust.

But not before seeing Frisk's expression - red eyes, a smile, mania, tears.

The dust spread everywhere and Frisk luxuriated in its musty embrace.

At funerals, we take that dust and spread it on that person's favorite thing.

Frisk rubbed some more into their hair.

Selfish, selfish, selfish. Frisk chanted.

From behind the little child covered in grey, thumps of cans and uncooked noodles and veggies fell onto the floor.

"S-Sans? Human? Why are you covered in…"

Frisk looked back to see the tall skeleton tremble. The knife was still in their hand.

Slash, slash, cut, stab.

…

More dust.

Frisk laughed and laughed and laughed, face dirty and hands running through all that remained of Papyrus on the floor.

So many memories in them, so many times they reset. The lust never left them, the lust of killing until everything was silent and clear and all so dusty.

Frisk found it extremely ironic that the dust always ended up covering their hands and nothing else.

The house was silent now, no jokes or shouting to be heard. Just the shuddering of the window panes as the wind howled against the glass.

Frisk did nothing but sit in the dust, chanting in their head.

I'm loved, I'm loved, I'm loved, I'm loved.

I don't deserve it.

Genocide is too easy.

Opening their eyes, they thrust the knife into their stomach without hesitation.

Continue? *Yes *No

Sans is afraid of the kitchen.