A/N: Based on one of the endings of Undertale, where Papyrus is the only character who dies, and Sans moves into the ruins with Toriel and keeps the world of grief he's going through a secret. Also loosely inspired by a story on AO3 titled "Life Goes On," by Asidian (which I highly recommend, if you don't mind your feels breaking).

1.

Something sick slides into the pit of your stomach, something oiled and greasy and sick, at the cheerful plate of smiling spaghetti she sits in front of you at dinner. You're prepared to face everything else, dodging the gentle questions, telling stories that taste like ash in your mouth, hiding the absolutely literal breaking of your heart every morning that you wake up and he's gone…

But somehow—somehow—you aren't prepared to face this.

"I asked around," Toriel says sweetly, her back to you as she busies herself at the stovetop, "to find out what your favorite food was! Several people told me it was hot dogs, but, I figured if you used to run a hotdog stand, surely you must be at least a little… sick of…"

She's turned around and facing you, and you hate yourself for the way the smile slips right off her face. Pull it together, make a joke, laugh this off, it's kind of what you're best at by now! But the spaghetti's smiling at you, a big noodle smile, with meatballs for eyes, and too much red sauce, and—and there's no joke here. This isn't funny, not even in the new, self-destructive way things have been funny lately.

"Did I do something wrong?" She looks from you to the plate she gave you and back again, frowning a little. "I followed the recipe to the letter, I'm sorry if—"

"Actually," you say, ruining everything, "it was Pap's favorite."

His name out loud is like a dam breaking.

And then, goddammit, the stupid spaghetti blurs all wet and distorted, and you duck your head and drag your hood down over your eyes, but you know it's too late. Because Tori makes a sharp, distressed sound, like someone watching a baby animal run out stupidly into traffic, and takes a few swift steps toward you.

And everything is falling apart when she puts her hand on your thin shoulder—the same way it does when you wake up in the dark of every early morning, and forget, when you misplace that terrible pain somehow and find yourself listening for the sounds of your brother in the kitchen, when you have to remember, all of it rushing back violent and unforgiving and brutal, the bright splash of red in the snow, the dust and torn scarf.

It never gets easier. It's never gonna get easier. It's gonna hurt like death, every day.

"It, uh… He would make it all the time, trying to get it right. He was like that, you know. Determined." This is going to be ugly. You realize that sort of distantly, like you've taken a step back and you're reviewing the notes. "Always trying to get it right."

You really should shut up. But you sit there, and stare at the spaghetti, and run your mouth—ruining those peaceful weeks in the ruins and all the lies you built up carefully to preserve Toriel's joy. Sure, it cost you. Pain has cut you to your knees, and all you want to do is never stand again; anything besides that costs you these days. It hurt to make believe in a happy ending that didn't exist, but it was also a little less lonely, imagining Papyrus was away on some grand adventure.

Imagining he might come home someday.

"Oh, Sans."

Tori isn't stupid.

"Oh—Sans, I'm so—"

How long did you think you were gonna be able to do this?

She tries to put her arms around you, and you slip away. Instantly feeling colder, as you hide behind a permanent grin. There's so much love and care in Tori, despite everything she's lost, that you're not sure how she manages to move underneath it all. You're not sure you could, if she tried to give even some of that love and care to you.

"Speakin' of which, you know, I bet he has a few cookbooks he wouldn't mind me lending you. There's some good stuff in there, stuff he never got to try. I'll, uh—I'll let you borrow those sometime."

You're leaving. That's what this is. The world's worst goodbye.

She's crying, you know it, and you're the absolute worst because you just keep leaving. Trample the bright red leaves, walking faster and faster until it's a dead sprint, ducking through shortcuts, glitching in and out so fast it makes you sick, shoving your way out of the ruins through that heavy door and into the snow, pushing like a maniac through the crowd in Snowdin, and then you're home.

The lights are out. You haven't paid the bills in awhile. The mailboxes are full. Someone shoveled for you in that way small town neighbors do, and you wonder if it was Undyne or Grillby or one of the Dogs, then you stop wondering. Unlock the door and go in. Close it behind you.

It's dark inside. You walk by memory through the living room, and sit on one end of the couch. Lay down.

Let days go by.