Oh hey look, more angsty vent writing. TW: Character Death, Terminal Illness, Suicidal Ideation, Lots of sads,...

- Denial is the worst form of truth -

It has already been 174 nights. Papyrus crosses them out as soon as he wakes up, with the big red marker he got at the store the other day.

It has been going well, he thinks. It has all been going well.

Maybe that's the thing that should have tipped him off. When have things ever gone well for them before?

It's not a sudden thing, but more like slipping into quicksand. Something that happens so slowly, you don't even notice it is happening at all until your breathing gets labored and you wonder why your feet feel so wet.

That's how it goes for him too.

Papyrus has a multitude of things he does on the surface: jobs and hobbies and volunteering.

He is of the opinion that, since he'll never know how long it will last, he might as well do the most he can.

Besides, he desperately craves the distractions. Sans is home even less than he was when they were underground and Papyrus can't stand the silence of their surface house. Can't stand the sound of rain against their roof or cars speeding by outside.

He thinks he'll probably never get used to it. He doesn't belong here.

But it's easy to push that aside when he sees Sans smile or Frisk bounding through the room all excited to show him something.

It's not so hard when they're there.

It is hard to see properly, lately. That's how it starts.

Papyrus would say his vision has always been a sore point at best, but he's never had black spots before. Or a fuzziness so profound he walks straight into the doorpost.

Luckily nobody was home to witness that. The Great Papyrus wasn't quite as Great, then.

He is tired a lot too.

Again, his sleeping rhythm hasn't improved any since coming to the surface, so he doesn't notice it at first. He's still awake in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling and pacing his room.

But now it's a more intense thing, something that settles inside him and clings. A light-headedness that reminds him of starvation. It drives him to eat more, an accomplishment he's almost proud enough of to tell Sans, before he remembers he never tells Sans anything.

There's not really any reason to start now.

Two more weeks of this, of walking around as if his head isn't attached to his body, a feeling he's eerily familiar with, before Papyrus starts falling apart.

He touches his desk and dust gets left behind. Little gray spots of him that break off his fingers.

It doesn't hurt, he thinks.

Or maybe he's just so accustomed to pain he doesn't feel it anymore.

He debates for a long time on who to tell, if he should even tells anyone at all.

He considers Undyne and Sans and Asgore. He considers Toriel and Frisk.

But in the end, Papyrus knows there's just one person he can trust with this.

Alphys always looks nervous and jumpy and so, so fragile, it makes him anxious in turn.

Like it is actually her that's falling apart, and not him.

She looks serious now, pale and tired and not shaking anymore. Her voice is firm, as if she is handing out a death sentence.

Which is exactly what she is doing.

Papyrus isn't as shocked as he thought he would be. Maybe because somewhere deep inside his soul already knew it was dying.

It has happened so many times before, you can't be surprised if it recognizes the sensation.

Alphys explains what is happening to him in great detail, with fancy charts and an abundance of apologies, like somehow this is all her fault. As if he would blame her for not being able to fix this.

She has never been able to fix anything, she says, before she breaks down crying.

Papyrus holds her and nods, because if he talks now, he'll break too.

There is something almost poetic about dying in slow-motion. It gives you a lot of time to think about your life.

Papyrus doesn't want to tell anybody.

He always knew when he would die, a lot of different times over, and never told anyone. He doesn't see why that should change now.

You don't alter a winning formula.

He's not sick. He's just finished.

He's not dying. He's just done.

He's not leaving. He's just going away for a little bit.

A fun little vacation, if you will.

Alphys looks at him as if he has gone insane, as if he already has fallen down. It's a bitter feeling, but Papyrus likes it.

She tells him he can't ignore this. She tells him this is not the same as all the other times. She says he won't be coming back this time.

For some reason this makes him even happier. Like those are the words he has been waiting to hear all his live, and now they're finally here. An immense relieve.

He almost can't wait.

Papyrus doesn't tell Alphys this though. Telling people you can't wait to meet death is a not-so-good thing, or so Undyne's reaction to those exact words has convinced him a few timelines ago.

In the end, he agrees to tell them. He agrees to tell them all, but Sans.

Alphys pleads and tries to change his mind with a lot of arguments based on trust between brothers.

Papyrus does laugh a little bit at that and shakes his head.

He makes it easier for himself by telling them all at once. He has them promise to not tell Sans about anything before he starts, makes them swear it, and even then.

They've lied to him so much before.

Toriel cries and Asgore nods and Undyne breaks a table over her knee. She yells a lot, enough for everybody else, who are mostly just quiet.

The human stares at them with the blank expression he remembers them wearing when they are unsure of what to say or do.

Then Asgore stands up and hugs him and tells him how sorry he is.

Papyrus says he's not sorry at all.

He says this isn't a bad thing.

And he doesn't get why nobody believes that.