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Red.
All he could hold on to was red.
On his hands, the signature red scarf his brother had always worn. There was never a day he did not wear it, and it seems even in the face of death, he refused to take it off still.
A red scarf wrapped around a pile of dust on a snowy pathway.
The climate in Snowdin was always tame; maybe forever it will be as there is no weather in the Underground. Just the forever cold to live in… quiet, solemn, serene.
Unforgiving, harsh.
No, maybe that was a wrong description. How can the climate of Snowdin be harsh when its lack of gusting wind was the reason he even had the dust remains of his brother to hold on to? Even the breeze of Snowdin was gentle with Papyrus and rightfully so.
Other monsters died off way worse – blown away by the tempestuous wind of the surface, only to be scattered and settled on the same blackened soil of fear, hate and war. An unrecognizable amalgam of lost monsters, friends, lovers, and family – beings who once laughed, cried, had aspirations, dreams, and conversations they weren’t able to get the last word in. Just like that, from living beings, they became a handful pile to a dune of dust. The monsters lost in war were never retrieved – not a piece of their belonging nor a speck of their dust. The monsters who survived were left to grieve solely by their memory of them.
But not Sans. He wasn’t living in war, he didn’t lose his brother to the dune of dust, and it wasn’t as if he doesn’t have a remainder of his brother left. On his hands, he held in disbelief the signature red scarf his brother had always worn. He kneels before his dust, an intact mound unbothered by the gentle breeze of Snowdin.
Just like that, all the laughs they shared, the tears, hopes and dreams and love are reduced to nothing but dust. Yet this was as painful as being left with nothing at all, for Death cares not of what remains.
The cold of Snowdin was never this freezing. Yet right now, he can feel the sting of the cold, trying to pierce through his bones and making its way to freeze his soul blue, and it’s successful. His soul feels blue and heavy, and he feels the cold and the gravity and now it all turned red red red.
All he could feel was red.
It was an odd mixture of emotions. He’s as cold as a dead human skeleton in the open winter should be. He’s empty yet heavy. So many thoughts running in his head that they collide and blur until it becomes an incomprehensible scribble of his desperation to make sense of it all. There was a heat of cold (was that possible?) of anger blossoming from his chest.
Anger that he was elsewhere when this happened.
Anger that he let the human walk through in the first place.
Anger that he could not save him.
The anger, while bloomed from different regrets, all directed towards the same point: himself. Sans can blame the human and hate them all he could, but he knows that hate was, in a way, his rebounded self-loathing. After all, he knew the risk of a human interacting among monsterkind (the past war aside). Back then, he greeted six human children with a welcome. Some were kind, some rude. Some would spare, some had no mercy. There was no way of knowing what type of human would fall down, whether they’d be the type to spare or to kill (like the human he welcomed today, only to kill his kind brother). But one cannot judge the whole of humanity by the actions of one. He just wished he was faster in building his judgment of the human. Maybe if he was more observant, more wary, and more competent, if he was there for him – this would not have happened.
He knew the risk, he knew the past, he knew of human capabilities - yet he was careless. He let this happen. His passive actions were subsequent to Papyrus’ – his -
H-he’s… he’s dead. Papyrus is gone.
Just like that.
And all he could see was red.
The pristine white palette of Snowdin all turned red. The high ceiling of the Underground was dark crimson. His bones red - the river, the trees, the dust, the scarf.
The world was red, the human tainted it red.
And when tears fell from his sockets, they were red. Wounds of his inner being are open, and red flows out, dyeing the snow in its grim color. He tried to think of something else – a happy memory or some sort – Papyrus cooking pasta for dinner, them in a snowball fight started by Sans, talking of the future while working on the puzzles to fill in the dead air - anything to stop his eyes from straining seeing the same color. But even in reminiscing, the cursed color crawled and painted them to its liking and he hates it he hates it.
But the scarf was red, and he can’t hate it. Papyrus was so fond of the scarf; it was given by someone… important. Someone he wasn’t sure was real or a figment of his imagination. But whomever Papyrus got it from; despite of all its tatters, he was deeply fond of it, so much that even in the face of death, even in the face of a red human soul…
Sans clutched the red scarf close to his chest.
‘dirty brother killer, dirty brother killer’ a mindless chant in his head. But a melancholic voice echoed in his head, ‘If a human ever comes through this door… could you please, please promise me something?’
He shook his head, chasing the voice away. How could he keep the promise after this? After they killed his brother?
‘Watch over them, and protect them, will you not?’
He couldn’t even protect Papyrus.
A heavy feeling in his heart escaped in a sigh. His breathing began an uneven pattern of shallow breaths and deep ones; try as he may, he could not control it.
He wasn’t even given the chance to say goodbye.
He didn’t know what went down, but he knew damn well Papyrus would never hurt a fly. Papyrus disliked Sans’ exceptional laziness toward cleaning, but he never resorted to hurtful words or even think of lightly hitting him for not doing so. He was gentle but he did everything with a burning passion. He was loud, but of enthusiasm, not temper. He had a big heart, even if skeletons didn’t have one. He had more heart than the human ever had. Knowing Papyrus, he might’ve spared the human from the start, and it hurts to know it might be true.
How cruel humans can be.
And if Papyrus were here, he would not approve of his growing resentment toward the human. He was too kind for that. He would just forgive, and forgive and give second chances, third, fourth – a kindness that is both a rare gift and a curse. Even the shittiest person of the whole earth and its history will be forgiven by him. The human will never understand that, they will never see the depth of his kindness because Papyrus will never live to share that exceptional kindness and love anymore.
Because they killed him.
Could Sans forgive the human after a crime like this? Did he have the heart? Can he live in his brother’s footsteps? Can he live after this?
‘how do I live without you now?’ the thought never crossed in his mind until now that everything’s too late.
Time seemed to pass for quite some time; his bones were numb holding up the same position for hours. Sans decided he will take home his dust, and so he scooped it, placing it gently on the scarf.
There he was, in his arms. Same as he was as a baby, small and light, wrapped in red scarf. The walk home was so familiar, the feelings he relived again – the same feeling of being lost, confused and scared, holding the sleeping little Papyrus in his arms with so much uncertainty of their future in his mind.
He felt so numb that he didn’t notice the worried looks of the other Snowdin residents. He didn’t realize he reached home until he sat on the couch and settled his brother next to him. The blank television reflects an image of two brothers, one tired while the other rested.
The house was quieter than he was used to. Will it be quiet like this for the rest of his life? He sat there, waiting for the loud disgruntled voice telling him to put his socks in the laundry. He waited for someone to ask him what he wanted for dinner, even if he knows any answer will eventually become pasta. He waited for someone to ask him, while yawning, to read him a bedtime story, even if the story was the same as the other night. He waited for someone to sit beside him and turn on the television, watch a replayed episode of Mettaton’s show. He waited…
But nobody came.
“BROTHER, WAKE UP!”
He jolted awake, as if he had been awakened from a bad dream. He squinted at the bright light, before he realized he was on his station. Did he fall asleep on duty?
A silhouette of a tall figure with crossed arms stood in front of him, as if waiting for an answer.
That’s a clear yes to his question then. “sorry bro I think I…” fell asleep, but he resigned to a pause, suddenly feeling a heavy feeling of… something. He can’t place what.
Papyrus gave him a worried look as the pause stretched on. “…Are you alright? Feeling ill?”
“no, ‘is fine. Dunno why but just now, I felt…” weird. It’s strange to ask himself, but why did he feel like he wasn’t supposed to be here? “YOU CAN ALWAYS TAKE THE DAY OFF! BESIDES, YOU – suspiciously – WORKED EXTRA HARD YESTERDAY. THAT COUNTS FOR SOMETHING!” Papyrus gave him a reassured smile. Something about this felt familiar. At the same time, he felt a surge of heavy emotions that one supposedly shouldn’t feel after a well-rested nap.
“ANYWAY, I CANNOT DILLY-DALLY AS THE PROMISING ROYAL GUARD HAS MANY TASKS TO FINISH!” He pats Sans’ head. “PASS ME BY IF YOU HAVE DECIDED TO TAKE THE DAY OFF, I’LL GLADLY TAKE ON YOUR DUTIES. FAREWELL, BROTHER!” He started to walk off but stopped and turned, ”OH AND DON’T NAP OUTSIDE, IT’S COLD. PROBABLY WHY YOU’RE FEELING ILL.” He waved with a smile, and ran off.
The way he talked, the way he ran and the scarf fluttered. And this time he bid farewell… Huh, ‘this time’?
Sans felt an extreme sense of déjà vu. Not before long, he...
He remembered.
Red.