[It's for things like this that Sans is glad that they are communicating this through letters and not in person. He doesn't think that this is a reaction that he could have held in. It's gotten a lot better than it used to be, but ever since coming here, he has so much latent information lying around in his mind - it constantly feels so cluttered and claustrophobic, when he focuses in on it at all.
He'd made a stupid mistake by asking to remember. Sometimes, as he'd said before, it's best to just take what you're given. Push for change, and this is what happens.
It's like when a piece of information is on the edge of your tongue at first, like his brain is searching through piles of useless, redundant information and thoughts to find what these words connect to. What to do about the human. What to do about the human...
There were so many things to be done about the human, and yet, nothing at all. But his first inkling is that Papyrus isn't talking about the human that is usually the problem, and the memory of Papyrus being in Asgore's garden...
...and wearing Asgore's crown.
The realization shakes him, and the way thousands of connected thoughts idea pour in all at once is physically painful. It's like this whenever he searches too far, or thinks too hard about it. There far more in there than one monster is meant to hold.
He curls up on his bed with the letter and tries to shake it off, and eventually Times slips in to join him. He remembers this human. And he remembers what happened to them. For a single, sharp moment, something angry inside of chest can't believe that Papyrus himself claims to not know.
He killed them. Of course he did.]
it's not about that.
[He tries writing it down but then crumples the paper and throws away. Having a migraine isn't helping with this. Time chooses this moment to eat his pen whole, so he grabs another one from the pile next to his bed.]
it doesn't matter now does it? being here changes everything.
[His pen wriggles at the end of that second line, like his heart so isn't into the words that he physically can't bring himself to write them. He lets Times eat that one willingly. He writes several similar letters until he doesn't know what to do anymore.
Eventually, he settles on one, and sends it late the next night.]
nothing that happened was ever your fault. this isn't your fault either.
mail
He'd made a stupid mistake by asking to remember. Sometimes, as he'd said before, it's best to just take what you're given. Push for change, and this is what happens.
It's like when a piece of information is on the edge of your tongue at first, like his brain is searching through piles of useless, redundant information and thoughts to find what these words connect to. What to do about the human. What to do about the human...
There were so many things to be done about the human, and yet, nothing at all. But his first inkling is that Papyrus isn't talking about the human that is usually the problem, and the memory of Papyrus being in Asgore's garden...
...and wearing Asgore's crown.
The realization shakes him, and the way thousands of connected thoughts idea pour in all at once is physically painful. It's like this whenever he searches too far, or thinks too hard about it. There far more in there than one monster is meant to hold.
He curls up on his bed with the letter and tries to shake it off, and eventually Times slips in to join him. He remembers this human. And he remembers what happened to them. For a single, sharp moment, something angry inside of chest can't believe that Papyrus himself claims to not know.
He killed them. Of course he did.]
it's not about that.
[He tries writing it down but then crumples the paper and throws away. Having a migraine isn't helping with this. Time chooses this moment to eat his pen whole, so he grabs another one from the pile next to his bed.]
it doesn't matter now does it?
being here changes everything.
[His pen wriggles at the end of that second line, like his heart so isn't into the words that he physically can't bring himself to write them. He lets Times eat that one willingly. He writes several similar letters until he doesn't know what to do anymore.
Eventually, he settles on one, and sends it late the next night.]
nothing that happened was ever your fault.
this isn't your fault either.
-sans