Cry
You don’t know how this happened. Why? How Why would you-
The knife trembles in your shaking hand.
You had gotten back to one HP, right? One HoPe. So…?
Your wrist stings and you regret everything you’ve ever done.
It’s so… well stupid is the only word to describe it. It’s so dumb. You’re so dumb. You laugh. Dust coats your hands. You laugh so hard you’re probably waking the house up. No, no, you should stop laughing everyone’s asleep. They don’t need to listen to your manic laughing.
But for some reason, you can’t stop laughing. And to be honest, you wouldn’t even call it laughing anymore. You curl in on yourself lying against the cold tile of the kitchen. Your howls of laughter turn into howling sobs and you find yourself crying, literally bawling, before you know it. God, how could you have been so stupid?!
You’re an idiot. A goddamned idiot. There was no reason to, and yet you...
You laugh and you cry and you don’t know what’s what anymore as you lay sobbing on the floor. It’s pathetic. It’s gross. It’s certainly very, very idiotic. You had to do this, didn’t you? Disgusting.
“Sans…?”
It’s a cliche. That voice coming to talk to you after you’ve done something stupid. Again. How many times has this happened? You being dumb and someone coming to comfort you. It’s so… You don’t even know how to describe it, but it hurts so much you cry even harder.
“Sans!”
Why? Can’t they leave you alone? Don’t they see you’re not worth the effort?
“...Please…”
It’s a soft and broken and plea of a voice, raspy and tired and… Frisk. It’s Frisk.
You look up at them, still crying but less so, so you can actually see them standing there. It’s weird from your spot on the floor, but they tower over you, casting a shadow over your figure. It’s kind of terrifying, to put it bluntly. But their hands are open and reached out in front of them, like they’re offering you a hand up. There’s no weapons in their hand. They’re not here to hurt you. Obviously.
(Though you wouldn’t mind that right about now)
Frisk notices that you’ve seen them, and lays on the floor gently next to you. You feel slightly more comfortable, not having the shadow of a child loom over you, but now they’re sitting next to you. And… you’re a mess. A complete and utter mess. And they have to comfort you. That thought alone sends you into another burst of emotion.
They lean into you, wrapping their arms around you in an attempt at a hug. You try and stop crying. You can’t. You only cry harder and longer and you’re so disgusting why did they have to see you like this, you didn’t want that, this isn’t their problem stop-
Frisk buries their head into the crook of your neck, which of course can’t be comfortable, being made of bones and all. It surprises you enough to stop crying, if only for a moment, and you see and feel them let out a deep shuddering breath before they grab onto your shirt and hold you tight.
“This is all my fault.” They say, words muffled from their head being buried in your clothes, “It’s all my… all my fault! i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m-” They continue on, murmuring apologies you can barely make out.
You find it funny -well that twisted kind of “funny” that really isn’t- that this is probably the most you’ve ever heard them speak before, and it’s under these… circumstances.
They start crying. You can tell just by looking at them, even though you can’t see their face. Their back rises and falls with jerky movements in response to their breathing, and their knuckles are white from how tight they’re gripping on your shirt. Not only that, but you can feel the wetness of their tears falling on you and seeping through your shirt.
Frisk is crying. Frisk is crying and it’s all your fault. You had to go and do something stupid again huh? And now the kid saw you and they think it’s their fault even though it’s not their fault you’re... well. The way you are.
You never truly stopped crying, but you had had a lapse in the severity of it. Now though, now the tears return with a force even greater than that of before.
They're crying, you’re crying, it’s all a disgusting mess of you both crying because you slipped up. The dusty knife lies beside both of you, glare from the moonlight reflecting off it, and your wrist hurts. Thinking about those things only makes you cry harder, if that’s even possible.
You don’t know when Frisk stopped crying. You’re not even sure they did. But before you know it, they’re whispering words of encouragement, words saying it’s going to be okay, none of this was your fault, it’s all mine, mine.
It shouldn’t be like this. The older comforts the child. The child shouldn’t be comforting the adult with mental problems. Especially when said child was crying just as hard as the adult moments ago. It’s wrong.
And… you hate yourself for eventually giving in and listening to their words. Of course, not the ones where they blame themselves, but the ones saying it’s going to be alright. It was only a mistake. It happens. And you don’t want yourself to believe those things because you know they’re not true.
You’re tired now though. Exhausted. Physically and mentally drained. It’s harder for you to gather the energy to cry anymore rather than just sit there and listen to Frisk’s words. So you just listen. You look down at them, pressed against your chest, their eyes red and puffy from crying. And they look up to you, before they pull you into an actual hug, one that you return this time.
You close your eyes as you push yourself against them. They’re warm. And they smell like that butterscotch cinnamon pie Tori always makes. Your head droops and lays on Frisk’s shoulder. They don’t seem to mind.
You hear them whisper “I love you Sans, you’re so strong…” before you drift off to sleep.