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Sans isn't particularly superstitious. He's not a believer in those silly wives-tales about broken mirrors or walking under ladders or anything like that. Not even the monster equivalents about soul cracks or Falling Down manage to pass through his finely-honed bullshit sensors, most of the time.
He's starting to wonder if maybe he could stand to be a little less discerning over what he thinks is true.
They say that talking too much about soul cracks can cause one — something about mentioning misery inviting misery, so far as he can tell. Like the human adage of 'speak of the Devil and he shall appear', sort of. He hadn't ever given it much thought, to be honest, because it had always seemed stupid.
Like... How in the world would just talking about soul cracks make someone's soul crack? How sensitive did someone have to be for the mere mention of that kind of damage to be enough to make their soul react like they've gone through actual, literal Hell?
He still thinks that one's stupid.
They also say that, when you think you're starting to Fall Down, you should carry around something you love in your pocket. Not so that whoever has the misfortune of spreading your dust can make sure something you love is around for the event, but to stave off the inevitable until you can get to a healer. No one comes back from Falling Down, but if you catch it early enough, sometimes you can heal up enough to get your affairs in order before you dust.
Sans doesn't have a whole lot of material possessions that he can honestly say that he loves, and he isn't sure he believes that old superstition actually has any truth to it. If you've already realized you're Falling, why not head to a healer straight away instead of wasting time shoving something in your inventory? More to the point, why would carrying some beloved item around actually stave off Falling? If you're already going, and your loved ones, provided you have any, aren't enough to keep you going, why would a trinket manage it?
.... That said, he's not so sure that he doesn't believe it anymore, either.
He's...
Well, to make a long story short, he's felt lousy for months.
His soul's not in great shape, and he already knew that — it's been years since he got the first crack, and the more recent ones have just progressively made him feel worse and worse —, but it's still concerning to notice that he's showing the symptoms so obviously. He's been cold no matter how warm it is, tired no matter how much or little he sleeps, magic slowly but surely failing to react appropriately to his intent.
Worse, Papyrus has twigged on to something being wrong.
He hasn't gotten an idea of how bad it is, how severely he truly needs to be worrying, but Sans doesn't doubt it won't take another week before he starts to understand. That's if he survives another week, of course, because he's not sure that he's going to.
Maybe it's a little grim. Maybe he's being overly dramatic.
... Or maybe he's going to be dust before the end of autumn. That's possible, too.
He knows he should tell Papyrus. He promised him that he'd try to stop keeping secrets, after they got to the Surface. Plus, Papyrus is a grown adult, and he deserves the truth, and more importantly he's his brother and deserves to know he's going to be on his own a lot sooner than either of them would have liked.
The words die in his throat every time he sees how happy Papyrus is.
Papyrus hasn't outright asked, yet, but he's been steadfast in checking in on him nonetheless. He must know that, whatever's wrong, Sans doesn't feel up to talking about it. Mercy isn't unusual from Papyrus, but he's usually more prone to prying. Sans almost wishes he'd just go blundering into the conversation with his usual lack of tact that Sans honestly loves so very dearly.
Sans sighs. The outward air movement rattles his ribcage uncomfortably, and he notices he has a little trouble refilling his non-existent lungs afterwards. By itself it means little, and isn't terribly concerning. He doesn't need air.
On top of everything else, though, it's just another little twinge of dread.
He stares down at the items laid out on and around his bed. Everything he owns, more or less, is spread out for his perusal, and he's been perusing it for quite some time. Aside from his jacket, which he'll admit to being helplessly attached to, he can't say he really feels a tremor of love in his soul for any of his belongings.
He doesn't love things, as a general rule. Things are too easily lost, or broken. Too easily taken. He learned not to get overly attached to items at a very young age.
Everything he loves in his life is something that can't be taken away from him permanently: his brother, a happy memory, a favorite song... But he can't exactly go shoving Papyrus into his inventory, can he?
He's really not sure he believes that carrying something he loves around with him will help stave off Falling Down long enough for him to get things sorted out, but he can't help sort of hoping. He doesn't know how long he's got left, and he still hasn't even told Papyrus he's sick, let alone figured anything else out.
He's not got many affairs to get in order, not really, but the things there are are important.
Getting Papyrus ready to live without him, ensuring his lab is emptied and equipment properly disposed of or foisted onto someone who can use them, saying goodbye to the other friends he's made over the years...
Paps and Frisk are going to be the most difficult parts, if he's honest.
Neither one's going to want to let him go.
Heaving another difficult, rattling sigh, he decides to give up on the task he'd given himself. He doesn't have any belongings he loves enough to really bother carrying around. It's fine. He'll just wrap himself back up in the jacket he's been wearing since he was sixteen and make do.
He pulls the garment up from his bare mattress. It's more effort than it should be.
He's been too afraid to bathe for a week, now, which is increasingly unfortunate given how often he's been breaking into cold sweats even when he's totally covered up. He'd love to wash away the sweat, he really would. A bath actually kinda sounds heavenly at the moment and everything.
But...
He stares down at his left radius and ulna as he pushes his right arm into the jacket's sleeve. The bone looks greyish and chalky.
He's afraid if he takes a rag to himself right now, it's going to come away dusty.
He burrows down into his jacket once it's on, tugs the zipper up to the very top of its track, but it does little to warm him. Not much can warm him up, these days.
He grimaces down at his hands. The magic between his joints is starting to look pale and weak, most obvious at his wrists. It's a miracle Papyrus hasn't noticed yet. He tugs his sleeves down to his palms to forestall the discovery a while longer. He doesn't know why he bothers.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he exits his bedroom. Their house on the surface isn't all that different from their house in Snowdin. The layout is almost exactly the same, and he's grateful for the familiarity as he hobbles to the stairs. He's exhausted, and every step feels like it might be the last one he ever takes, and if he could he'd just shortcut his way into the kitchen where he can hear Papyrus pottering around.
Alas, his shortcuts are off-limits. He's been off on his landings one too many times in the last few months. In the interest of not getting caught in a wall or something, he chooses to forego attempting them unless it's an emergency.
When he sees Papyrus busily putting away groceries, he can't help grimacing to himself. He's not going to need all of that, more likely than not — Sans recognizes many things he knows Papyrus only buys for him. Snackfoods Paps hates but understands he enjoys having, and won't begrudge him in the interest of making sure he's eating at all.
It makes him feel a little (or a lot) choked up.
Papyrus knows the moment he enters the room, of course, because he's just too damn perceptive. Usually Sans would be a little annoyed, maybe, that Paps turns to face him before he can even consider a prank. As it is, he just watches quietly, raising one hand to give Paps a little finger-wave from where he's leaned in the doorway.
Whatever his little brother initially meant to say, it seems to wither on his tongue as he looks him over. Sans wonders how bad he must look for Papyrus to look so instantaneously worried when he'd seemed in a decent enough humor before... Probably pretty terrible, honestly. He didn't sleep last night, though he tried, so he's gotta have dark circles, and if his arms are looking so ashen and chalky he can only imagine what his face must look like. Plus the fact his eyelights are probably starting to go dull...
Hm...
"Sans," Papyrus says, after a long silence, "I have been trying very hard not to pry, but there is very obviously something very wrong and I am concerned."
Blunt, to the point. Typical Papyrus.
He wishes it would make him smile to himself like it used to, but even tugging his grin up at the corners seems like too much effort at the moment.
"Yeah." He says, too easy, "There's s'mthin' wrong, Paps."
He doesn't mean to make him worry. He really, truly doesn't. But anything sort of dodging the not-question and brushing his concern off with a joke is going to worry the taller skeleton, so it's best to just meet him in the middle and bulldoze right through his usual bullshit.
Papyrus' face does this complicated little expression, worry and distress and anger and hope all wrapped up into one. Sans can read it mostly because he knows his brother so well, but the judge does still try to murmur something. A dissection of the expression, most likely, down to its smallest minutiae.
It'd be more helpful if the judge's voice was louder, but it's just the barest hint of sound at the back of his mind now. He spent years wishing it would just shut up, but now that he's mostly got some peace and quiet where it's concerned he can't help wishing it would regain its usual volume.
His head feels empty without its overwhelming presence, faded down now into the softest little whisper of its power.
"Do..." Papyrus begins, voice suddenly soft and fragile, "Do you want to... Talk about it?"
"You're busy." Sans replies — as transparent a deflection as there is, but one that still makes Papyrus look a little relieved that he's not so unwell he won't bullshit him.
"I assure you that I am perfectly capable of putting away the single remaining box of those horrible fruit snacks you enjoy so much while talking. And while listening." As if to prove it, he pointedly turns to grab the last box he needed to put away and continues, while putting it on the low shelf dedicated to Sans' unhealthy junkfood, "But perhaps you're only saying that in an attempt to tell me you don't want to talk about it?"
Sans sighs. It shudders just as hard as the last two have, with the added bonus of hurting like a bitch in the process. "I don't." He answers, and watches Papyrus' face fall, "But, uh... We do need to have a talk. Can't keep puttin' it off f'rever."
He really can't. He probably can't even put it off another couple of hours, to be honest.
"Okay." Papyrus says, suddenly wary and vulnerable again, "Shall we go sit down, then? You seem... Unsteady on your feet, brother. I don't think you should be standing."
Even leaning against the door frame, he's shaking. No point in denying that, or denying Papyrus the chance to be sitting when he tells him that he's—
That he's probably going to be an only child by the end of the month.
"Sure." He agrees, pushing unsteadily off his perch and sort of wobbling in place, "Couch."
It says something he doesn't like that Papyrus doesn't fight him on that at all. He just nods and trails behind him into the living room. When Sans curls himself onto one end of the couch, shuddering from the phantom chill in his aching bones, Papyrus gives him a piercing look.
Too damn perceptive.
It still doesn't manage to twitch his smile into something more genuine than the rictus he's been holding for the last several weeks, no matter how fond and amused he is.
"You look cold." His little brother frets, as he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and, without waiting for a reply, begins to fold it in around him, "Honestly, Sans, you've got to tell me when it's too cold in the house! I can go turn up the heat if—"
"S'not to cold, Paps," He says, wearily, which stops him in his slightly frazzled tracks before he can even back away, "I'm just... Not feelin' so hot. Siddown. We got a lot to talk about."
Papyrus freezes completely for a handful of seconds, sockets wide and eyelights shrunken to pinpricks. Sans hates seeing him so worried, hates knowing that pulling the serious face and the serious tone are just going to make him worry more, but... There's really no more putting this off, is there?
They need to have this talk.
He can't stand the idea of worrying his brother more than he already is, but the idea of just dusting with no warning and leaving his brother alone with no preparation is far, far worse than the idea of having an uncomfortable discussion with him about the fact he's dying.
"Okay," Papyrus finally says, again, and he sits carefully on the other end of the couch, "You're being very serious about this, Sans. It's worrying me."
"It's a serious subject." He sighs. This one hurts worse than the last one did, and it drags out a string of painful, wracking coughs he can't stop. When they subside, Papyrus looks outright alarmed, and Sans can't blame him, nor can he give him a reassuring smile. "I... I should have said somethin' sooner, Paps. I'm sorry. I'm..."
The words Falling Down get caught in his non-existent throat. How in the world is he supposed to just say that? Just look his baby brother in his eyes and tell him, point blank, that he's fucking dying?
"... I'm really sick." He settles on saying, after a second, "I let it drag on too long before I thought to get help."
It's a lie, because he thought of getting help many times before now, but it's a kinder thing than the truth. Telling Papyrus that he didn't think to get help is much, much kinder than admitting he's known for a long time exactly how bad it is, how badly he needs help, and has chosen up until now, the last fucking moment, to even consider letting himself ask.
"Well, then we need to get a healer!" Papyrus exclaims, "I'll call Doctor Alphys immediately, and—"
"Paps."
He's gentler, this time. Paps still goes quiet and still immediately, like he's been struck.
"It's my soul." He tells him, trying at last to force his teeth up into a more genuine grin. Something reassuring. He's sure it looks more like a grimace. "I don't think there's anything Al can do."
Seeing Papyrus' face as he apparently speedruns all five stages of grief, then goes through them again backwards just for fun, hurts in a way that he can't describe. Finally, his expression settles on despair.
"Sans." He says, voice cracking.
He doesn't continue. He doesn't seem to be able to. His words fizzle and die in his mouth before he can form them. Sans gets it. Of course he gets it — he'd be struck mute by his brother telling him he was dying and there was nothing they could do to stop it because he's terminally stupid, too.
It's silent between them for a very, very long moment. Despite being fully dressed and wrapped in a quilt, Sans is cold. He shudders, gritting his teeth as even that is suddenly enough to ache, and his soul gives a despondent throb of pain of its own.
That seems to, finally, unlock Papyrus' voice from his chest.
"Let me try, Sans." He pleads, "I want— I don't want to lose you."
His soul gives another sullen pulse.
He holds back a sigh, knowing it'll only hurt. He can't fault his brother for wanting to try to help. He'd want to do everything he could.
"... Whatcha got in mind, bud?"
In the end, Papyrus' grand plan to try and help him comes down to a simple, but horrifying solution. It took a long, long two hours for him to talk Sans into agreeing.
"Paps, my head's not a pretty place to be," He protests, one last time, as Papyrus cradles his broken, half-calcified soul closed to his chest, above his gloved hands, "I really don't—"
"I am not afraid to know your secrets, Sans." Papyrus replies, crisply, "I am not afraid to know you."
He doesn't twist the knife, though it would be easy. He doesn't bring up that Sans had promised not to keep anymore secrets. He doesn't press any harder than he already has. He doesn't even make a fuss over the fact that Sans is afraid of letting him know him on that level.
Sans burrows unhappily into the nest of blankets Papyrus has buried him under over the last two hours. He's still cold, thinks he's going to be no matter what, but if he's going to have his brother kicking around in his head he may as well get comfortable. He really, really does not want to do this, but he's willing to let Papyrus try.
As he settles, Papyrus examines his soul at length. The scrutiny makes Sans uncomfortable, so he closes his eyes to avoid it.
His soul pulses at the close proximity to Papyrus' when it's apparently drawn back toward his sternum. It hurts, the pain hot and bright, and if he weren't so well acquainted with pain it'd likely be entirely too much to handle.
Then, all at once, he feels Papyrus' presence in his head. A gentle touch to his soul with one thumb is all it takes, overwhelming and burning hot. He must have taken his gloves off.
"I'm sorry, brother," Papyrus says, tone all awash with genuine apology. It's echoed by the feelings Sans gets off of him from him being in contact with his soul. "I know that this is— I know it's uncomfortable. I'm sorry. I'll try to be careful."
Before Sans can fully process it, or ask what exactly he's going to do, he feels Papyrus practically beating down his mental walls. There's magic, pure intent, pouring against the very core of his being. He feels like he's being pushed down deeper into his own head.
He fights, a little. He tries to push back, tries to get out of his blanket cocoon, but—
"Hush, brother, please," Papyrus' voice breaks through his rising panic, desperate and just as afraid as he is, "I'm sorry, I know, please just relax."
A low, horrible sound grinds its way out of his throat. The intent of Papyrus' magic keeps pressing, unyielding. Hot and overwhelming, flooding into him like water. It pushes him down, down, down.
The pain stops.
The panic stops.
All he feels is Papyrus.
He relaxes. He feels himself sink into the couch, into the blankets. He gives in, and the flood of Papyrus' magic pushes him right out of his own head.
When Sans pries his sockets open again who knows how long later, he feels warm. The pain in his soul has died down to a negligible, niggling ache instead of something that truly hurts. He feels somewhat better rested than he has in months, maybe even years, and more surprisingly his breath is coming easily and painlessly.
His thoughts are moving slowly through his mind, much slower than normal.
He feels good.
"Brother?" Comes Papyrus' voice, softened to a near-murmur, "Are you alright?"
He hums in answer, and it rumbles out into a purr. He can't feel Papyrus in his head anymore, and when his eyes finally land on him he looks caught between fragile hope and guilt. His purr ratchets up in volume, and Papyrus' expression changes from hope and guilt to surprise. Then, slowly, it morphs into something pleased and calm.
"Am I to take that as a yes?" He asks, and when Sans nods, he breathes a disbelieving laugh. "How are you feeling?"
"... Sleepy." He rumbles, unable to stop purring, "An' a little h'ngry."
Papyrus is on his feet in a second, disappearing into the kitchen without a word. It occurs to Sans that his soul is back in place in his ribcage. When had Papyrus put it back? How long was he out?
... What does it look like?
He doubts there was any change, but with how much better he feels he can't help thinking maybe something changed. Maybe it looks better.
When Papyrus comes back, he's got a packet of those stupid fruit gummies that Sans likes in his hand. "Here," He says, as he tears it open and offers Sans one of the snacks, "Just to hold you over until dinner."
Sans can't be assed to squirm out of his cocoon, he's too comfy, so he nips the fruit snack out from between Papyrus' phalanges, to his clear consternation and amusement. His little brother sighs, indulgent and fond, and offers him another.
"Your soul is... Looking a little better," Papyrus tells him, as he dutifully feeds him fruit gummies, "I think if we did that again, perhaps often, we might... We might be able to help you, Sans."
With each little bite of the silly pre-packaged human food, some of Sans' awareness returns to him. He feels more alert by the time he eats the last one, and that's around the time that Papyrus' words process properly.
"How're my bones?" He asks, because he still can't be assed to move, "They were... A lil chalky, b'fore."
"More solid, now, then," Papyrus says, and shockingly has nothing to say about Sans hiding that from him, "That said, you could do with a bath when you're feeling up for it. You smell horrendous. Also, we are going to talk about this when you're feeling better. Just so you know."
"Sure, Paps," He says, to both things.
Funny that in one single afternoon he'd gone from trying to find something to carry around to forestall dusting to potentially not being about to dust anymore.
He's not going to get his hopes up.
"Still wanna get my affairs sorted, though," He mumbles, "Just in case. W'nna make sure you an' Frisk're gonna be okay."
"Think about yourself this time, Sans." Papyrus sniffs, as if offended, "You are not allowed to dust. I forbid it."
Yeah, that sounds just like Papyrus.
It gets a smile out of him, this time, which makes Papyrus perk up considerably.
"Okay, Paps." He agrees, with a weak laugh.
He's still going to get his affairs in order. Just in case. No matter what Papyrus says, they can't afford to assume that he's just fine. Sure, healing his soul directly may have helped, but it could just be a patch job. It could just be pushing back the inevitable.
Still, despite his insistence that he is not going to get his hopes up, he feels a bloom of some fragile, terrible hope in his soul.
It doesn't even ache.