Chapter Text
You keep mostly to yourself for a couple of hours, arms either tucked in close or spread wide as you walk. There's some logic to why you alternate, you guess: Your hips aren't forgiving, and neither are parts of the terrain you've been traversing out of the Ruins, through the trees and crags and snow drifts, the straggling puzzles you know like the back of your hand by now, and into Snowdin proper. Mostly it's just something for your arms (and by extension, your hands) to do.
They could... use the distraction.
You have your old stick, too, packed away. It'd do fine in a pinch—you've almost grown too big for it to be useful for walking anymore, but you like its heft and arrangement of worn grooves, those just right indents that scrub smooth against your thumb and forefinger and the curve of your palm. It's familiar; an anchor. You've been itching to bring it out, but... it felt rude. Feels rude, you having a comfort object while Chara hangs back like a dark cloud, curled tight in your head, with access to nothing but you and their own torrid brew of thoughts. And they've been nigh-roaring in their silence, ever since—
Well. That part was your fault, when it came down to it. It should be up to you to try and make things a bit better, should it not?
You're picking your way through the first sodden patches ringing Waterfall when you think at them, soft, venturing, Maybe next time?
Chara stirs, sending off the vibe of someone unfolding themself, if just a little. Their response isn't immediate. Dispensing with the niceties, aren't we?
What? You come to a stop, brow creasing.
Chara sighs. You know. The— 'Are you okay?' 'How are you holding up??' They're trying to imitate you, and if things were a little different you'd be pulling a fondly disgusted face. Your speaking voice isn't that squeaky, sheesh. It's not like you to go off-script like this.
You shrug—visibly, not just in your head—and make a small noise that's not entirely voluntary. Seemed kind of pointless to not get right to it, you tell them, starting to walk again. Mostly I'm worried it'd be kind of... um. The word's at the tip of your tongue. Your brain (and face) pinch with effort for about ten seconds, then you gently shove the shape of its meaning towards Chara. Maybe... ?
Uhh... 'patronizing'?
Yeah, that's it!! You can't quite work the smile onto your face, but you send Chara the feel and springtime heft of it. They pretend (very loudly) not to preen; you pretend not to notice right back.
Ha. You have a point, I guess. Chara goes quiet, diffusing warmth at you. You don't miss the bead of tension—rolling under the surface, like a rock caught in a shoe—nor the impression you weren't meant to catch it. Which... it seems kind of silly, considering how Chara hadn't bothered to hold their upset out of your mind's reach just earlier, but. But.
Guilt, and a sense of duty, are good motivators. They make you withdraw from Chara's sphere of things, turn more of yourself outward, as quietly as you can. They make you wait, concern and fluttery impatience held down, wrapped tight so it's easier to set them aside from yourself too.
And so it goes: Your body keeps pace, the rest of you prepared to greet any of the scattered monsters still eking out a life down here, and Chara stays a little retreated, a little preoccupied. This lasts for a few minutes.
Then, like a tap on the shoulder: You're better off not hoping for too much, if you ask me.
Your gait stutters. Now it's your turn to hold off on an answer.
I don't... ugh. I'm not sure what else we're supposed to do, is what you end up saying. At least you don't stop walking.
Still just 'you', they correct. Technically. Chara hesitates, thoughts softening, even as something fraught and crimson-red threads its way into them. I... know you're not thinking it, but. Please. Don't ask me again. I'm still not sure my presence would be welcome, if he knew about it.
I won't, you tell them. It's automatic, but sincere all the same. It still hurts, though. You're certain that on some level Chara knows Asriel didn't hate them, in the end—a boy doesn't choose to spend his final moments tenderly holding vigil at the gravesite of someone he wants nothing to do with anymore, you're pretty sure—but it's not just about that.
Earlier at the Ruins, your pulse skidded and sped, gut twisting into knots that weren't entirely yours. Or mostly, even; it was all you could do to keep Chara's tremor out of your hands as you tried to talk to a flower. They admitted to you afterwards—stormy, embarrassed, still sending phantom jolts through your nerves as their laughter danced in pieces through your head—that they should have just tucked themself into the smallest possible corner of your mind, if they weren't going to bother joining the conversation.
The long and short is that you have no idea when Chara will feel they're welcome enough to make themself known. And you understand. At least... you think you do. You want to say you do. Here you are, a year on from the Barrier's destruction, and the scope of what Chara and Asriel shared together, of what that could possibly mean now still feels a little beyond you. As if the best you can offer to the cosmic swell of grief and regret is an awkward pat.
It's hard not to wonder if that makes you a bad friend. Especially when Chara can't have any others with the... well. The way things are.
In any case, Chara seems satisfied with your promise; their relief curls through you like smoke, wavery but warm. It makes you feel... brave. A little foolish, maybe. You squint around and let the glitter of gemstone constellations, all the quiet swallowing them like a blanket, bolster you some more.
Maybe, you tell them (stitch blooming familiar and ragged in your left hip, you soldiering onward), it doesn't really matter how much we hope for? I mean. I can't force him, I shouldn't, I don't want it to be like that, but he's— You swallow, so sharply you almost choke. You're not sure if it's from the pain or the train of thought, or a bit of both. If it's still possible he'll say yes, you continue, shouldn't I keep letting him know we're okay with that?
Something on Chara's end grows very, very still. It's like river water gone placid, all at once, the surface mirror-smooth. You're not sure you like it.
Oh, they say. Okay then. The hairs stand up at the back of your neck; it's not coming from you. It's about the slimmest of slim possibilities that he'll stop wallowing and actually listen to you wax philosophic about the, what was it. Virtues of ~not going it alone~. Is that right?
You lurch to a halt, balking. There's knives shooting down your left leg.
Is that—
"Chara." Reproach squeezes the name out of you, or it's the pain, something. You feel awful either way, at precisely the instant it's too late to take it back.
A wince radiates from Chara, after a moment. The hairs on your neck start to calm. Maybe that wasn't fair, they say, voice quiet.
I'm sorry. It's taking everything you have not to sign it too, over and over and over, because—you weren't mad, not really. But it felt too close to the real thing and you can't get mad, you can't, you can't—
Ugh, Frisk, no, you don't... Chara grunts, doesn't continue, and there's their guilt, too. It's a bright and wiry thing, whenever they forget to hide it. Your spiral feels so dull and small in comparison; it snaps in twain, maybe in response. The remnants get shoved out of sight.
You can't think of anything to say.
It's silent in your head, for a bit. There's water sliding softly to your right. You press the heels of your hands to your eyelids, make a face, let them fall to your sides again.
Eventually, Chara sighs. Look. They're pushing back bangs in your mind's eye, frowning. Frisk. Here's the thing: Flowey's determined to stay miserable. He'll stew and brood and hide away from everyone, because he doesn't believe he deserves better. Another pause. He... he can't feel love, but he's reconstructed enough of a conscience to care. Staying out of everyone's hair, just in case? It falls under the scope of that. They flash your consciousness a humorless smile, adding, You'd have a hell of a time making headway with that, unless you're prepared to use some, mm. Unsavory tactics.
An unspoken I would know hangs between you. Pain hums through a third of your body, roughly, radiating in time with your heartbeat. The collusion of misery just makes you want to hug Chara all the more, if you could.
You send them a wave of comfort instead, or what you hope will feel like one. It's made of gentle and solid things, like the way a good hug should be. I don't want to hurt him, you tell them, firmly. I'll do what I can to make sure you never have to worry about that.
Chara regards you in a way you can't quite place. They pretend to suck in a breath. Shockingly enough , they say, in an odd tone that's maybe fond sarcasm, maybe something else, I already trust you with that.
Your cheeks redden, with a rush that makes you reach up to rub them. Chara hacks a cough.
Anyway. Uh. Not to boss you around or anything—you snort not-quite-unkindly before they can even finish—but I get the distinct impression someone could use a breather.
You grimace, giving your nose a vigorous wipe. I took a break a few minutes ago.
Forty. It's been forty minutes.
Close enough. You mow over Chara's Not really with a mulish I can go farther!
'Farther' as in two minutes away, tops. Got it. When you start to groan, Chara presses on. Frisk, I'm this close to making a joke about benching you. Do you want that? Do you want godawful puns about sports that probably won't make sense because I don't know the first thing about sports?
Wouldn't make a difference to me, you tell them, shrugging. I don't know anything about sports either.
... Well then.
Yeah. It's a game-changer.
You wait a beat, using the moment to draw your old stick from your inventory.
Frisk.
The grin reaches your face this time. Chara?
You're double-benched.
Sounds dangerous, you tell them brightly. This seems like a great note to stroll off on, but even a tentative half-step sets your teeth to clenching. You try (you fail) to mask the intake of breath, sharp as needles.
Whoa, hey! Chara's voice whips through your head, like they've just moved from behind to in front of you from... the inside. Huh. You don't get much time to wonder about that before you feel pressure on your hands. It's hesitant at first, featherlight before it settles in with an illusory clasp. It's warm.
Hey. You look up, automatically, knowing you won't see them anyway. Chara mimics a thumb rasping across your knuckles. This... might sound a little rich, they say, coming from someone who just yelled at you, but. I need you to take care of yourself for a few minutes. Okay?
You avert a gaze that's not there. Just a few months ago, this... would have annoyed you, and not in that reflexive, good-natured way you fall back on whenever Chara gets a little imperious. There's wanting to order you around sometimes and then there's fussy, which—it's fine coming from Toriel, but Chara's brand of it (nosy and inelegant, ofttimes) left you almost longing for when they were cool and kind of mean towards you. The pain gets awful sometimes, sure, but. You're used to that. Shoddy hips are your normal, and they don't make you delicate. You've been through worse.
Given some time and talking, you realized Chara wasn't trying to be patronizing (a word you're glad you know now; it's a good one), just... practical. Their issues in life weren't the same, health-wise, but they've still learned a thing or two about over-exertion. Even more so than some of your other friends, to be honest. And Chara's not even worried about the pain they've been feeling by proxy of sharing a body, just about you, because they're kind of stupid like that. It's the "kind of stupid" you understand on an intimate level.
And so: A bubble rises in your chest that feels glowing and ashamed all at once, and your first instinct is to say, You didn't yell.
You tell Chara instead, You really are nicer than you think, you know.
The sensation of their hands drops from yours like you've just sneezed on them.
Whatever. They fizz with brusqueness, drawing back like someone tightly folding their arms across their chest. Definitely no fluster, here. Let's find a place to sit your butt down.
Heh. You've got it. Snapping off a quick salute, you readjust your grip on the stick. You take a deep, bracing breath too. Hard as it is to admit, you feel a bit better knowing you don't have anything to prove on this front now. I've got a good place in mind to stop, I think.