#trombxnes

It’s been a long day.

When he steps through thedoorway, there’s an age-old ache resonating marrow-deep in his bones – wearyand tired, thrumming something fierce. He can barely stay on his feet, slippersshuffling against the ground in a familiar noise that reminds him he’s home.All too quickly he’s shucking them off, hands moving to remove a stained andworn lab coat, only the briefest of thoughts telling him he wasn’t supposed tobring that home. Who knows what kind of shit he could track in from work.

Whatever. He’s too tired to care,shrugging helplessly as it’s tossed onto the coat rack.

Next comes a thick and well-lovedjacket, red stained and stitched together time and time again by so manydifferent hands and paws – it’s his only real possession in this world, par thedog tags that glisten around his neck. Then again, even those aren’t his. He’snot even his own person – not anymore.

Mind, body, heart, and soul – hebelongs to others. Choose for it to be this way.

( besides, it’s better this way. )

After the jacket is carefullydraped upon the coat rack he’s slowly shuffling forward only to pause, checkingwith a weary gaze to see that yes, indeed, he did lock the front door behindhim. Then he’s continuing his path towards the stairs, hazed eye-lights takingin the muted light of his living room. The TV’s on but there’s nothing showing– nothing but the weary glow of a blackened screen outlining the couch and the othervarious furniture that greets him this late night.

His bones clack against wood withevery step, tarsals pressing down and up with each movement, scraping againstthe floor. He knows it “isn’t good for the wood” and that he’s bound to wakehis brother up at this rate – but he really doesn’t care. The only thing on hismind is the fact there’s a bed calling his name, and he’s eager to respond byfalling into what would be – hopefully – a deep, undisturbed slumber.

Stars, he feels like he couldsleep for years. Hell, wishes it too.

Eventually he’s at the base ofthe stairs – it feels like centuries, especiallywith just how tired he is – a singleboney hand grasping the rail as he ascends. The steps creak with every one ofhis movements, alarm bells to his arrival. He hasn’t slept here in weeks, atleast not since he’d moved out. But tonight’s different – he’s been workingnonstop lately on project after project, and it’s only now that he’s been ableto go somewhere else to sleep that isn’t his desk chair or some corner of thelab. Part of him wonders if his brother’s cleared out his room since he left –the thought alone leaving a sore pang in his chest.

He would’ve gone home to Sans –but he’s too tired, too exhausted to really trust himself to not pass out onthe way there.

Once he reaches the top flight,he’s continuing his death march down the hall, towards his own door. It stilllooks the same – a single post-it note on its frame, worn and taped on time andtime again, reading a simple “keep out” in the young, ambitious scientist’shandwriting he once had. He stands before the door for a few minutes, leaningforward enough that his skull rests against the cool wood.

Quietly, his eye-sockets flickerclosed and he allows himself to just be.

The sound of creaking floorboardsfills the air, the hum of static dancing against the surface of a screendownstairs joining the symphony. He can hear the way his own bones groan,joints clicking every so often in the muted light around him. The air feelsstagnant, tastes stagnant, everybreath from his pseudo-lungs cutting him raw. Soul a lead weight in his chest,he can almost hear just how muchtrouble he’s going to be in for not taking care of himself. Again.

( can you really blame him? )

With a sigh, he’s finally puttinga hand on the doorknob and it gives way without much prodding at all. The backof his mind is all too happy to worry why it’s not locked – but the rest of himmore than relieved to see his room’s the same as he left it. Nothing out ofplace par the things he’d willingly took out himself, the walls bare and floorclean for once. In the corner, his bed – his old bed, a happy sight for his protesting bones.

It’s with a huff he kicks thedoor behind him shut, and nearly an instant later he’s flopping down on themattress, feet having carried him quicker than ever before. What can he say?He’s always been a bit of a lazybones– so much so that his body’s near trained to sleep on sight of any good spot.

His bed smells like mustard anddust, and he’s relaxing at the familiarity – even if it feels like something’smissing.

The springs beneath him coilharshly into his bones, digging into him without any reprieve par the blanketwadded beneath his sternum and pelvis. He doesn’t mind, though. If anything, itfeels softer than the down feathers of a humming bird monster – more of hisjoints pop in relief, his eye-sockets shuttering closed before he can even helpit.

He can’t –

He can’t sleep.

A deep groan slips past histeeth, his entire body shifting to lay on his side, wrenching the blanket fromunderneath him to cover his prone form. He just wants to sleep. Now really isn’t the best time for his insomnia to be actingup.

Once again, he’s taking a deepbreath of the familiar smell of chalk and spice, trying to drift off.

He can’t.

He can’t sleep, and he knows why– he knows why, and by the stars, he’s not sure why his smile itches to hitchhigher, nor if he should be irritated or not. He’s been spoiled rotten, and heknows it’s going to be the death of him with how heavily his soul sings at whathe’s considering. He’s not sure he’ll make it, but hell – one way or another,he’ll finally pass out, and that’s all he needs right now.

What he wants is a different story.

Nearly an half hour later andhe’s stumbling like a drunk, bare feet clicking against the bottom of the doorframe.

He’s home; Sans’ home, his home. It had taken far too long forhis weary body to muster the magic to teleport to his not-so-trusty machine,and far more brain power than he’d care to admit to remember the nearritualistic steps to find himself in the alternate timeline. He’d almost passedout completely on the trip, had it not been for the jarring whiplash thatusually accompanied a journey through the void.

And now here he is – jacketthrown to where it hangs off his clavicles, having walked through Snowdinbarefoot, dazed, more than half asleep. He doesn’t even bother with the samerites as before, bones once more lightly scraping on the floorboards.. The TVis on here too, only the muted sound is not static but of a very familiar robotdancing to something not even worth the energy it would take to turn his skullto look.

The couch tempts him like a songstress– it’s lumps and bumps all too luring in the early morning hours to a skeletonwho wants sleep more than anything else in this world. Only he has an ace uphis sleeve, walking past with only a moments pause to consider the temptationit is. There’s a side of the bed with his name on it upstairs, and that’s morethan enough to keep him going even on days – nights – like these.

The house is old, ancient; creakingwith every step up the stairs with the bones of his feet clicking and scrapingmutedly as he ascends. Tipped phalanges grip the banister for purchase, worngrooves of nicked bone against nicked wood, both aged by time and carelesscare. His entire body feels like lead, every step a hassle and so very slow tothe point he knows the symphony that is his arrival must sound like deathapproaching.

( some days, some places – but nothere. )

Already he can feel the soothingpulse of cooling, soft magic that awaits him – the gentle babbling of kindness,warmth, strength, integrity – allurging him up those last few steps and down the hall. His hand finds thedoorknob before he can think about it, and it creeks open softly, no louderthan a whisper. All these noises, these screams of his arrival, are merewhispers of his anxiety compared to the soothing hum of a familiar soul andit’s quiet, quiet snores.

For a moment he stands in thedoorway, body framed by the gentle light spilling from the kitchen and TV, hazedeye-lights softening at the sight of his mate – of Sans himself, the smallerskeleton sprawled out and dead asleep to the world. Sine can’t help but stare,enraptured, nearly falling to his knees in relief, exhaustion, and the sheer amountof adoration that fills his soul and even goes as far to overflow outwards intoa soft dusting of a cherry upon his zygomatic arches.

Gently does he shut the doorbehind him, so very softly that it barely whines before clicking shut.

The room is as much of a disasteras you would expect from two sans’ living together, the floor covered withclothes; somehow, surprisingly, for two Sans’ they make do. It smells likepeppermint and cinnamon, a smell he would always associate with home, with hisfirst good days, with the brimming affection he had for the smaller skeleton.Faded eye-lights dilating even wider to adjust to the darkness, it takes him aminute but slowly does he finally lurch forward on his feet.

Sans takes up a predominantamount of the bed alone, sprawled and half covered by tangled sheets. Sine canalready see the drool at the edges of the other’s mouth, and slowly findshimself approaching his mate’s side of the bed. From the bedside table he drawsa few tissues from a box placed there for convenience ( he sweats a lot, okay?) before mutedly leaning onto the bed enough so that he sits on one leg, theother hanging off the side.

Attentively does he wipe offSans’ skull, just enough to get the drool off, hooking the soft fabric againstthe smooth bone. He doesn’t pull away, either – his other hand retrieves thetissues before throwing them off the side of the bed, never stopping hisadorning graze. Slowly does he trace Sans’ jaw, right below his permanent smileand above his vertebra. That nick on his chin, slowly does he brush past itbefore pulling away completely.

Downward he bends, before his eternallyfanged grin presses ever so gently against Sans’ skull. He’s cool where Sine isnot – all soft, round edges, but still that same integrity and kindness heknows so well. Slowly does he pull away even as Sans murmurs somethingunintelligible, turning his head away. He watches, enamored as always, beforefinally sliding off the bed.

He’s stumbling around to his side,feet tripping over stray clothes and random debris – all too quickly does heallow himself to collapse once he finally finds his way there. The mattress issoft, kind, nothing like the old mess of a bed he has back at his old home. Bonesprotest slightly before his joints pop and creak, settling as he hides a silentgroan in appreciation.

For a few moments he just liesthere – eye-sockets falling as heavy as the sunset, allowing himself to sinkdown. He’s still dressed in his clothes beyond his bare, warming feet, and it’sall too easy to let himself drift off as he lies there, knowing he’s missed thisfar too much.

It smells like cinnamon andpeppermint, tastes like they’re overdue for a laundry day.

It sounds like the company of theone he treasures most, looks like the back of his tired, tired eye-lids.

It feels like home.

Eventually does he prop himselfon his elbows before expertly disentangling Sans from the vice of the sheets, agentle, guiding touch as he moves to settle them over both their forms. Thesmaller skeleton shifts and groans, but is pliant, and Sine catches the edge ofa sleep-ridden smile on his skull. Returning it with his own slit of a grin despitethe fact it isn’t – won’t ever be – seen, he shifts closer until he’s flush tohis mate’s back, arms wrapping gently around his sides.

The other skeleton is immediatelyresponding by leaning back into the touch, a soft huff and muted hum buzzingbehind his teeth. Sine shifts slightly before pressing another click of histeeth on the back of Sans’ skull. The other is so cool compared to the warmthhe constantly exudes and he basks in it, holding him so tight and close thattheir legs become entwined in an effort to be closer.

He’s so tired – his skull rests directlyagainst Sans’ nape, eye-sockets slowly closing in time with the gentle rhythmthat begins to guide his non-existent lungs. He’s so damn spoiled, and yet he feels safe, happy, warm – here. Here where he belongs, where Sans owns every damnpiece of him just as easily as he gives himself away.

Sine’s drifting off, gripslackening, ducking his head even more firmly against him.