A ukulele, with Tim attachment, as someone once said. He's trying not to think of Alex, with his glasses and his stupid haircut and his baseball cap and his casual appropriation of Tim's battery-powered keyboard. Doesn't think of tapes in which the trio of them smiled and even laughed, Brian's hair spiked from the shower, a scattering of instruments collecting around the walls of the room, purchased from thrift stores and bought used from college acquaintances with no space and no need for a French horn.

The music spirals out from beneath clumsy fingers in a start-stop collection of eclectic melodies. He plays without direction, much like he's been living, until the heavy tread and the silhouette of something huge arrests his attention.

It's not easy for a guy of Asgore's size to hide himself, it turns out. Tim blinks once before raising his eyebrows, quietly inquisitive.

"...hey."