entrancelogs | merry christmas; i could care less [ open ]

Shit.

Turns out he can stop playing. The banjo gets laid out across his lap as he darts forward with both hands in an awkward lurch, attempting to cup them just underneath where he predicts the ermine might end up. Jury's out on whether he makes it, given the fact that he's a little slow and also acting purely on rapidfire instinct.

"Fuck. You okay?"

Sans lands halfway in Tim's hands and holds on for dear life, digging his claws into Tim's sleeve and hauling himself all the way up. Then he just sort of sits there for a moment, a little stunned.

"well, that was kinda terrifying. jeez. thank you. nice catch."

His little heart is going a mile a minute, which is both intensely weird and vibrating his whole form.

"sorry. i didn't claw you, did i?"

Immediately, the subconscious urge to keep playing starts to make itself known. For what it's worth, he can ignore it, though the persistence of the instinct implies that it'll get worse the longer he does. He grimaces slightly at the prickle of claws through the fabric of his sleeve, the uncomfortable sensation of something very alive scrambling all over him with its lithe, furry body and tiny beating heart, and he holds as still as he dares.

Sans isn't the only one whose heart is going like a steel drum.

"Little bit," he grunts. "'S no big. Didn't break your neck, so I'll call that a win."

He gives a chuckle that's maybe a bit nervous. A bit.

"heh, yeah, you uh, you really saved my bacon there, buddy."

It's fine. It's all good. He's calming down. It's just harder to do when he's got a heartbeat and adrenaline to remind him of how close that might have been.

"sorry 'bout the claws. you can put me down now."

"Right. Yeah."

He probably should, considering the fact that being this still for this long isn't really something that enchanted cookie is about, so to speak. He slips free from his seat of sculpted gingerbread, because there's nowhere to really sit that isn't made of gingerbread, to carefully set the little thing down on the floor.

"...sorry, I guess." Why the hell is he apologizing? Christ.

Sans scampers off of Tim's hands as soon as the floor is within range. Then he settles into a weird loaf position. Just gotta...take a sec to enjoy solid ground.

"sorry for what? i might've just become a little furry pancake if not for you. man. if it's not one thing, it's another thing around here."

He pauses, fighting off the urge to start licking his paws. Why would he want to lick his paws? That's dumb. Being an animal is dumb.

"i'm...sorry, by the way. about last event, with the shadows. and for being so pushy lately."

Great. So the awkward, ill-timed apology gives way to other apologies, and Tim's not equipped to handle it so he just sits back up and lets himself take up the instrument again so he can give himself something to do with his hands. And that's...fine, anyway. He needs something to occupy himself with so he doesn't have devote every scrap of his mental energy to this conversation.

"'S fine." No. No, actually it's not fine, but when's he ever been the kind of person to push that? "Guess I just don't really get your whole angle in all this."

It's not fine, of course not. This is all happening while Tim is strumming a banjo and Sans is a weasel. The level of surrealism makes Sans almost think he's dreaming.

It's also just not that simple. But he'll let it lie. He scampers toward the wall, figuring that there's less chance of getting stepped on if he skirts the wall on his way back to his room.

"don't have one. i'm all circles, heh. time to actually own it i guess."

It's always gonna be angles, otherwise. He looks back at Tim.

"clem asked me about another movie night. maybe in the new year. you interested?"

Heaven forbid he answer a serious question in any remotely sincere way. Regardless of whether the sidestepping, the ducking, the dodging, the redirection is intentional or even mean-spirited, it muddies the waters to a point that's simultaneously unnerving and exasperating.

He's not incensed enough to pursue it. So he doesn't.

"She wasn't too put off by the last one?" says Tim, dryly.

Tim doesn't dignify the first part with an answer, which Sans takes as a bad sign. No point in pressing it right now. He's already overstayed his welcome, if he ever had it to begin with.

"i...don't know." He pauses, not really wanting to put words in Clementine's mouth. Trying to be more careful. "she was the one who asked me about it. she's a tough kid."

She had seemed more worried about the other three than anything.

"she'll probably reach out to you on her own. if we did do something again, we could...make sure it's not during an event."

Something simple and fun, no heavy topics allowed, no sudden truths to ruin things.

"Just a bit awkward, is all." Not to mention the fact that Jay nearly did - something, hell if he knows what. Something ambiguously Kralie-esque in design and potentially unnerving in display, but nothing legitimately dangerous. Yet. Yet.

He's supposed to be helping him. What the hell's he doing now, huh?

Currently, he's fixing Sans with a firm, slightly stern look.

"Not really big on sweeping shit under the rug, either."

"true. but...i dunno. maybe it's worth it."

Maybe it's worth a bit of awkwardness if it means hanging out with people again. Even if it means having to address the awkwardness, talk it all out. Something Sans still sucks at, but he wants to try.

He peers back at Tim, standing up on his hind legs a little. His tail points outward to hold his balance without him even having to think about it.

"no, i...agree. we shouldn't. i don't want to. i just...now doesn't seem like a good time, yanno? you're busy, and i'm a--uh, what did you call it, an er...something. just seems a bit silly."

He pauses as something dawns on him and he settles back on the floor.

"or maybe--would this be easier on you? so you don't have to--"

So Tim doesn't have to look at something that scares him.

"I don't care when or how it happens. But the longer you draw it out, the worse it's gonna get. I can tell you that from personal experience, and I'm pretty sure you can too."

He isn't one for mincing his words here. No matter what Sans thinks, he's dealt glancing blows that fucking hurt, and he's gonna need to learn to accept that there are some things that you can't just fix with a couple of apologies, no matter how self-pitying they are - just like he'll have to learn that there are some times when fuck off simply means fuck off, with no additional meanings attached.

He's quiet for a bit, crouched against the wall.

"you're right."

The absurdity of this situation doesn't really matter. Tim is right. The longer Sans draws this out, the worse it'll be for everyone. And better to try and resolve even one thing now, before something makes this event go wrong.

It'll be better if they get it out of the way. And if the worst happens, if this is the last time they end up speaking to each other, then at least it'll be while Tim can actually look at him.

He trots back into the middle of the room and peers up at Tim.

"how do we...do this? where do we start?"

He thinks Tim's supposed to know?

Maybe that's fair. Maybe Tim's set himself up to be someone who knows what he's saying, knows what he's doing. He just has that effect on people. Had that effect on Brian, who was convinced that Tim knew what he was responsible for. Had that effect on Jay, who seemed fixated on the notion that Tim could yield some answers that didn't exist.

"No clue," says Tim. Even if there's no honesty pastries this go around, he might as well be frank. "It'd be a lie to say I'm not still pretty pissed about a lot of things right now."

Sans generally always assumes that every other person in the universe knows more about interpersonal relationships than he does.

"...i don't know either."

Maybe no one ever really knows what they're doing. Emotions are complicated. Trust, relationships, it's all complicated.

"you'd have every right to be pissed."

Sans can at least guess what a few of those things might be.

"...i've...been a hypocrite. i say i want to be friends, but then i don't--treat you like one. i treat you like a puzzle to solve. i don't, uh. i don't want you to think it's...malicious, or anything. it's not. i'm, uh--new to this, to...caring, and talking to people, and...all of it. but...intent doesn't really matter. i--pushed too hard, i betrayed your trust, i...exposed something personal of yours to max. i...tim, i treated you the way doctors and such treat people like us. and--i'm sorry. i'm not sure that...that sorry is enough, but i don't...know how to make it up to you."

Always so bad at this. Even when he tries to learn, it never feels like he gets any of this right. Never feels like anything sticks. Never feels like an apology means anything. Words like "sorry" lose all meaning.

He folds his paws under him and hunkers down on the carpet, looking up in the vicinity of Tim's knee. Awaiting judgment.

"Can't say that's new to me." There's a certain level of bitterness to his tone that he can't wholly shunt aside. Being a puzzle for someone else to solve, having all his little medical life details bared to other people without his consent - that's not new. He's not the first person to have ever done a thing like that. He probably won't be the fucking last, either.

The fact that he indicated, implied that there was a big part of him that understood how shitty something like that felt when it happened to you, made all the difference. The fact that he indicated understanding and then still did it anyway had felt like more of a betrayal than anything Jay did, because Jay never made a point of aligning himself with Tim in the first damn place.

"Most of my life, that's just kinda how it works with me. You set yourself up as someone who might've gotten how shitty that was. You even got angry when I implied you didn't." Yeah, bully for Tim, stepping on that line after Sans crossed so many in quick succession. Shame on him. "But everything you've done since then is just confirmation that I'm thinking - maybe you don't get how shitty it is. 'Cause you sure as hell don't act like someone who does."

Ermines are about as expressionless as skeletons. Even his ears don't do much to indicate his mood. He's just staring up at Tim, shivering a little, but maybe that's just his heartbeat. Maybe that's all it is.

"you think i--?"

He stops. Don't argue. Don't disagree. He's right, isn't he? Tim is right. The intentions, the explanations, none of it matters. The point is that he ended up just like them.

He ended up just like him.

He didn't fully realize it until now.

"you're right."

Someone who really gets it wouldn't do it to someone else, right? Wouldn't let that happen. Would be better than that. Took the wrong lesson from it all. Got too obsessed with sheer survival.

"i got scared. i got scared, and--i thought you were gonna--"

Didn't want to lose anyone else. Selfish, selfish, selfish. You didn't even save them for them, did you?

There's nothing he can say that won't be an excuse, that won't be manipulative, that won't be some shitty joke or misdirection. He remembers. Conversations with Sans are like walking on thin fucking ice.

So cut it out or don't bother.

He really just isn't worth this kind of grief. It's his own damn fault that he decided he didn't want to let go anymore.

"is there any way i can make it up to you?"

“Honestly? I got no clue.” He breathes out a slow, weary sigh. People have done him a lot more wrong for a whole lot less, and for far more warped intentions. He doesn’t write them off. He doesn’t break from them unless he’s got nothing left- or unless he’s succumbing to one of those streaks of weakness, those violent episodes that he’s so good at pretending he doesn’t have. The doctors were right. They always have been.

“You’re not the first person to abuse my trust and you sure as hell won’t be the last. That’s just kind of how it is with me.”

He invites it. Enables it. Beckons it upon himself.

And he doesn’t have enough concern for his own well-being to bother changing that.

No clue. Makes sense. It's like before, asking Frisk to just fix everything. To figure it out and somehow have the answers, never mind that they were a traumatized child.

The resignation in Tim's voice is what gets him, because it's so damn familiar. There are points of contact, things where they really are so alike, but it's not enough. It wasn't good enough. Didn't stop Sans from pulling the kind of shit that put that resignation in Tim's voice in the first place.

"...it isn't healthy, is it?"

Stupid fucking thing to say. When have either of them been healthy?

"i've been trying lately to--stop giving up so easily, but... i don't know, tim. i could say i won't do it again, but you got no reason to trust me. and i know i'm just a...reminder."

Something with a white face chasing him through the woods.

Is it worth it? Is it worth it if all he is is toxic, if he keeps doing toxic things? No one needs something like that in their life. It's so damn easy to fall back into all of that, how people would be better off without him. But that's just as manipulative as everything else, isn't it?

"i'll try to do better."

He sounds real goddamned sincere, is the thing. Lots of people can sound sincere while they undercut it with an ulterior motive, with some veiled intent. He is a liar. He knows how to dress things up so that people don't pry, how to play the pitiful huddle to the burnt-out walls of a hospital so that Jay doesn't press any further than he has already. How to surrender enough pieces of the puzzle so that people don't ask any additional questions.

There's a lot he could say to that. A lot to pick apart. But he can start with something simple:

"Who told you that regrouping is the same thing as giving up?"

It's a wonder that Tim is even still speaking to him. That he hasn't simply fallen silent, a dismissal. It's done. Sans will try to do better, maybe fail--probably fail. Trying isn't good enough. He's gotten better at trying, but actually doing, actually succeeding, is a different story.

He tilts his head a little. Who told him that?

"i...i don't know. i don't--it's the trying again that's..."

You fail once and it's over. You come out wrong and your life is set in stone from then on. Born doomed, like Chara said. Named for it. Tell a kid they'll be dead where they stand, and that's it. No taking it back, no fixing it. Fail to stop the anomaly and that's it. It all ends. A Reset happens, and you can't remember what you did, what worked and what didn't, so it might as well be that nothing worked, because you're still here.

Easier to follow a script. Easier to fail once and give up, even though there's a future here, even though you can't just call it quits, because someone's still hurt and time is still moving forward, and you can't avoid it forever. And trying again, being willing to start over, knowing it might just go the exact same way next time, is so fucking hard.

Chara said that following through was more important than trying just once. He has to be better. He has to be.

"i thought that...if i left you alone, that it was like giving up on you. i did it to someone else. i left them alone because i thought they--needed it, that they were better off, but. it was giving up. it was leaving them alone. and i didn't want to do the same. i didn't want to make the same mistake. i don't...know what i'm doing. if i ask someone what they need, it's invasive. if i try to guess, it's manipulative, it's sneaky. there must be--a middle ground, right? and i can't expect people to just tell me, when i... i can't expect honesty if i'm not honest myself."

Is that where it starts?

Tim sighs.

It's a short, breathy thing, heavy as the weight against his shoulders. Heavy as the lead in his gut. As the bend of his neck as he stares the neck of the banjo, picking here and again on the strings in a decidedly meandering fashion without focusing on any one tune.

"Welcome to the human condition," he says dryly. "That's the bottom line. None of us know what we're doing. None of us are really good at it."

Just a lot of people who are real good at pretending.

Alex was a better actor - hell, they all were - than anybody gave him credit for.

"We're all fucking up and making mistakes pretty much constantly. Some people are gonna find that unforgivable." He opens a hand before letting it fall back against the banjo's neck. "Some people aren't. And if they do, then there is nothing, nothing you can do to convince them. You can't prove that you're not who they think you are. Even if you do...change, or try to be better, they're not obligated to wait around for you to put your money where your mouth is."

Sometimes your mistakes get etched into everything you are. And there's no recovering from that.

You just have to learn to live with it.

"Sometimes the people you've hurt have been hurt to bad to care if you do."

Welcome to the human condition. Welcome to life.

He's thought it plenty times before, how most of adulthood is pretending to know what you're doing. They say wisdom is knowing that you know nothing, after all. He'd never really applied it to...everything. All of life. People just muddling through, making mistakes, trying.

He's not sure if that makes it better or worse.

He's quiet for awhile, listening, processing. You can't convince people that you're going to change, that you're going to make it up to them. You can't expect them to wait around. They're not obligated to ever forgive you. He knew that much, at least. Knew it was a choice someone else has to make.

Sometimes someone's just had the rug pulled on them too many times, been lied to too many times. Sometimes you've lost your very last chance.

"how do i...know? how do i...tell the difference between--someone needing space, and someone being--done with me? i know that no one should have to wait for me. i'm slow at everything i do."

That, at least, is true.

"are--we done?"

"I'm never done." He passes a hand up and through his hair. He has limits, sure. He has those asymptotes that he'd rather people not cross. But cross them they do. Jay interferes, sticks his nose where he shouldn't. Brian steals medication that Tim can't afford to spare. Alex kills the only person in his life he can say might understand that small portion of what he's been through, and tries to shoot Tim down on the spot, and still, still -

He's never done.

If that limit exists, he's not sure anyone might ever cross it.

"You rush too quick into anything, you risk fucking it up." Said with a hair more weight than is maybe intentional, to start with. Tim huffs softly through his nose with a shake of his head. "Sometimes someone telling you to back off really just wants you to back off."

Our lives aren't stories.

Only they are, aren't they? Had people glued to the monitor every time Jay uploaded a new entry. Every time Tim, eventually, posted one, because it felt wrong to leave a dead man's legacy unfinished.

"Sometimes you never get closure," says Tim quietly. He doesn't think of Brian, who must have known what was coming before it did. He doesn't think of Jay, forever searching for answers he never got.

He doesn't fucking think of Alex, who thought he was the hero the whole damn time.

"Sometimes things don't have a cut and dry over. That's just the bottom line."

merry christmas; i could care less [ open ]

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