[OPEN]

[exhumerus]

Who: Sans and YOU.
What: Sans regains some memories and loses some more skin. The result is pretty damn destabilizing.
When: After the REALITY SHOW.
Where: Virgo HQ and in (one of the) central parks.
Warnings: Body horror? Bare bones in places they shouldn't be. It's gross. Drugs. Drinking. A major depressive episode.

The dreams have been haunting him all month. The only thing that separates tonight from any other is the fact that, for once, the memories aren't leaving. There is no relief as he wakes, and as the reality of what he's he's faced sinks in, he's not sure there ever will be again.

He needs a drink, and desperately - water at first, maybe, but then ideally something stronger - and he fumbles out of bed. The fleshy parts of his body are soaked with perspiration, and he strips off his shirt in disgust. He doesn't fully notice what's happened until he steps out onto the stone flooring of the balcony.

Clack.

He looks down and, from his toes all the way up to the middle of his thighs, there is nothing but bone. The transition back to flesh is bloodless but incredibly disconcerting all the same - like the end of the meaty part on a chicken leg, except still alive and uncooked. That idea alone makes him want to throw up.

He needs to hide.

He teleports into the bathroom. It's still the middle of the night, and he can only hope that nobody will join him. His knees clack against the floor and he kneels to use the toilet to catch the physical manifestation of his disorientation of disgust. In that moment, he's not sure which part of himself he's more repulsed by - the part that is flesh, or the part that isn't.

The only thing that gets him to leave the toilet is the idea that someone might walk in on him like this. He staggers to his feet and heads over to the mirror, reluctant to see what's there. He's almost surprised to see a still human face looking back at him - albeit, short a few pounds.

Sans has been overweight for most of his life, but now that seems to be in a state of transition. His ribs and spine are weirdly pronounced, yet it's not like he's actually lost much of his round shape. It's almost like his bones have just become more pronounced, apropos of nothing. He sudden gauntness of his face makes him look like a meth addict.

He teleports back into his room, drags his comforter over his body, and just doesn't move for what feels like a very long time. What's the point?


a. The Park (OPEN)
It's an hour or two before sunrise when he finally leaves his room. He does what he can to hide that misfortune that is his body, wearing a few pairs of sweat pants under a pair of baggy jeans, and a few pairs of socks beneath a heavy pair of boots. He bundles up as much as a person reasonably can in such warm weather, and then some.

He grabs a couple flasks of liquor, a handful of pre-rolled weed, and then he's gone. He feels like he's going to freak out, and loudly, and he can't do that in the HQ.

Except...it never happens. Nothing really comes.

He spends at least an hour curled up in the corner of some kid of stone bench, drinking and smoking and whatever, but no emotional release finds its way to him. He doesn't get why. He just can't, and no amount of public intoxication seems to be doing the trick.

He leans over his folded knees, and can feel the harness of bone underneath. He can't fall asleep, either.


b. Back at Virgo (OPEN)
Later in the day, Sans has come out of his room in small amounts, mostly to grab food and use the toilet. Though he's wearing enough clothes to hide his bone situation, the gauntness of his face and hollowness of his eyes is still apparent. Getting through the day is proving to be a challenge - even more so than usual.

Comments

[panspermia]

"You think whatever got you out here isn't going to make anyone worry?"

He rests a hand on one side of the bench--not blocking Sans in, but keeping him close. Damn it, Sans always does this. Or... does he? However long their friendship has been, he can't tell how true his impressions are, but... the times they actually spent together are still real.

"We're still friends, Sans. I want to help."

[exhumerus]

"Well you can't," he slurs, nestled forward into the excess padding of his clothing - which is most of it, at this point. He's on the edge of becoming sick from the crossfading he's been doing, and if he can refrain from puking directly on Greg he'll consider it a victory.

"It's just Sans being a piece of shit, am I right. Never did anything right no matter how many times I do it."

[panspermia]

"You know that's not true."

He knows Sans has trouble seeing it a lot of the time--a lot of people seem to--but Greg doesn't know where he'd be without Sans' support. Well, given the taste of these last few weeks, he has an idea. It's not a fun prospect, either way.

"Heck, even if it were, that doesn't mean you oughta deal with it alone. Let it out, man."

Perhaps literally. Greg's balancing on the balls of his feet, just in case he needs to jump out of the way.

[exhumerus]

Sans throws his (mostly empty) flask in something that is only vaguely in Greg's direction, which lands in the grass with a gentle thop.

"Shut up," he says. "You don't know what I'm talking about, or about what true or what isn't, so..." The 'so' doesn't really go anywhere. He shoves a hand in Greg's direction like he's attempting to shove him, but Greg isn't actually in the physical space he's pushing at, so he misses him. He stands up to get his flask.

...And immediately flops down onto the bench again, given how shitty he feels. He curls up on his side and rolls over, turning his back to Greg and everything else.

[panspermia]

"Oh, Sans..." Greg heaves a long, weary sigh, picking up the flask and tucking it into his jacket. He'll give this back when Sans has a shower and a clean system.

"You're so stubborn..." It's muttered, not so much meant to be heard. Sans isn't in a good place for lectures or scolding. Who knows, it might help, but not when he's like this and definitely not from Greg.

He leans his back against the bench. Okay. Sure. Sans doesn't have to talk to him; he doesn't trust him anymore. That's fair. But Greg will still wait until Sans is ready to go back--either carried or teleported, that's up to him.

[exhumerus]

Sans lays there for a while without saying anything, which could either be hoping to wait Greg out, or simply not being able to come up with any words while he's so busy trying to keep himself from being sick.

"It's no good at home either," he finally says, after a while. "You have...no idea. No one does."

[panspermia]

Greg looks back to the lump of clothes turned away from him. Sans had been crashing in Defying Atmosphere's penthouse more often than not, so he knew things were bad with the band. Not to mention, another one of their members had gotten pulled--for Conversion. Greg wonders how much Sans has figured out on that particular subject.

Or...

"Which home?" he asks, voice low.

[exhumerus]

"The real one," he says the heaviness of the matter apparent in his tone. There's a strong sense of longing, there, even though it's for a place he barely remembers. Yet, at the same time, the idea of returning fills him with dread.

[panspermia]

Oh man. That's a whole different matter. Greg doesn't know anything about Sans' home but what he's been told, and he wasn't putting it in the best light at the time. Greg falls silent for a little bit, uncertain. "Bad memories, huh...?"

[exhumerus]

"The rabbit hole goes pretty fucking deep," he says, still curled up protectively. "You know...I never really understood why I got to be like this when nobody else did. It just seemed to be so arbitrary, but..."

"The actual reasons? They don't make you feel any better."

[panspermia]

The reasons... why Sans has some sort of time wizard powers? Greg takes a breath through his teeth. He can't even imagine.

"So you're trying to... forget, again?" There's no judgment in the question, just an attempt to understand. Greg can't say he'd handle it any better if home sounded just as messy and terrifying as here.

[exhumerus]

"Forgetting is the whole problem," he mumbles, very pointedly not looking at Greg the entire time. "Except...never the whole thing." He brings up his hands to the sides of his head, cradling his skull.

"It never fucking ends."

[panspermia]

He crosses his arms, gripping at each shoulder. He can't even comprehend the enormity of it.

"I'm sorry." It feels so paltry. He wanted Sans to share, just to release some of that pressure that's built up, but Greg doesn't even know what to say now.

[exhumerus]

Sans isn't exactly explaining himself, either. There is a whole world of context necessary to explain what exactly what the problem is, and he doesn't even fully understand it himself. He just knows enough to get the moral of the story - and it's one of supreme hopelessness.

"I can't believe...no, I can believe it... That after all that mess...after everything..." He sounds especially hollowed out, now, like there's an emptiness that goes deep down. "That someone just takes everything. That somehow...my life becomes more pointless. It's incredible."

[panspermia]

Again, Greg remains silent, at a loss. He's no therapist. All he's ever been able to do is nod along to whatever Sans is talking about, trying to understand and rarely succeeding.

"You know... we're not alone, right?" he ventures, haltingly. "There are people trying to get us our lives back."

Though Greg doesn't say it, the question hangs: does Sans want it back? He knows Sans doesn't want to be stuck here, but does he have anything he wants to return to?