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Sans stops in front of Papyrus’s door. He hesitates, his hands shaking because he hasn’t come in here since-. But he pushes through it, turning the handle and letting the door gently swing open. It’s dark, and he can almost see him, still there. Too late. But then he flips on the light, and it’s gone.
He’s here because there’s a funeral tomorrow, and he really should’ve done this a few days ago… but he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He needs to find something to put his dust in. Really, his brother didn’t like a lot of things. It’s not like he had a box of pictures of them from their childhood, or a guitar, or a teddy bear he loved, and that telescope he had always wanted was still in Sans’s closet, waiting for a birthday that would never come. He had also always hated the idea of having his dust spread somewhere. He would crack jokes about getting stepped on, and eugh, wouldn’t that be gross? No, nothing like that, not for his brother.
Sans glances around, looking for anything Papyrus would’ve wanted. But he already knows. Sans walks to the closet, opening it- (trying not to look at his clothes, to not think about it), and looking for it- ah- there it is. He kneels on the ground and picks a bottle up off the floor. It’s shaped like a bear, and though it’s been drunken out of, some of it’s contents are still stuck to the sides. This is the cleanest one out of the pile Papyrus had made. This was certainly something Sans would have told Papyrus to clean up, if he were here. He didn’t know why his brother felt the need to hide these anyways, they both knew they were here.
Sans hesitates, considering, but he shakes his head and stands up. There’s no need to change anything. Everything is perfect the way it is and the only cleaning that needed to be done here was already done, with a jar and a sweeper. Sans shudders at that thought, stepping out of the closet and taking a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
He shuffles out of the room, taking tentative glances at what was left of his brother as he leaves. He closes the door quietly and walks down the stairs, into the kitchen. Turning on the sink, Sans reaches for the scrubber and takes a gander at the dried honey crusted against the sides of the container. He washes it until it’s clean, washes it until the low evening light outside turns dark, and when he can’t pretend to clean it anymore, he watches as the water overflows out of the container and runs down the drain.
When the water finally starts to feel uncomfortable, Sans turns the handle and dries off the bottle with a paper towel. He puts it in a small box where it will be safe for tomorrow and then lays on the couch to sleep, not bothering to climb the stairs to his room.
He sleeps.
His dreams are unpleasant.