Secrets Are Ba(n)d

Chapter 17: Celebratory Angst.

(Warning for suicidal ideation, self harm, and angst. Take care of yourselves!)

Even with the cold Papyrus broke a sweat, not daring to stop running until his joints wouldn't let him continue. He stuttered his steps to a halt, halfhazardly leaning into a tree in a familiar act.
He had been careless, he could've been killed, or worse, he could've gotten Flowey hurt. His quick breaths, even if unnecessary, echoed through the trees. Where had he run? Where could he go? For all he knew, the dogs would find a scent and wouldn't stop until they found the source.

Suddenly every shift in the wind, every twig that snapped, stabbed at his senses, as panic seeped into his bones like hot tar. He couldn't breath, he could hardly see, every wound and scratch on him ached and he could feel his soul in his ribcage.

"Brother, I want my brother," he wheezed as he sat against the tree, half hoping it would grow arms and hold him up, tell him he was great and strong. He couldn't tell he was crying until the tears froze, his eye sockets aching as they blinked away the sharp shards. Now the wind howled like the searching dogs, picking up snow from the branches and tossing it against the skeleton. He could hardly see a few feet in front of him, and when he could, he dreaded what he saw.

"Halt, human!" he shouted, the words pouring out of his skull before he could think.

"I, The.. Great Papyrus, have something to say!" he shivered. From the cold, fear, he couldn't tell.

"Your life is going down a dangerous-" he started, before interruption.

A swing, a hit, and a blue jacket flat in the snow.

God, oh Asgore no.

He hated, truly hated these runs. When his brother got too tired, too unwilling to give them a chance. He fell to his knees as he held the torn jacket, the snow threatening to bury him, but he couldn't care. Maybe he wished it would, to make the goodbyes less hard, take him back to his friends, to his brother. Wrapping himself in the coat, he only hopped what little warmth left in it wouldn't be enough to stop himself succumbing to the storm.

And then he opened his sockets.

He was leaning on a tree, deep in the forest, and everyone still feared him. He could feel his soul fighting, the deepest parts of him pushing for his survival, while his legs and arms refused to move. The carefully carved grooves in his bones stared at him, strikes that poisoned his smooth magic like chains holding him in the wet cold that threatened to overcome him.

When he did move, it wasn't brave nor graceful, it was clunky; almost falling with every step as his skull filled with fog, hardly being able to keep his bones attached against the whistling wind. He had to go, had to live, just this time. This time, and he would make it.

The snow only got heavier as he shuffled, or maybe he was just getting weaker, either way he couldn't stop. He trudged, shaking with every step, until he saw a light through the trees.

"..pl-please," He called for help, but nobody came.

"..I'm here," He called again, using all of the hope of survival to give him strength, but nobody came.

Soon after he fell, the once sharp snow now welcoming him like bones cushioned by a ketchup-stained jacket.

Alphys paced around the sterile room, muttering quick paranoid nonsense.

A fugitive–an alleged criminal in her lab. A criminal that called for help through her cameras, that wore the jacket of her favorite singer, the brother of her former best friend.

She checked her notes over; the vitals of any past visits, procedures on treating criminals, and a photo. Sans, her, and a little skeleton with immeasurable hope.